Worth Winning

by Elling, Parker

  “Musicales, I know.”

  “It’s not just musicales, you know. It’s everything: dances, tea in the afternoons, everything. Since my father is the vicar, we frequently have people over for dinner or are invited to dinners, and though we always accept, it’s not me, not naturally. I prefer my books.”

  “I’m not asking you to become some celebrated town hostess. I don’t particularly enjoy entertaining myself. And I loathe musicales. Marry me, and I promise you’ll never have to go to another one. Or better yet, we’ll go together, sneak off together, and read gothic novels.”

  Julia gave a halfhearted laugh. He was being charming again, and she knew that it should make her uneasy; she knew that just a few weeks ago it would have made her feel defensive or worried to be charmed, and to want to be charmed, by a man like him.

  He continued, “As for being used to leading a lone, independent life: I’m a single man who was . . . quite wealthy, in his mid-thirties. You don’t think I’m accustomed to a certain amount of freedom? In that regard, it’ll be an adjustment, for both of us.”

  Julia drew in a deep, shaky breath, finally managing to tear her gaze away from his. “I haven’t even thought of the possibility of marriage in years. I haven’t dreamed of—”

  This time, he didn’t pull her forward. Instead he reached out a hand and rested one finger lightly against her lips, forestalling further thought.

  “Then start thinking,” he whispered. He leveraged himself off the bed gracefully, far more gracefully than she’d accomplished just a few moments ago. He stood very close to her, but didn’t reach for her, let her struggle with the quilt, one eyebrow raised sardonically at her attempt to obstruct his view of a body he’d already seen, kissed, and caressed. “And start dreaming.”

  This last was whispered a bit mockingly, with much the same demeanor she’d seen from him when they’d first met. He looked at her a bit searchingly and then quietly let himself out of the room. A short moment later Julia heard the door of the cottage closing rather definitively and found that she was alone, still clutching the quilt, and as confused as she’d ever been.

  Chapter 18

  Charles walked away from Julia feeling surprisingly hopeful, almost carefree. Sure, he’d proposed marriage and had technically been rejected. But it had not felt like a real rejection.

  He pulled a face and quickened his pace. He hoped he wasn’t turning into one of those men who thought himself to be so irresistible that he thought “No” meant “Yes” and “Stop” meant “Go on, please.”

  Still, it had been the manner in which she’d said no. Offering to sleep with him had been surprising, but also enlightening. Julia cared for him, of that he was certain. She just wasn’t quite ready to pledge herself permanently.

  That, at the very least, was something he could relate to: he’d avoided anything that even hinted at long-term, binding commitment until very recently. He hadn’t even really meant to propose, at least not yet. He’d meant to wait a little while, allow Julia (and himself) to get used to their newfound intimacy, outside the bounds of that blasted bet.

  But then she’d seemed so adorable: nearly bedded and still mostly befuddled and yet still adorably straightforward, explaining to him that he looked so much more handsome asleep than awake . . . he, well, he hadn’t been able to help himself. The words had more or less slipped out.

  He’d known that it was unfair to ask her to make such a choice so quickly, when he’d barely reconciled himself to the idea, when they hadn’t yet had a chance to talk everything through, when there was still so much he had to tell her.

  But he’d already made his decision. Somehow, sometime in these past few days between listening to Claire’s incessant, imbecilic chatter and being driven by dreams, almost embarrassingly steamy dreams of Julia in his arms, he’d decided that one way or another, he would make Julia his. Perhaps he’d always known, as soon as he’d met her, that he liked her, wanted her. Needed to bind to himself this independent, awkward, far-too-forthright girl who’d begun to torment his days and nights. To claim her unwavering loyalty and passion as his own.

  He shook his head, certain he must still not be thinking clearly, and was still ruefully trying to clear his thoughts when Robeson’s butler let him back into Langley and informed him that Robeson wanted to see him.

  “What for?” he said with a note of asperity, forgetting for the moment that he was supposed to be Mr. Charles Alver, the penniless hanger-on to Lord Robeson’s . . . lordliness.

  “I’m sure I do not know,” the butler said in tones that implied that of course he knew, and of course he’d never reveal his master’s wishes or thoughts to one such as Mr. Charles Alver.

  “Yes, fine, where is he?”

  “If you’d but wait in the library, I’d be happy to inform Lord Robeson of your return.”

  And so Charles went. He poured himself a tumbler of Robeson’s middling brandy and then sat down, waiting nearly twenty minutes before the viscount showed up, having given every appearance of dressing a bit hastily: his hair was combed back, but one edge of his shirt was imperfectly tucked, and he was wearing far fewer fobs than usual.

  Charles lifted an eyebrow in inquiry, and Robeson replied laconically, “Town hours.”

  Charles nodded and waited. Clearly there was a reason Robeson had indicated he wanted to meet with him, and the quicker he got it over with, the better.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the upcoming ball.”

  “You wanted to talk to me about a ball?” Charles repeated incredulously. “Do you want me to help you with your cravat? Or pass judgment on your color scheme? For the former, I’d suggest your valet, mediocre as he seems to be, for the latter . . . even a country housekeeper has a better chance than I.”

  “Don’t be insulting.”

  “It’s difficult to pass up such enticing opportunities. Unlike you, I’ve been up for quite a while already. I have mail to respond to—” He paused as the housekeeper bustled in with a tray of breakfast, which Charles noted was clearly enough for one (her master) and not two (the unwanted guest). Thus he never finished saying that he’d just finally received his mail, as it had been incorrectly addressed to Charles Alverston—his secretary, though knowing full well the reason behind Charles’s masquerade had, apparently, forgotten the correct pseudonym, and the postmaster had delivered it to Langley, where it had sat undelivered (no doubt intentional chicanery by one of the many servants who just didn’t seem to like him, as the mistake had been a small one and the similarity between the names unmistakable) for almost a week. There were business matters about which he had to make decisions, and while most of his projects were run competently enough, there were still details he wanted to address, intermediary goals he wanted details on. He waited, his impatience barely in check, until Robeson’s housekeeper finished fussing over the tray. “If there’s nothing else?”

  “Don’t be absurd. You know I’d never seek your advice on anything related to the ball. I merely wanted to inquire about your potential progress. The ball would be an excellent arena for a public declaration, for example.”

  Charles waited for just a moment before asking, “What makes you so certain I won’t produce a garter?”

  Robeson’s response was quick—almost too quick. “Well, of course, that’s always a possibility. Never wanted to agree to that one myself, far too easy for you to produce—there are ways aside from seduction by which you could obtain a garter, but that’s neither here nor there. I just thought I’d mention that my ball seems a particularly fitting occasion, if you think you’ll have made enough progress by then.”

  Robeson was fishing, and Charles knew it. But he had no intention of letting Robeson guess the true state of affairs. For one thing, he wasn’t ready yet to confront Julia with his true identity; he wanted her to decide based on what she knew of him, not . . . everything else. For another, he mistrusted Robeson’s ability to play fairly and was thus unlikely to offer up a progress report indicati
ng either success or . . . the forfeiture of the wager.

  “I’ll keep it under consideration,” Charles said. He rubbed absently at his neck and then paused when he realized why his neck was irritated. His face a bland mask of icy politeness, he said, “Now, if that’s all?”

  Robeson nodded regally, as if he were the one dismissing Charles and not the other way around. It irritated Charles, of course, this reversal of their relative titles—something he never would have known he cared about just a few short weeks ago—but he inclined his head and accepted the inversion. It was, all of it, a temporary discomfort . . .

  *

  “Damn and blast.”

  For a full five minutes after Dresford had left the room, Robeson was able to say, or do, very little that didn’t involve a series of curse words and phrases even he had forgotten he knew.

  Though Dresford was no doubt a decent card player, that was one area in which Robeson excelled—he’d known, had always been able to tell, when another man was bluffing or when he held a winning combination of cards.

  If it weren’t for his often deuced bad luck . . . But that was neither here nor there.

  The same qualities that made him an adept card player also made him particularly well-attuned to falsity in normal social interactions. Just now, it’d been impossible not to notice Dresford’s . . . contentedness. The man had practically oozed fulfillment and satisfaction. All of this, combined with Dresford’s thinly veiled attempts to escape his company as soon as possible, well, it had heightened Robeson’s awareness, the same way he picked up, almost without intending to, on details like when a man’s foot was tapping a bit more or that a certain player leaned backward when bluffing.

  It was in that heightened state of awareness that Robeson had noticed the faint scratch marks on Dresford’s neck—and then pretended he hadn’t. Impossible that they’d come from a woman other than Julia. With so much on the line, not just the Rembrandt and money, but the Dresford reputation and pride, it was inconceivable that Dresford would, in his current situation, seek out a new mistress. Equally implausible was the idea that Loretta Fanshawe would have come and sought out his company when it was well known that she’d already landed herself a new protector. Which left only Julia Morland, the subject of their wager.

  That the marks were on the back of Dresford’s neck spoke volumes. Eight years ago, when Julia had found his advances wanting, she’d attacked his face, had kneed him quite precisely, making it difficult to walk, much less feel at all amorous, for days. That she would mark him on the back of his neck meant that she had accepted, perhaps even encouraged, Dresford’s attention.

  All of which pointed to one inescapable conclusion: Dresford wasn’t just making progress with the chit. To have looked that smug, that pompous . . . he must have believed himself to be within a hair’s breadth of winning.

  Julia Morland did not wear garters—that was something they’d fought about, eight years ago; he would never have suggested garters otherwise. But even that seemed a moot point now; if she’d allowed him to kiss her into a state where she was scratching him with desire, well, who knew what a woman who thought herself to be in love or lust might do? What if even proud Julia Morland decided to throw respectability to the side and make a public declaration?

  “Damn and blast,” he said again. He had banked on the fact that the girl would not have changed overmuch. That she’d still be the headstrong, repellently independent woman he’d known years ago. That even if Dresford didn’t resign after getting to know her a little better, she’d remain physically cold and aloof, as she had with him. And now, it seemed as though he’d been wrong. His last throw of the dice, during a game where he’d heavily stacked the odds in his favor, and yet . . .

  He shuddered. He couldn’t afford to lose, to sit meekly by while Dresford stole his last chance of righting his finances. Robeson got up and paced, forcing himself to take deep breaths and calm himself. He’d been in dire straits before and had always come through. He knew that he could do so now as well, if only he could focus.

  An hour passed before he’d sifted through a series of half-formed plans and finally decided how to proceed. Then, and only then, did he sit down and smile. He was a handsome man, though his features at that moment were slightly marred by the expression of concentrated malice on his face.

  *

  Julia was in her room trying to recover from her morning, wishing that she hadn’t decided to skip lunch to think—for when had she ever been able to analyze anything effectively on an empty stomach?—when her stepmother knocked on her door and entered.

  “Dear?” Phyllis’s voice was tentative. Julia was certain that there were probably still telltale signs of her earlier bout of crying, and that the simply worded endearment was more invitation than question, but Julia had never shared anything particularly sensitive with her stepmother, and now didn’t really seem like the time to start.

  She wiped at her eyes and countered instead with a question. “Do I look terrible?”

  “Your eyes are a bit puffy, but nothing a few slices of cucumber won’t fix.”

  Julia pulled a face. She’d always thought that her stepmother and stepsister looked silly when lying around with vegetables covering their eyelids, a home remedy they’d heard would reduce wrinkles and swelling—and for which Julia had seen little supporting evidence, as Phyllis still had the same wrinkles Julia always remembered her having, and Claire had never had any to begin with.

  “Well, that’s neither here nor there. You have a visitor, and I wasn’t sure if you wanted to—that is, I thought that you perhaps had a headache?”

  “Is it . . . Mr. Alver?”

  Phyllis didn’t pretend to look surprised. “No dear, it’s Lord Robeson.”

  “Oh.”

  Julia used her fingertips to massage the puffy areas under her eyes. “Can you tell I’ve been crying?”

  “I’m sorry Julia, you’re just not one of those women who can cry without looking like you’ve been crying.”

  Julia sighed. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  “You’re sure you don’t have a headache?”

  Julia smiled, thankful for her stepmother’s thoughtfulness. “No, thank you. I’m sure that I don’t have a headache. It’s not like Lord Robeson to call—upon anyone, really, and I think I should see what he’s about, shouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, well, Mrs. Caskey’s put him in the front parlor with a tray of tea and leftover cakes, but I’m not sure it’s quite the thing. I mean, if you have something private to talk about perhaps a walk might be better?”

  Though Julia had always appreciated what a caring and attentive wife Phyllis had been, making sure that her father ate appropriately and dressed sensibly, this was the first time she’d really had a chance to appreciate the woman’s subtleness. That her stepmother didn’t pry into why her stepdaughter might want to speak privately with Lord Robeson and just offered Julia a way out of a possibly uncomfortable meeting. That she didn’t harp on adhering to social niceties and instead suggested a way to alleviate possible obstructions for a potentially sensitive conversation.

  How Phyllis knew that they needed a conversation without chaperones, or, for that matter, why her stepmother was almost certain that such was the case was not something Julia had time to delve into at the moment.

  “Thank you, a walk sounds lovely. I’ll suggest it.”

  Phyllis stayed at the door for a moment longer. “I know that you and Claire are quite close, and in most matters I’m certain that Claire can be an excellent and loyal confidante, but please know that should you ever need an additional, perhaps a more mature, pair of ears, I am always available.”

  It was frightening how tempting the offer was. Claire hadn’t been home when Julia had first come back, and though Julia wouldn’t even have known where to start, it suddenly seemed very, very important to know that there were other people she could talk to, if she needed to. Julia smiled a bit tenuously. “Please don’t make me c
ry again. I already look a fright.”

  She gave the older woman a quick hug and then together, they went downstairs to suggest that perhaps Lord Robeson would like to take a quite stroll around the neighboring park.

  *

  They had been walking for almost five minutes, in nearly complete silence, before Robeson began, “It doesn’t seem as though you’ve given much thought to my proposal.”

  Julia jumped a bit at the word proposal and then re-collected herself. “We can still be friends, can’t we?”

  “Not quite what I had intended, but well enough for a start.” They walked farther, tacitly agreeing on an old trail that kept them mostly in the cleared sections on the border of the Langley estate.

  “Please know then that it is as your friend that I say the following.”

  They had walked a little farther before Julia said, a bit testily, “Is this a pause for dramatic effect?”’

  Robeson laughed in a way that seemed forced. “It takes some getting accustomed to—your bluntness, that is.” He spread his hands. “It’s a delicate subject, and I’m not quite sure how to address it.”

  Julia considered telling him she already knew about the bet, but something held her back. She didn’t know him very well, not after all these years, and it was unclear how well she’d ever truly known his character. Why give him any additional ammunition or information before knowing, truly, what he was about?