It seemed suddenly preposterous to her that she’d never really thought about it before and that she had turned down all Jack’s offers to go over her finances, telling him merely that she trusted him and that she was confident she’d be able to find him if and when she needed the money.
Then again, she’d never before envisioned a scenario in which she’d suddenly need a large sum of money. They lived comfortably at the vicarage and never wanted for anything. Jack occasionally sent what he called dividends, or little “leftover” amounts from this transaction or another, and, more often than not, Julia had merely donated the money—a few pounds here, a few there. She’d never really paid attention.Finance was Jack’s domain, not hers.
But now, could it be hers and Charles’s salvation?
Julia walked for a long time, thinking and rethinking everything she’d been told. Cursing herself for being a fool ten times over—for caring about a man like Charles Alver, for not knowing even how much the supposed dowry Jack had been managing for her was worth, for her involvement with Robeson and all that it had led to.
By the end of the day her legs ached, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but at least she’d stopped laying blame and questioning the whys and whats of her situation.
She loved Charles Alver, whatever his name was. She couldn’t change that fact. Which meant that she had to find a way to know the truth about him, to know how much of what Robeson had insinuated was true. And to decide whether she’d be able to accept him, if it really was as bad as she feared. Whether that was the type of life she could live.
She warned herself not to jump to conclusions, to gather as many facts as possible before coming to any binding decisions.
*
Charles was feeling on top of the world.
He’d been about to leave for his morning walk when the housekeeper approached to tell him that he had a note.
Please meet me, same location as yesterday, at your earliest convenience.
The note was unsigned and in an envelope that had been plainly sealed, but he’d had no doubt whatsoever as to the sender.
He’d left with a spring in his step and in a nearly exuberant mood—not an emotion with which he was overly familiar. He smoothed his hands along his cheeks as he walked, enjoying how smooth they felt, how they were completely unmarred by little pieces of paper, as he’d finally mastered the art of shaving himself.
Raises, he reminded himself: his entire staff needed raises.
He smiled as he walked. If all went as planned, perhaps he could reveal himself to Julia and her father as Dresford, as early as this afternoon. By tonight he could send missives to his valet and secretary, and within the week he’d be safely ensconced again in his London home or perhaps his Derbyshire estate. Either way, he’d have his servants again, freshly laundered sheets, the springs of mint, the delectable morsels his various chefs prepared, and of course, his fiancée. How could life get any better?
He glanced over his shoulder a few times, feeling as though he must be tempting fate even to have such thoughts, but there was no one about. There’d been long stretches of nearly empty plains as well as copses of deodars here and there, but he wasn’t being followed: it would have been too hard to do without attracting notice, so there was no reason to think that he and Julia would be interrupted.
He thought back to her note: it had hardly been romantic, but then again, his Julia didn’t seem like the sort to need or even want fanciful phrases. And he liked her all the more for her straightforwardness.
He knocked on the cottage door, and, mere seconds later, Julia opened it, looking a bit flushed, her cheeks a bit puffy.
He frowned. She did not look like a joyful woman who was about to accept a marriage proposal. She looked like a tormented soul who was about to receive her reckoning.
He stepped inside, noting her worn day dress, a pale-peach color that suited her well in theory, but which, like many of her other outfits, was a bit worn and frayed, and not the least bit fashionable or modern.
She closed the door behind him, and he saw, with some satisfaction, that the curtains were only half-drawn today, enough to let in light without leaving them vulnerable to prying eyes.
“You’re earlier than I expected.”
“You said ‘at your earlier convenience,’ and so, here I am.”
When she remained standing, statue-like next to the door, Charles reached for her hand and found it quickly jerked from his grasp.
“Please, I—I have some questions I have to ask you first.”
Charles smiled, some of the tension leaving his body. Was that all? “What is it this time? Are you curious about my favorite planet? Or the cut of steak I most prefer? Rest assured that I will answer any question you put in front of me, as long as you will not overly delay addressing the one question I’ve posed to you.”
“Is your real name Charles Alver?”
He couldn’t stop himself from freezing. Robeson. Of course. He rubbed at his neck, wondering if it had been the faint scratch marks that had given away how far he and Julia had proceeded. “I gather you’ve been talking to Lord Robeson.”
“So it’s not your actual name?”
“It is a part of my given name, but not all of it. For the purposes of this wager, I thought it would be best to introduce myself . . . incompletely, thinking it would preclude certain . . . complications.” He paused, wondering if he should reveal himself now, while still struggling with his desire for her to accept him without additional reassurances, without the title and prestige that would come along with being Dresford or becoming the Countess of Dresford. “I was going to tell you, after our engagement.”
He would have said more to reassure her if she hadn’t, in true Julia Morland fashion, leaped headlong into her next inquiry. “Did you really have a mistress named Loretta?”
Of course, he thought to himself, why wouldn’t he bring up everything? All at once? He sighed. He had never before envisioned himself needing to explain the existence of a past mistress, especially not with the biddable young thing he’d eventually take as a wife. He would have been careful to pick someone malleable enough, unformed enough, to accept that such were the ways of London society—that men of his rank and wealth were accustomed to maintaining mistresses with whom they had physical relationship that were in no way romantic, while wives produced heirs and looked the other way.
He snorted a little: he could not imagine Julia looking the other way. Nor could he envision himself ever needing or even wanting any woman besides the completely unbiddable creature standing before him, questioning him like an angry fishwife.
“I did, indeed, have a mistress named Loretta Fanshawe. And, before you go further, I will freely admit that I had mistresses before her as well. None of them were ever hurt either during the course of, or by the ending of, the liaisons, and our emotions were never involved.” And then, because Julia’s face looked stony, and she appeared to be very near tears, he continued, “I don’t envision maintaining a mistress in the future, and I can’t change the past, no matter how you might disapprove.” He sat down on the chair farthest from her. He desperately wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her worries away, but he could tell that she was in a fractious mood and just as liable to slap him as kiss him. He decided it would, for the moment, be best to concentrate on verbally allaying her fears and save physical seduction as a last resort.
“Now, what other crazy doubts has Robeson sown? What else will I need to address before I can make you my wife?”
“Have you ever been engaged before?”
“I’ve never even seriously contemplated the idea of matrimony before. I knew I’d have to marry, at some point—”
“Because you have lands that are entailed?”
“My, Robeson has been busy, hasn’t he? Yes. I have lands that are entailed and for that, as well as other . . . considerations, I have always expected that I would need to—want to—eventually produce an heir. But I never conte
mplated any of the debutantes who were thrown my way and have certainly never proposed to any woman of my acquaintance. Thus, no, I have never before been engaged. Did Robeson say otherwise?”
Julia shook her head. “No, I came up with that one all by myself. I wanted to know whether—if it was just the bet, or if it was something you’d done before, or if,” she paused for a moment and took in a shaky breath, “if I were special to you in some way.”’
Charles smiled widely and beckoned her to come closer, relieved when she complied, when she stood close enough that he was finally able to pull her, unresistingly, down onto his lap. “What else must I answer? Are there any other fanciful thoughts you want me to address or allay? Any other malicious rumors inimical to our union?”
“I’ve always loved that word. Inimical, from inimicus.”
“Remind me to send a thank-you letter to my Latin tutor, just as soon as you finally consent to marry me. I don’t see how else I’d be able to communicate with you or keep up with your . . . unique style of conversing. Who would have thought we’d go from pseudonyms to mistresses to Latin, all in one breath?” He held her closer, though he made no moves to kiss or even caress her. “There are no enemies here, Julia, and the only thing obstructing our union is . . . you.”
“You really want to marry me?” Her head was bent, and her voice was barely above a whisper, one that he had to strain to hear.
He tightened his arms around her. “I’ve asked you, haven’t I?”
“It’s not just to win the bet?”
“The wager was technically forfeit the moment you found out—since it seems that Robeson’s already spoken to you and been quite selective about what he’s told you, I imagine he knows that you know.” He waited for her little nod of confirmation. “Which means that we only need to tell Billings for it to all be official.”
“Billings knew of the bet?”
“He’s here as an officiator of sorts, to report back on who was the victor, and who the loser, to make sure that there was no cheating or any sort of underhandedness.”
“And there really is no way for you to win now?”
Charles let his confusion show upon his face. Why would he still care about winning the bet? He would miss having the Rembrandt, of course, but there were other paintings. “I suppose I don’t know for sure. That is, we didn’t technically write in a clause covering what would happen if you guessed that there was a wager going on. If either of us told you directly about the bet, then the wager would be over, and whoever told you, or let the bet be known, would be declared the loser. But I suppose we didn’t really think of the possibility of you intuiting or guessing about it.” Charles smiled a little, hoping that she would join in his amusement. “Knowing you as I now do, I can’t imagine how Robeson could’ve not thought of such a contingency.”
Julia gave a sniffling little cry, and Charles was shocked to see tears gathering, unshed, in her eyes. “I don’t have much of a dowry, you know.”
Charles was even more confused than before, not at all certain why Julia felt this was an important fact to convey. He could think of few dowries that would seem at all significant compared against the Dresford coffers, and who in their right mind would have pursued a vicar’s daughter for her supposed dowry? The conversation seemed to be spiraling wildly out of control.
“I didn’t know, but I had more or less guessed that to be the case. It doesn’t matter. I’m not quite as destitute as I’ve made myself out to be.” He smiled, thinking of her reaction, wondering if now was finally the time to tell her the truth. She hadn’t yet agreed to marry him, it was true, but she cared deeply for him—that much was obvious. “I have quite the plan to, ah, resurrect my funds actually, in the very near future.”
He took in a deep breath, thinking that he had spoken in circles for long enough. She hadn’t said that she would marry him, but she’d told him, through words and actions, everything he really needed to know. “In fact, I—”
Julia reached up and put a finger against his lips before supplanting the finger with a kiss. “I care for you very deeply, you know. I would care for you even if you were completely and utterly penniless. As long as you were honest with me, I don’t think I would need anything else.”
“And if I ceased to be penniless? Would that change how you felt for me?”
Julia looked down and, though he couldn’t fathom why, seemed to look disappointed. “Of course not. I’m simply trying to let you know that the state of your finances means nothing to me, that it wouldn’t change how I felt about you if you survived on a pittance, had no allowance, or even if you were deeply in debt. I care for you.”
He was getting nowhere, fast, that much he could tell. Now that the moment had come, however, he wasn’t sure how to come out and say it. He could tell her he was rich, though that would certainly lead to a barrage of questions about how rich was rich. He could try telling her he was titled, but that seemed somehow tangential to where her worries were currently centered. He decided to try a different tack. Though he had never come close to declaring anything as messy as feelings before, he now found himself talking a breath before declaring, rather blandly, “I care for you, as well, you know.”
Even when he’d realized he wanted to marry her, wanted to bind her to him, he’d been hesitant to try to categorize his feelings for her. They ranged from passionate to protective, from tender to exasperated. He’d worried about whether he’d have to make a formal declaration of love in order to win her hand and had shuddered at the thought. He cared for her and was willing to say so, but he wasn’t prepared to call it love.
Not if he didn’t have to. Not yet.
“You don’t have to sound so reluctant. As if caring for me is a disease.”
“The way the poets describe it . . .” he allowed his words to trail off. “But you have a point. It’s just that I’m unused to . . . speaking about my emotions.”
She kissed him again, her mouth opening slightly this time, her position on his lap shifting a little. “Then don’t speak,” she whispered against his lips.
He gave an inward groan and thanked the merciful heavens that his Julia seemed just as satisfied with physical declarations as she was with verbal ones. He returned her kiss slowly, lingeringly, letting her drive the pace between them, opening his mouth only after she had opened hers. Nipping and licking only after she’d given explicit invitations asking him for more.
He slid his hands down to her hips and shifted her slightly, so that her buttocks were cradled just so along his inner thighs, so that with each small shift she brushed against his rapidly awakening manhood, something that was simultaneously torturous and delightful and in that seemed to reflect the rest of his relationship with Julia.
“Julia, my love,” he said a bit urgently, as her hands slid from around his neck to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with a rapidity that quite stole his breath. “If you do that, I don’t think I’ll be able to—I’m not sure I can stop if—” She continued to kiss him even as her hands slid his coat off his shoulders, with no resistance (and indeed a little help) from his traitorous body, which was busily reminding him that it had been denied last time and had no intention of being held at bay a second time. She reached greedy hands inside his gaping shirt and ran them along his chest, learning him caress by caress, making it difficult for him even to remember the words he’d been trying to formulate, much less the intentions behind those words. “We’re quickly passing the point of no return.” He grasped both of her hands with an effort and met her eyes before continuing. “If you continue for much longer—correction, for even a moment longer—I won’t be held accountable for my actions. I will pick you up, take you into that bedroom, and divest you of your clothes and your innocence within a matter of minutes.”
Julia’s eyes widened only slightly. “I’m almost twenty-six years old. Don’t you think I’ve held onto my innocence for long enough?”
Charles drew in a deep, shaky breath. “There will
be no turning back after this, you understand?”
In answer, Julia leaned her head forward and kissed him, on his neck. Situated as she was, on his lap and with her hands trapped in his, there was little else she could do, really, to assure him of her acquiescence. “I don’t want to turn back. Make love to me. Please?”
Charles groaned. He was certain that he ought to resist, ought to wait until he spoke with Julia’s father and worked out the particulars. That one simply did not bed an innocent vicar’s daughter, even if one intended to marry her forthwith. That it had to be a sin of some sort. But for the moment, he wasn’t sure that he cared.
Julia was kissing his neck and even nibbling a little, shifting her hips against his erection in such a way—perhaps unwittingly, or perhaps purposefully, the impertinent brat!—that the blood had long since left his more rational brain. He jerked back a little and said, the words unbidden and even a little unwanted, “Just remember you asked for this, you little minx.”
Julia giggled. “I’ve never been called a minx before.” She wiggled her hands, still trapped in his. “May I have my hands back now? If I promise to behave?”
Charles loosened his grip. “You may have your hands back if you promise to misbehave, just as I fully intend to indulge in all manners of vice and sin with you, long into the afternoon.”
Julia’s stillness gave him a moment of pause. “Have I shocked you, finally?”
“No,” she said, after such a brief moment of hesitation that he thought he’d imagined it. “I’m just pleased to know that I’ve managed to corrupt you, finally. I’ve never tried seducing a man before, but I must own, I never thought it’d be quite this hard.”
Charles chuckled and then shifted her off his lap for long enough to stand and lift her effortlessly into his arms.
“I suppose the gentlemanly thing to do here would be to concede defeat and let you have your wicked way for me?”
Worth Winning Page 24