Worth Winning Read online

  No doubt Loretta Fanshawe, once she heard about it, would spread and expand upon this particular story until it was whispered about in very saloon and ballroom. Either way, Charles would have no peace this season. He could walk away now and call Robeson’s bluff, or he could entertain this ridiculous wager. Neither was particularly appealing.

  “I abhor theatrics in general, and public declarations seem particularly base.”

  “Then suggest an alternative.”

  Charles could think of several. What he couldn’t figure out was a way to wiggle out of the noose that was being tightened slowly around him. The silence yawned in front of him until finally he said, “What, exactly, do you have that’s worth wagering?” It wasn’t polite to boast of one’s wealth, but the truth of the matter was, how could Robeson’s viscounty be compared to the Dresford earldom? It was difficult to think of something Robeson could possibly wager to make it worth his while.

  “My Rembrandt.”

  Charles took a slow and measured breath and tried not to show his excitement. Robeson’s father had acquired a Rembrandt landscape some years back—one that had, when Charles had first seen it, made him feel calm and peaceful made him feel calm and peaceful in a way that no other painting ever had.. He’d remarked on it the one time he’d been to Robeson’s townhouse and had even offered quite a generous sum for it.

  “Your Rembrandt,” Charles said finally. “And what do you want in return?”

  “Two thousand pounds. And a public apology.”

  Charles closed his eyes briefly. The money was inconsequential. It was, in fact, exactly double the sum Charles had offered to pay years ago, when he first saw the painting: he’d been that taken with it. But a public apology? The very idea of having to be at the center of such a display . . .

  “You heard me—public.”

  Charles opened his eyes and saw a bevy of spectators, most of whom had long ago given up pretending disinterest, several of whom were standing in a small cluster around them.

  “Name your terms—what girl, how much time, what are the forfeits, etc.—and I’ll think about it.”

  Robeson smiled, and Charles felt a tingling feeling down his spine. Though he hadn’t agreed yet, he knew he would—because of the opportunity to get his hands on the Rembrandt, coupled with the fact that he had more or less allowed himself to be maneuvered into an untenable position from which he would have trouble backing down.

  “Come now, Dresford, either you’re in, or you’re out. We’re not missish virgins trying to decide which shawlette brings out our eyes. My Rembrandt against your money and apology. Yes or no.”

  Charles gritted his teeth and threw a quick glance at Oliver, who was giving a barely discernible head shake. This was definitely not the way Charles had envisioned his day unfolding. Still, before he had time to second-guess himself further, he said, “Yes.”

  One of the men who’d been standing to the side gave a hoot and quickly motioned the waiter to bring him some paper. Clearly, a wager of such proportions needed to be written out, the details debated and then formalized. “Though I have some rules: no debutantes. I won’t seriously impede some girl determined to marry. No gossip surrounding this, either. If the merest hint of this gets out . . .” Charles looked pointedly at the ten or so men gathered around in a tight circle. “If I’m going to have to pretend to be someone else, and do so successfully, this will need to have as little publicity as possible.”

  Robeson’s thin smile only stretched farther. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got the perfect location and the perfect girl, for that matter. A place where no one will ever have heard of the Earl of Dresford, and, if you’re curious, a girl who isn’t going to give you the time of day.”

  Chapter 2

  “Well, well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”

  Julia stopped humming and felt as if every muscle in her body had suddenly tensed. She would recognize the self-satisfied voice of Archibald Barrington anywhere. She wished she could say that it had become nasally or pinched, but if anything, his voice had deepened over the intervening years and was now infused with a certain gravitas.

  She stalled, wiping her dirt-stained hands thoroughly along the edges of the apron she’d put over one of her oldest day dresses. She’d known Archie was coming back, of course. Her stepmother had talked in breathless whispers about little else for the past three weeks. Munthrope was a small village, and a viscount—any viscount, but especially one they’d all met before and who had since come into a title and fortune—was big news.

  Thus Julia had known that sooner or later she’d have to meet Archie again. She just hadn’t thought she’d have to see him this soon. Or that she’d be quite so dirty and dusty. She steadied her hands and turned to find not one, but three, pairs of eyes trained intently upon her.

  “Lord Robeson.” Julia inclined her head and made a facsimile of a curtsy. “As you say, an unexpected surprise.”

  She held his gaze and forced herself not to fidget, not to give him or his companions any inkling of how discomfited she felt, standing here in her country worst while they appeared in all their splendor. She especially tried not to notice how well Archie had aged: his once lanky frame had filled out nicely, his shoulders looked broader, his blond hair seemed thicker and was styled just so. Despite the fact that his green eyes twinkled with some combination of mirth and malice, Julia couldn’t help noticing that he was, perhaps, the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

  My, what a stir he would cause. With his looks. And his title. And his fortune.

  Eight years ago, no one had paid him any attention. Then, he’d been nothing more than Archie Barrington, the insolvent, shabbily dressed, directionless third son. Even the mothers of Munthrope had thought they’d be able to find a better mate than a brooding, too skinny too quick to laugh, too prone towards making wagers, too . . . everything, third.

  At the time, only Julia had found him attractive; she’d been the only one to laugh at his jokes, to listen to his stories, to look beyond his meager allowance and awkward appearance.

  Robeson returned her perusal indolently, his well-shaped mouth twisting briefly. “Now, now,” he said, his supercilious tone causing Julia’s already-heightened senses to notch upward, “there’s no need to quibble over adjectives.”

  He smiled again, and Julia could almost see traces of the man he’d been, before the title and fortune, in the lopsided half smile he now wore. She was making an effort not to return his smile, to hold herself aloof while he was scrutinizing her.

  “I’ve been hoping to introduce you to two of my closest friends from London. May I present Lord Billings?” A man of moderate height and very ordinary, fair features stepped forward and bowed, smiling reassuringly, as if he’d guessed her distress.

  “And this fellow, though a bit of a ne’er do well to the rest of the world, is nonetheless a particular friend of mine. Mr. Charles Alver, may I present Miss Julia Morland? The vicar’s daughter I mentioned to you once.”

  Julia studied the man in front of her, noting that unlike Billings, who looked warm and kind and had an almost inviting air, Mr. Alver was nothing but hard planes and stiff contours. Where Robeson and Billings were dressed in a decidedly flashy style, with a variety of fobs dangling from brightly trimmed waistcoats, Mr. Alver’s attire was simple, almost stark—Hessian boots with cream-colored breeches and a black overcoat that molded nicely over his trim but athletic physique. His eyes were gray, and his mouth looked more suited to sneers than friendly smiles. He was, by far, the tallest of the three men, and he stood with the confidence of someone used to commanding attention. He wasn’t handsome, but there was an unmistakable something about him.

  Julia licked at suddenly dry lips and told herself she wouldn’t—she just wouldn’t—ask why Robeson would have mentioned her to his friends or what he might have revealed.

  As if reading her mind, Mr. Alver said, “He’s said nothing but good things, of course.”

  “Thank yo
u, but let me assure you that such reassurances are entirely unnecessary.”

  She regretted her words almost instantly. Whatever else she’d become, she was never intentionally rude. And though Robeson perhaps deserved some of her disdain, his friends surely did not. She was on the cusp of apologizing when she was forestalled by Mr. Alver, who, instead of seeming at all insulted, merely raised a single eyebrow sardonically, as if she had said something . . . cute. Julia’s eyes narrowed.

  “Societal norms must be preserved, don’t you think?” Mr. Alver said in what Julia was sure was meant to be a charming, soothing voice.

  “Only when it’s the truth.”

  “And who’s to say that we can’t observe the niceties while adhering to the truth?”

  “Nicety: from the Latin, nescius, for ignorant.” Julia knew that she was being rude, and she knew she should stop, yet somehow she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Thanks to Robeson, she no longer tried to be all-things-biddable; she no longer went out of her way to please and mollify; and there was something about this man’s tone, his entire bearing, that set her teeth on edge. “What do the ignorant know of truth?”

  Mr. Alver’s eyebrows rose alarmingly, but before he could reply, Robeson waved his arm rather gracelessly at Julia’s basket of lemons, derailing anything his friend had been about to say by saying, “Still obsessed with the freckles, I see.”

  Julia drew in a deep breath and turned her attention to Robeson. “Not obsessed, no. Still searching for practical ways to ameliorate an unwanted attribute, yes.” She managed, just barely, to keep herself from explaining that the lemon trees were part of a larger experiment, a side project she and her father had become interested in: whether citrus, if shielded and otherwise protected, might be able to survive a winter outside the greenhouse. She didn’t want any of them to get the impression that she actually wanted to converse with them.

  “I’ve always found that freckles, like beauty spots and moles, add something to a woman’s face, a certain flair.”

  Julia looked at Mr. Alver wonderingly, perplexed that he actually seemed to be trying to pay her a compliment, in the midst of their argument, as though he thought he was being charming. He’d delivered his pronouncement with aplomb, as if bestowing some great favor.

  She sniffed the way her young stepsister Claire did, when the flowers or lace hadn’t been arranged to her liking. “I don’t think you know me well enough to be commenting on whether or not I have any flair. Further, the predilection for exaggeration is gender specific.” Later, when she was alone and had had time to think about it, she was mortified by her own remarks. Though she prided herself on being blunt, she wasn’t usually quite so acerbic. She wasn’t sure whether it was Robeson’s reappearance or something inherent to Mr. Alver that set her back up, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself: no sooner had the words formed than they were out of her mouth.

  Mr. Alver’s jaw jutted out and to the side, as if pondering her rather graceless remarks, while Robeson coughed out a laugh, and Billings stood slightly awkwardly to the side, examining the lemon tree as if it were the most fascinating citrus he’d ever seen.

  “Are you always so forthright?” Mr. Alver asked, staring at her, his eyes boring into hers. Though they were out in broad daylight, and the question seemed a perfectly innocuous one, Julia experienced a curious sensation. She pressed her hand to her stomach, certain it was merely indigestion. For surely she was past the age of believing in flutters, butterflies, or other romantic nonsense.

  “If you mean to ask whether I am always this rude, you should do so. I don’t cower at blunt pronunciations, especially when they’re true. I am forthright, blunt, and sometimes rude.”

  She saw the quirk of his lips and wondered whether the man was laughing at her. She almost succumbed to the temptation to apologize, to slip back into being the shy, diffident girl she’d been before Robeson, the one who wanted nothing more than to please.

  But she knew better, didn’t she?

  She bit her lip and continued in a firm voice, her father’s preaching voice, the one laced with a mixture of authority and forbearing, as if explaining something to a young child, “You should say what you mean, Mr. Alver, and not waste time prettying it up. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”

  “Latin and geometry all in one day—” Mr. Alver started.

  “Ah, but that’s the one thing I should have mentioned: our Miss Morland considers herself quite the scholar,” Robeson interrupted with a faint sneer.

  Julia tilted her head in acknowledgment. It was an old argument between them: Robeson always used to complain that she paid more attention to her studies than to him. But that was then, and both of them had long since made their choices. It seemed silly to second-guess or continue sparring now, when it served nothing and no one. She sighed soundlessly and then picked up her basket and skirts. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me: the day is young, and I have many more errands to run.”

  She half-turned before good manners forced her to continue, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Billings.” She paused for a half second before adding, “Mr. Alver, Lord Robeson.” Then she began a brisk pace back to the vicarage. Her walking boots were caked in mud, and the basket of lemons weighed heavily on her arm, but she didn’t let either of these things slow her progress. The only thing she cared about was putting as much distance as possible between herself, Robeson, and his obnoxious friends.

  *

  Charles watched Julia Morland’s rapidly retreating back and wondered briefly whether he should just concede the bet now. Rembrandt be damned.

  Yes, Julia Morland was moderately attractive—something Charles supposed he ought to be grateful for. He’d been afraid that Robeson would’ve picked out the homeliest girl this side of the Atlantic, just to humiliate him.

  While Julia couldn’t have held a candle to the Loretta Fanshawes of the world, she was at least passably pretty. She had a pert nose, too-wide lips, and, of course, the freckles that were so clearly a touchy subject, but still, a decent figure. Her waist had been slim without seeming artificial: clearly this was a woman who did not bother with overly constraining corsets. As he watched her march away in silence, Charles couldn’t help but notice the suggestive sway of her hips.

  Physically, she was quite acceptable.

  Her voice too, was not unattractive. Clearly, she was an educated woman and not a simpleton. This had been another of his fears: Robeson had described Julia Morland as being “not particularly slow” in a way that had seemed to imply precisely the opposite. He had suffered through much of their carriage ride half-fretting that Robeson had paired him with a slow top who would have forced him to talk endlessly of ribbons and lace. He’d squirmed at the idea of having to accede to one of the forfeits specified within their bet.

  He thought back to her brief, though invidiously articulate, lecture and mentally shook his head: no, Julia Morland was not slow.

  And her smell . . . for he’d been close enough to inhale her scent . . . had been attractive. Unlike the manufactured perfumes that Loretta and many of his other mistresses had preferred, scents that were almost cloyingly clingy and had often caused even his perfectly trained valet to grimace, Julia Morland had smelled like a delightful combination of soap and lemons. Charles thought, with some satisfaction, that her smell matched her personality: fresh, straightforward, and more than a little tart.

  Her conversational skills, on the other hand . . .

  Charles turned on Robeson, who was still laughing intermittently, despite the fact that Julia’s form was barely a speck in the distance. “A bit of a spinster, you said.”

  “Yes,” Robeson said with a smirk.

  “More or less decided against marriage and thus a worthy challenge.”

  “Those were, I believe, more or less my words.”

  Charles paused, his narrowed eyes taking in Robeson’s self-congratulatory expression as well as Oliver’s decidedly amused countenance. Olive
r was here to observe and bear witness, after all, and had no particular stake in the eventual outcome. In fact, to ensure his impartiality, he was probably the only person who’d heard of the bet and had not put money down on one side or the other. Oliver remained largely silent, no doubt longing to write to his friends back in town to report the progress of the now almost infamous bet.

  “You don’t think ‘man-hating termagant’ might have been more accurate?”

  “Now, that’s hardly fair,” Oliver interjected with a half laugh. “I detected barely an ounce of hostility toward, well, me for example.”

  “Fine,” Charles waved Oliver aside a bit carelessly. “I’ll agree that ‘man-hating’ might be a bit hyperbolic, if we could reach a consensus on ‘battle-axe who’s allergic to compliments.’”

  In truth, he hadn’t been trying particularly hard to impress her. But the girl practically emanated hostility. And the way she’d looked at Robeson . . . the way she’d turned his friendly pleasantry into a snide insult. Clearly the two had history, and being introduced as Robeson’s friend was not going to be counted as an advantage.

  “Oh, no. Miss Morland is not a man-hater.” Robeson smiled again, with a stretching of lips and flash of teeth that had little to do with genuine amusement. Clearly there were things Robeson knew about Julia Morland that he was withholding. Perhaps because of the bet, perhaps because he just enjoyed making the situation as difficult as possible. “She’s a dutiful, doting daughter, and her best friend is a man, some untitled bloke, forget his exact name,” Robeson continued drolly, clearly relishing being in a position of knowledge and power over Charles.

  “She just . . . what? Took an instant dislike to me?”

  Robeson allowed a slow smile to spread over his face. “I didn’t say it would be easy. You told me what your requirements were: someplace quiet, so this wouldn’t spread, someone without expectations of marriage, who would be unlikely to hold you to a fake engagement if it came down to it. Let’s be honest, you had quite the list of requirements. We agreed there would be no widows, no women who might have met or heard of you before. You vetoed anyone younger than twenty-three who might still be at all eligible. You think attractive, desirable spinsters grow on trees? You’re lucky she’s got a half-decent body and is within a decade of us age-wise.”