She gripped at his arms and moaned again, leaving herself completely open to the sensations, just as her body seemed completely open to his. Of their own accord, her legs seemed to part farther, and grant him even greater freedom and access. Against her throat, he murmured encouragingly and seemed to half-growl his approval, his lips moving down her neck even as his fingers continued to work their magic in the core of her being. They slid in and out in a rhythm that only he seemed to be aware of, moving gently against the little peak of flesh where all her nerves seemed centered, only to retreat again.
Not knowing what else to do, and only vaguely understanding what she was doing, she moved her hands from his arms to his head. She gripped at his hair and tried to force his lips back to hers to try to regain some semblance of control over the situation.
He complied readily, willingly, and soon, his entire body seemed to be grinding against hers, his fingers upon her flesh became more urgent, and the distant, cresting wave that had seemed so far away was suddenly upon her, crashing, making her feel as though she’d come apart at the edges. She screamed, and the sound was swallowed, almost completely, by his rough kiss, by his hand at her hip, steadying her, even as his other hand seemed to wring the last moments of ecstasy from her nearly limp body.
“Oh my,” she breathed.
*
Though Charles felt as though he had experienced her pleasure along with her, he would have expressed his delight with a few slightly choicer words than “Oh my.” Watching her come apart in his arms, watching her transform into a creature that was almost pure physicality, had been one of the most arousing experiences of his life. Even now, his body throbbed in protest; pressed against her as he was, it demanded release, with a small corner of his brain urging him to continue, that the girl was willing, more than willing.
But for once, he held his needs in check and his desires at bay. She was untouched, a virgin, a rector’s daughter. She deserved more than a despoiling in the middle of the woods, where anyone could walk by and hear her moans.
He didn’t quite know what to make of their experience yet. He certainly couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed an interlude to get so wildly out of control. But it seemed to be the effect she had on him. There was something about her completely unadulterated responses that had undone what he would once have thought of as his rigidly imposed self-control. Never before had he been so sorely tempted to ravish a girl against a tree, in broad daylight.
Always before, he’d had more sense about such things. Planning, finesse, something to differentiate him from a rutting footman barely in the first flush of youth.
He stroked her hair away from her face as she lay there, her eyes still closed, her skin still flushed. Julia was . . . special. Different from all who had preceded her. Her responses had been a potent aphrodisiac, one that he couldn’t possibly have accounted for. She was—
His thoughts seemed to screech to a halt as his hand, which had been resting on her hip, moved down to confirm what his addled brain had just told him. Julia was not wearing any garters.
Yes, he’d known the occasional woman who . . . but Robeson had been quite clear on that being the only forfeit. Only after quite a bit of protest had two other avenues been written into the agreement. Robeson had initially been quite stubborn that garters be the only allowable proof of seduction. How had . . .
“Do you never wear garters?”
Julia’s eyes struggled to open. “Pardon?”
“What I mean to say is, what I want to ask is… Oh hell and damn. There’s no easy way to ask this, but is it well known that you don’t wear garters?”
She struggled to sit upright, and he didn’t make any move to help her, a burning anger building inside him as suspicions began to loom large in his thoughts.
“Why would it be well known?”
“Why, indeed.” He knew he sounded angry, perhaps even dramatic—all the things he loathed—and yet he couldn’t seem to help himself. “Tell me, what’s the history between you and Robeson?”
If possible, Julia flushed even more. “I don’t—I don’t know why you’re suddenly asking me this.”
A small corner of his brain warned him to keep his cool, to stop while he was ahead. That there were many, many logical explanations, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from asking the one thing he most wanted to know, the thing he most feared had happened. “Has he touched you? The way I did . . . just now?”
Julia didn’t answer. The color seemed to drain from her face as she gathered her skirts about her, sitting up straighter and smoothing the loosened edges of her bodice. From where Charles was sitting, it seemed that the emotion that flickered across her face was shame.
He gripped one of the hands that she’d clasped in her lap and lifted it upward, trying to force her to face him. He asked again, as though grinding out the words, “Did he?”
She jerked her hand from his before he had an opportunity to stop her. “You have no right to ask those questions, no right to demand any answers. Unless you’re going to tell me that was the first time you’ve, that you’ve—”
She stood up and turned away from him. She calmly smoothed her skirts, though he could tell her hands were shaking. “I’d rather walk the rest of the way on my own.”
“I’ll walk you—”
“Oh please, don’t play at the chivalrous gentleman now. I doubt anything will happen now that could possibly be,” she paused and then continued quite deliberately, enunciating each syllable carefully. “Nothing could be worse than what just happened.”
And with that, she lowered her head and walked away, leaving Charles looking and feeling disheveled and confused. He stood there, watching her retreating back, still trying to puzzle out what had just happened. Still angry. And still very, very aroused.
Chapter 13
It didn’t take long for Julia to piece at least some of the puzzle together.
The way Charles had asked about whether she wore garters, the specificity of it, and the way he’d referred to Robeson in particular, meant that he had to know something, or suspect something, about her past with Robeson.
It wasn’t something she liked to think about, not anymore.
That final episode between the two of them, when Archie had accused her of leading him on, when he’d tried to . . .
It was inconceivable that Archie, of all people, would have wanted to brag about that episode in their lives, would have shared it. And yet, clearly, he had. And with Charles Alver.
The only question now was . . . why?
He couldn’t have told the whole story, else Charles wouldn’t have seemed so angry. He would have already known that she never wore garters. Yet he knew something . . . about that she was certain.
*
Hours later, sitting in the relative quiet of his room, Charles still couldn’t quite decide what to make of the day’s discoveries—and what to do about them.
Since their interlude, Charles had accepted that there were things Robeson had not told him about his past with Julia Morland. Clearly, the choice of garters had been strategic. He’d also accepted, albeit grudgingly, that interrogating Robeson further would be of no use. Whether there was, or wasn’t, a past between the two, and the extent of that past, he’d have to find out from Julia if he wanted the truth of the matter.
What was far more concerning—and revealing—was the degree to which he actually cared about what their shared history was.
He wasn’t a prude. In the past, he’d shied away from virgins and those with too little experience to separate out romance from physicality. He’d never questioned any of his former paramours on how they’d become experienced, and he required monogamy only for so long as their particular liaison endured. Not once, in all his years, had he questioned a mistress, a lover, or any woman with whom he had had a fleeting encounter about her past: her husbands, her lovers, and so on.
As far as he was concerned, he was experienced, so why shouldn’t his par
tner be as well?
But the degree to which it bothered him that Julia might not be completely inexperienced—and this, despite the fact that her responses showed her to be, at least to a certain degree, a relative innocent—well, that had been the most troubling revelation of all.
He wasn’t pleased that he found her quite so darned attractive. He also wasn’t pleased that he’d almost lost control and taken her, as if he had been the inexperienced whelp, overcome by arousal, in the middle of the woods.
But caring about her supposed past . . . he shuddered at the very thought. It hinted at feelings and emotions, a level of caring and commitment, that he was loathe to delve into too deeply.
He’d spent the past few hours reminding himself exactly who he was: the sixth Earl of Dresford. He was wealthy, he moved in elite circles. When he chose to marry, he could pick from the crème de la crème, the top of the top.
More than that, he had responsibilities. And there were expectations. A man in his position could marry a woman like Julia . . . but of course there would be talk. People would assume he had fallen in love with the chit. That he cared for her, that he . . .
Not that he didn’t care for her. A little. Or perhaps more than a little.
He was a bit shocked by the thought and would have pursued it further had it not been for the knock on his bedroom door. He opened it to find Billings standing at the doorway, peering in.
“I say, these the quarters Robeson put you in? Had to ask two maids to direct me here. The first one just giggled, and the second was rather unspecific.”
Charles grunted in reply. He was, by now, fairly certain that his guest “suite” was actually a converted nursery and the lowliest excuse for a guest room that Robeson could have possibly put him in. He was fairly certain that Robeson had put him here as a way of tacitly informing his servants just how poorly they could treat this particular “guest,” but it would’ve seemed petty to say so, directly. So instead, he gave a forced jerk of his shoulders and said, “I’m sure it’s to keep up appearances.”
Billings poked his head through the door again, muscling his way into the room and looking around in a rather unconvinced way. “I’m sure you’re right.” His light-brown eyes took a last, sweeping glance around the room before finally focusing on Charles. “How are you holding up?”
Charles just barely stopped himself from grunting again. “You mean how well am I tolerating the luxurious accommodations? Or how well am I enjoying the condescension of being slighted by servants who think me unworthy of serving warm eggs to? Or—?” He drew himself up abruptly. He was acting childish, and he knew it. Most of his frustration had nothing to do with the servants or the living quarters at this point. “I didn’t mean to complain.”
“Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t been more vocal.” Billings sat down gingerly on the corner of Charles’s unmade bed and placed both hands on his knees, as if to steady himself. “I figured the only reason you’ve been so tolerant is that you’re making progress with the chit?”
Charles grunted. “More or less.”
“Events at the picnic would suggest that things have progressed beyond that, don’t you think?”
“With Julia Morland, nothing is ever as it appears. She’ll lecture you on the art of pedantry one minute and then the next—” He ran his hand through his hair, not sure what the point of discussing it all was. He wasn’t a man who talked about feelings. Men didn’t talk about feelings. At all. Ever.
There was a pause before Billings finally said, “Don’t tell me the girl’s getting to you?”
Charles forced out a laugh. “Don’t be absurd.”
He firmed his jaw and straightened his jacket. He was the Earl of Dresford, damn it! Men of his station did not fall for awkward, bookish spinsters with more wit than . . . “I’m here to win a bet. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“You’re sure about that?”
Charles looked at his friend of many years, thinking that Billings was probably one of the few people who would have dared ask him such a question.
He swallowed the ready affirmation that had leaped to his lips and forced himself to consider, just one moment more. He thought of Julia’s warm responsiveness in his arms, the way she bit her lip when she was perplexed or worried, the way she’d grown on him, much like some type of fungi she could no doubt lecture him about.
He sighed. “Almost positive.”
*
Charles waited in the same spot the next day. For once, he was quite uncertain of what his reception would be. If it were any other girl, any other situation, he probably would have just cut his losses and run. Emotional entanglements were not his forte. But there was a wager to win. And so here he was, waiting around for Julia Morland, wondering whether she’d be angry or shy, hurt or confused.
What he hadn’t expected, but perhaps should have, was that she’d come walking along, just as cheerful as usual, but this time with her sister in tow.
“Stepsister,” he mentally corrected himself. They were not, if he remembered correctly, related by blood. Which explained why the two looked so different. Where Julia was tall and well-formed, curvaceous and full, Claire was every bit the dainty, almost fragile English rose of a beauty.
He let out a pent-up breath of relief upon noticing that they were dressed in demure, almost boringly bland country attire, what he would heretofore have guessed to be “normal” country wear. Julia’s brown dress was serviceable and long, while Claire’s was a pastel green, and neither woman wore jewelry, or really any adornment other than their bonnets.
Charles was growing weary of the bold outfits that most of Munthrope’s women had been wearing—always draped with a multitude of jewels (sometimes the same set, cleverly rearranged or matched against others)—though it had been clear, from the onset of their arrival, that Robeson’s presence was an event of epic proportions. Except that the more the women overdressed, the more aware, and almost uncomfortable, he’d felt. Not that he’d doubted himself or his appearance, of course. It was just an odd feeling, knowing that, for once, he was the underdressed one. That his were the clothes most likely being judged as subpar.
Watching them approach, he realized that the two women even walked differently: Julia’s strides were naturally longer, well-matched to his, actually, whereas Claire had a dainty step that looked tiring.
Charles nodded when he was certain they could see him and then waited in silence. Though both women were smiling politely, Julia’s face looked strained, and he wondered whether she’d planned this, or her youthful stepsister had merely invited herself along—perhaps an opportunist waiting to make a pass at one of Robeson’s friends?
“Hell and damnation,” he thought. Less than two weeks in, and he was already starting to think like these people. Was he really classifying himself as one of Robeson’s friends?
As if he didn’t have enough intrinsic attractiveness without the title of Dresford, as if a part of him was agreeing with the pecking order that Robeson had predicted, and which the ladies of Munthrope clearly subscribed to—namely, that in the world of eligible men, he ranked beneath not only Billings and Robeson, but perhaps some of the more well-to-do Munthrope natives as well.
Charles shook his head. Such thinking would lead him nowhere. And clearly such things did not matter to Julia. Ironic, that. Robeson had thought he’d been so clever, picking the academic spinster with the sometimes viperous tongue. When, in actuality, Julia Morland was probably the last woman in Munthrope who would care two figs about his title or his wealth or lack thereof.
The two girls stopped in front of him, and Charles bowed politely, murmuring politely about how delighted he was to see both of them.
“Oh, I hope you don’t mind,” Claire said, looping her arm through his in what might have seemed a winsome and winning manner had Charles not been so irritated. “It was such a glorious morning. I’m not normally an early riser, but I simply had to explore the countryside, and when Julia mentioned t
hat you often joined her for these rambles, I was, of course, delighted.”
She fluttered her eyelashes expertly and peered at him through their lushness.
Charles sighed soundlessly and smiled politely, offering his other arm to Julia, feeling that at the very least, she could reward him with an arm.
But Julia, that most confounded and contrary of females, demurred, saying that she had various herbs to collect, and it would be easier for everyone if she merely walked beside, or even in back of, them.
So he inclined his head coolly and smiled as if this were all a pleasant turn of events. He escorted the two women down Julia’s normal path and wondered why he wasn’t the least bit tempted by Claire Covington, despite her indisputable good looks and considerable charm.
She spoke of all the normal topics. She neither laughed too loud nor challenged him overmuch when he misused a word or phrase. She didn’t lecture him on the serious vegetable root problem their gardener was facing. She smiled prettily and smelled of some lavender scent that was similar to Julia’s, but not quite the same.
And all the while, Julia walked to the side of them, in front of them, or in back of them, pausing to clip peppermint or taking a nervous nibble from a biscuit when she thought no one was watching her.
“Oh, Mr. Alver,” Claire laughed, next to him, so that he had to scramble to remember: had he said something funny? What had they been talking about? Art? London? Theater? They’d flitted across any number of topics within the past twenty or so minutes, though none of them had made a particular impression on his brain.
Worth Winning Page 16