“Shhh,” he whispered against the top of her head, dropping a quick kiss against the tousled mass of her hair. “Just rest for now. I’m fine.”
*
Charles was, most definitely, not fine.
If he had ever been harder or had a more uncomfortable erection . . . he did not remember it. His entire body screamed for release, and the more calculated part of his mind, the only part that really seemed still to be functioning, given his current impairment, whispered that Julia, despite the fact that she had dozed off, would not object.
He was certain that if he woke her now, he could seduce her into acquiescence. More than that, he was positive she would enjoy it: she’d certainly enjoyed everything up until now. He was confident that the final act would not scare her overmuch and that she would not . . . what? Feel regret afterward? That was, ultimately, what kept him from waking her. He didn’t have any experience with virgins, having lost his own virginity nearly two decades ago and in very different circumstances. He had no idea how Julia would react once they stepped over that very real, very tangible line.
He also knew that if he took her, there’d be no choice left: he’d have to marry her.
He laughed a little at that, the sound disturbing Julia so that he had to resettle her against him. He admitted, finally, that matrimony was the only path forward. He had wagered on her innocence, seduced her not once, but twice, and all he wanted to do was continue to see her, to continue their relationship to its natural conclusion. And that meant marriage. For one thing, he had to, he simply had to have her. And, perhaps more to the point, one did not bed nice young women, innocent vicar’s daughters at that, without marriage on the mind.
Odd that he felt neither fear nor even the smallest amount of apprehension about an institution he’d always caustically described as a logical fallacy designed for and by the lesser sex. He smiled again, careful not to do anything to disturb his sleeping intended. He very much doubted Julia would appreciate being called lesser, for any reason.
He smiled, thinking it’d be, if nothing else, an interesting debate, before frowning, a bit unsure about the path forward. He had decided that they ought to marry, but he knew Julia well enough by now to know that . . . in fact, he didn’t know how she felt about such a commitment.
Robeson had hurt her, that part was without doubt. He, too, had harmed her. Her responses just now might suggest that all was forgiven, but he felt, instinctively, that their path forward would not be quite so simple.
He could tell her who he was or even apply directly to the vicar: few men would not welcome a suit from the Earl of Dresford.
But . . .
He paused. Did he have to propose as Dresford? Might it not be . . . he grinned again, a bit boyishly. No, he did not have to propose as Dresford. The bet was forfeit, but there was no reason he couldn’t continue the masquerade for a little while longer, to make certain that for once he chose a woman who was more interested in him than his title. He could propose, get Julia used to the idea of marriage, ascertain her feelings, and bind her to him more assuredly. Then, and only then, did he need to reveal himself.
He smiled, well satisfied with this line of reasoning. Julia might be a bit miffed, perhaps even a little angry, at the idea of being kept in the dark, at his continued deception. He could even foresee her being a little anxious about marrying into the peerage, but he was certain she’d eventually grow to like the idea of being a lady. After all, think of all the good she could do for her various causes.
He grinned, savoring the idea of unleashing his own personal firebrand, in the form of Julia Morland, onto the unsuspecting prim and proper ladies of high society.
Thus he did not wake her, nor did he allow himself to fantasize about the ways in which he’d eventually slake his lust in her body. He also tried, very hard, not to think about her wild, nearly wanton responses to his lovemaking.
Instead, he thought of insects. Of dust. Of lemons and aphids. Anything to keep his mind off his blazing erection, which was even now being cradled by the buttocks of the naked woman he held in his arms.
His mouth twisted wryly. He would have laughed, heartily, if it had been anyone else. The great Dresford, who’d thought himself such a prize in the Marriage Mart, who barely condescended to notice the most delectable debutantes who had been paraded before him these past years . . . felled by a chit of a girl with more temper than beauty and more wit than any who had gone before her.
As he lay there, holding her tightly, wriggling awkwardly until he could cover her with a bit of the quilt so she wouldn’t get cold, he admitted finally that he was very . . . fond of Julia, and that he wanted her to—truly hoped that she would—accept him as he was, before learning about his title.
Funny, that. Never before had he so separated himself from his heritage. He’d always been Dresfold.It was so odd, and oddly invigorating, to be just Charles. And, he wondered, would it really be asking too much for Julia to love just the Charles portion of him?
*
Julia didn’t know how long she had slept, only that she woke up staring at an unfamiliar wall—with someone’s arms wrapped around her naked body.
No, she amended quickly. Not someone. Not anyone. Charles. Charles’s arms were wrapped around her, holding her protectively against his body, with the quilt arranged around her. His breathing was deep and even, telling her that he too had fallen asleep.
When she squirmed a little, trying to put a little distance between them, his arms tightened, though his breathing remained even. She wriggled more and this time found that if she was very careful, she could loosen his hold enough to turn and observe him.
In sleep he looked far handsomer. Though she wouldn’t have described him that way upon first meeting him, she found that now, while he was reposing, his features looked softer. His mouth seemed fuller and softer than when they’re first met, when it had tended a bit too often toward grimaces and smirks. And though she’d always known him to be an attractive man, especially when he allowed himself to laugh and to lower the superior mask he so often donned (especially around mixed company), she found that he was truly handsome now, in his sleep. His lashes long, his nose still patrician but somehow softened by his tousled hair, his mouth, his . . .
She blushed again, though there was, thankfully, no one to observe her this time. She’d often heard that women in love saw things through rose-colored lenses and couldn’t help wondering whether she now found Charles to be more handsome merely because she . . . well, it wasn’t that she was in love, but she certainly cared for him.
She was angry, certainly. And very, very confused.
But underneath all of that, she knew that her emotions were engaged, more so than she would have liked to admit. She wouldn’t be here, naked in his arms, if that hadn’t been the case.
Looking at him up close while he slept, she felt a curious sensation spreading through her body. She was close enough to see his chest rise and fall with his breathing, close enough to feel his breath on her face even as she watched him.
It was all so . . . domesticated.
Of everything that had happened this past afternoon, being held like this was by far the least scandalous, and yet in some ways it felt the most intimate of the various acts they’d engaged in. She’d fallen asleep in his arms. She’d let him hold her and . . .
His eyes opened even as her thoughts whirled. He propped himself up on one elbow while his other arm still lay on top of her; he smiled down at her languidly. “Hello there.”
“Hello.”
Julia’s gaze continued to meet his. It would’ve seemed churlish to play at being demure, especially in such circumstances.
“Have you nothing to say?” he teased gently, his arms tightening a little around her.
She pointed rather shyly to a small scratch along the inside of his collared shirt. “Did I do that?” she whispered.
Charles smiled widely. “Yes, only imagine the damage you might have done if I hadn’t ha
d most of my clothes on.”
Julia looked down, not sure how to deal with his teasing tone, and he continued, “Is that all you have to say to me right now?”
“You look quite handsome in repose,” she said, without thinking.
His eyes widened, and his head fell back against the pillows in laughter. It was a moment before he had regained enough control to gather her in his arms once again and partially lifted her so that she was lying on top of his body, absorbing the last of his chuckles. In a relaxed, all-too-knowing manner, his hands trailed down her body, even as she wriggled and tried, rather unsuccessfully, to pull the quilt back over herself.
She blushed a bit and then added, “Not that you’re not fine-looking, even awake.” She stammered and then made a concerted effort to compose herself before continuing. “It’s just that when you’re asleep, you seem far more carefree and . . .” she trailed off again as he continued chuckling. “It wasn’t meant as an insult.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, striving for some measure of composure. “That’s what makes it so deliciously entertaining. It might be the best not-an-insult I’ve ever received.” He paused for a moment and looked up at her face. “I think that you should, perhaps, marry me.”
Julia sucked in her breath sharply. She hadn’t been expecting a proposal. She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d decided to confront him about the bet, but a marriage proposal had not been on her theoretical list of possible scenarios.
“Is that a proposal?”
“Let’s call it at least a suggestion. One that would allow you to gaze upon my handsome face day after day, night after night.”
“So it’s an altruistic gesture?”
“Oh, definitely. You’ve obviously grown far too used to your ways. Everyone in Munthrope is no doubt inured to your brazenness—”
“I am not brazen!”
“Says the naked woman, being cuddled even as we argue.”
She squirmed again, trying to get away, and was stilled instantly by his rather grim-sounding command. “Stop. If you don’t want the entire issue of marriage to be a moot point, I strongly suggest you stop moving. Right now.”
She stopped and blushed, understanding rather belatedly that wiggling while naked on top of a man was not the wisest course of action.
After a moment, he continued, “As I was saying, while the fine residents of Munthrope may have grown used to your shameless, unabashed ways, I am from London.”
The old supercilious note had crept back into his voice, though Julia was almost certain that he had adopted it purposefully this time, to tease her.
“And what does that have to do with anything?”
“In London, we don’t stand by and let depraved women seduce innocent men, not without proper recompense.”
“And the reparation you’d like is . . . marriage?”
There was a moment of silence. “I hadn’t meant to mention it quite so soon,” he admitted finally. “But it does seem to be the general direction we’ve been moving in.” His hands glided over her body again, not in the teasing, arousing way, but rather in a slightly possessive way, as if binding her to him.
“You mean because we’ve—what we’ve done?”
Charles laughed a bit mirthlessly. “I would have rather said that it’s more because of what we haven’t done. Yet.”
He smiled at her, inviting her to share in his joke, but Julia bit the bottom of her lip, gnawing at it in a worried way. She looked down at his shirt buttons and tried to hide behind the untidy hair that partially obscured her face from him. “We don’t have to be married to do more,” she whispered finally. She should have been shocked by the words, wasn’t even sure if she meant them, if she truly knew what she was offering . . .
His arms tightened momentary, and his voice had lost its warm teasing edge when he asked, “What do you mean?”
She looked down again, continuing to bite at her lower lip. “You know what I mean.”
“You’re saying that you’d rather have an affair with me than marry me?” His words were carefully enunciated, in a tone that was so calm it was almost frightening.
“I don’t—” she stopped again, for wasn’t that exactly what she had more or less implied just now? “I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think really, yet,” she said finally. “I’m just observing that marriage isn’t necessarily a prerequisite for . . . other things.”
There was a moment of silence, and then he asked, “Is the idea of marrying me so very abhorrent?”
“It’s not that!” She looked up and hit him in the chest—a difficult feat, considering her current position. She scrambled off of him awkwardly and pulled what she could of the quilt along with her, standing at the edge of the bed. “I’m not trying to trap you into marriage,” she said, gesturing rather weakly at the bed and concluding rather lamely, “with all of this.”
“I’ve never, for a single moment, thought you were trying to trap me into marriage. And you can’t be nearly as smart as I think you are if you don’t know better than that.”
Julia smiled, feeling tears welling up at her eyes, not at all certain why she was feeling so emotional all of a sudden. It wasn’t a declaration, but it was perilously, deliciously close. He was saying, she thought, that he cared. And that was something, wasn’t it? Or rather, everything. That was everything, wasn’t it?
She could feel tears welling up in her eyes and she looked away. “I need some time to think. I have to—”
She was jerked forward, none too delicately, and his lips matched hers in a ruthless manner, sealing off anything she was about to say. He kissed her thoroughly, passionately, completely beguiling her. Her already tenuous hold on the quilt slipped, and she was leaning forward, about to wind her arms against his neck, when he said, “You think too much.”
He let her go abruptly, clearly frustrated at the both of them, and she made another grab for the quilt, holding it awkwardly in an attempt to cover the most important parts of her nakedness. “I haven’t been thinking enough. If you would only stop to consider: we’ve known each other for mere weeks, and during almost all of that time, you’ve pursued me for the sake of a bet. Is that really a foundation upon which to build a marriage?”
“Many of the matches in high society are based on far less. My father proposed to my mother after meeting her once.”
“I’m sure such things are common, in the city. But not here. And certainly not with me. What do we really know about each other?” She paused and tugged at the quilt until he grudgingly shifted, and allowed her to gather the entire quilt around her, wrapping it as best she could, in a haphazard fashion. “I know that you’re a friend, but not a friend, or Robeson’s. That you recently lost your entire fortune—”
“And does that matter to you? Would I be more attractive to you if I were still . . . if I were wealthy?”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve never been, we’ve never had more than a modest income, and it’s never been a problem. But do try and be realistic for a moment. You haven’t talked about how you plan on making a living, nor even how you lost your money to begin with.”
Charles’s face hardened for a moment. “Does it matter?”
Julia laughed a little, the absurdity of the conversation taking its toll. “Yes. No. How should I know? I suppose it would matter if I thought you were a profligate gambler who would leave us forever in the suds—”
“And if I assured you that I never planned on participating in any wagers, ever again? Would that change your answer?”
Julia gave a small shake of her head. “We’re straying from the topic. It’s not about the money, or lack of money. It’s that I don’t honestly know anything about you. I know that you once had a Latin tutor. I know that you are, and aren’t really, a friend of Robeson’s. I know you don’t have any siblings, but I don’t know what your favorite color is, how many sugars you like in your tea, what your middle name is—”
He laughed, his first genuine laugh since she
’d turned down his proposal, and held both his hands up in a gesture of reconciliation. “I am definitely not a friend of Robeson’s, though if our story has a happy ending, I’m sure he’ll always occupy a . . . unique place in my memory. My favorite color is green, I take my tea without sugar, and . . .” he trailed off. “What else did you ask me?”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Desmond.”
Julia looked at him, exasperated, certain that he was misunderstanding her on purpose. Just as she was marshaling her arguments to continue, he forestalled her again by saying, “Now, don’t say something utterly trite like I don’t know you well enough to propose.”
“You don’t.”
“I know you’re never afraid to speak your mind. I know you’re clever and scholarly, kind and charitable in ways that I don’t even begin to understand and am only slowly starting to appreciate. I know your taste in literature is somewhat questionable—”
“That is one book—”
“Now, now, let’s not jump to conclusions. I happen to think The Prurient Accounts of a Bosomy Widow is quite fascinating. I was speaking of the tomes of Byron your sister claims you prefer.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Byron.”
“Stop interrupting. Where was I? Ah yes, I also know that you’ve got a clever little stepsister who’s completely devoted to you, an academic father who’s similarly doting, a purported best friend I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of, that you’re under the shocking misapprehension about how you get a little grumpy when hungry, and of course, you have the most lusciously kissable lips.”
She closed her eyes tightly. He was trying to confuse her, and it was working. She was still trying to come up with a way to refute these points when he continued, “I can learn about the rest later. Few people enter marriage without a few illusions about their mate.”
It was tempting. Of course it was tempting. He’d been seducing her—initially for the sake of a bet—and now for his own mysterious purposes. He wasn’t allowing her time to really think through things, which was what she desperately needed. Time alone, away from him and his . . . logic. “I’m twenty-five years old, a spinster by even the most generous of descriptions. In a few months, I’ll be twenty-six. No one, including me, thinks I’ll ever marry. I’m set in my ways, used to doing what I want, when I want. I like my time alone. Though it’s not something everyone understands, I prefer my father’s company, or a good book, over—”
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