Worth Winning (10 page)

“I’m sorry if I seemed to be . . . pushy,” Julia said finally—sincere, for the most part. “That is, I’m not sorry I asked, but I didn’t mean to remind you of anything particularly painful.” Another moment of silence passed before Charles smiled again, once again the self-assured, charming man Julia had glimpsed earlier. He chided in a gentle, soothing tone, “You don’t
seem
to be pushy. You are, by leaps and bounds, the pushiest woman I have ever met.”

Though she reminded herself that she did not trust charming men, especially ones with easy, almost mesmerizing smiles, she could not prevent herself from smiling back at him.

And then he continued, “You will make it up to me.”

“Make it up to you?” she echoed. “But I’ve already apologized.”

“More than that,” he leaned forward, so much so that she could smell his scent: simple soap, a tinge of sweat, and something decidedly masculine, unique to his person. He did not wear any of the colognes that seemed so popular these days, she noted, before quickly realizing that perhaps he could no longer afford to buy them.

“I . . . I . . . that is,” she stuttered, taking a small, telling step backward. She disliked feeling crowded and hated that he was intimidating her. From the gleam in his eyes, she could tell that at least a part of him seemed to be enjoying the experience.

She wondered whether he was going to ask for a kiss. She wondered whether she’d allow it.

He lowered his head toward her. He was nearly a head taller than she, though she was considered tall for a woman. His eyelids lowered halfway, and Julia had to fight not to close her eyes. Her more conservative, logical self was fighting a losing battle against her baser instincts, ones that whispered:
You’ve kissed before. Would one more kiss hurt?

She gave her head a small shake, trying to clear her thoughts from the sensual and all too dangerous imaginings that were clouding her mind. “What is it you want? Besides my apology?”

He leaned in closer, so that she could see the small flecks of green in what she would have previously classified as cold, slate-gray eyes, and then turned his head abruptly. He reached out and flicked the edge of the cloth she’d placed over her morning gatherings. “What is this?”

“Peppermint,” she replied a bit breathlessly, wondering whether she had imagined the sensuality she’d thought she’d seen in his gaze.

Charles closed his eyes and exhaled, “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that. I’ll take half of your basket, please, as payment.”

“You want my peppermint clippings?”

He took a step back, humor and warmth infusing his features. “Yes, Miss Morland, you’ve no idea how very, very much, I’ve missed having a sprig of mint in my morning water.”

“To drink?” Julia asked, befuddled.

“No, no, to splash my face with. Having no valet, the subpar living quarters, even the lumpy pillow that smells of mildew . . . I can adjust to, and tolerate, all those things. I’ll even polish my own shoes if I must.” He gestured vaguely down at his boots, which, though still slightly dusty, looked to Julia to be in fine shape. “But the cool, almost purifying effect of mint, the refreshing aroma it adds to my morning routine. I’ve missed it, truly.”

Julia laughed. “Are you and aspiring writer?”

“Yes, quite the poet, am I not? About my herbs?”

She handed the basket to him and made a gesture for him to help himself. “Your fortunes have been completely overturned, you’re without any of the luxuries you grew up with, and the thing you miss the most can be replaced with a walk in the country and a pair of semisharp shears. What low expectations you have!”

He was picking the most promising of the flowers and even bringing a few to his nose to inhale, but he paused and tilted his head, as if she had said something truly extraordinary. “Low expectations. There’s something I’ve never been accused of before. But oddly, it seems to be true, for this is the one detail that I’ve found most upsetting.”

“Then go ahead. Take the whole basket, if you like. I can always cut more.”

He looked at her oddly and asked, “No lectures about how to pick the best from the bunch?”

“They’re preselected, obviously.”

“No judgmental proclamations about my priorities? Gender rules of peppermint versus, oh, any other floral?”

Unable to help herself, Julia smiled. “The word
peppermint
is derived from the name Mintha, so no, I don’t see anything inappropriate in a man being obsessed with a mythological nymph. Besides, not everything out of my mouth is a lecture or a condemnation.”

“Don’t forget inquisition.”

“Yes, not that, either.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Truly. I am capable of normal conversation.”

“Oh yes, aphids and nymphs. Absolutely mundane.”

He picked over them leaves as if they were priceless artifacts and had gathered quite a handful before he found the biscuits Julia had completely forgotten.

“What’s this?”

“
Oh.
”

She took the small bundle and hoped that he hadn’t noticed the incriminating crumbs she’d inadvertently left behind.

“It’s nothing.”

“҅Nothing’ looks a bit like a biscuit.”

Julia colored a bit, annoyed just as much by his discovery as her blush. “Two biscuits.”

“Ah.”

She wondered whether she should explain. “I become grumpy when I don’t eat. Testy.”

“You
become
grumpy.”

Julia rolled her eyes, knowing that he was trying to tease her to diffuse her embarrassment and not at all sure whether she liked the way he was handling her and the situation. She wasn’t a puppy. Or a horse! Thinking of him as an interesting but slightly uncomfortable man had been soothing; seeing him as a confident, charming man who also happened not to dislike her company and who was obviously more than capable in all manner of social situations . . . danger lay ahead.

“I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be needing a biscuit, along with the peppermint.” He was looking at her intently, a decidedly rakish gleam in his eyes.

Under his gaze, she could feel herself becoming breathless, which was ridiculous, of course; she was . . . well, long past the age where one became breathless just because one was being looked at in a certain way. She tried to hold firm. “We had an agreement.”

“I’m amending it,” he said with a smile—another of his dazzling smiles that made her forget the rules of propriety and made her want to curl her toes against . . . maybe against his. She blushed. It was terrible, the way her thoughts wandered sometimes. She had no particular fascination about feet, but suddenly, it was all she could think of: them lying side by side, their feet touching.

“Besides,” Charles continued, unaware, of course, of the direction Julia’s wayward thoughts had taken, “My life, as you now know, has just suffered a terrible upheaval. All manner of luxuries I’ve long been accustomed have been suddenly taken away. I feel bereft, and surely you wouldn’t deny me a biscuit?”

Julia rolled her eyes and tried not to smile as she unfolded her handkerchief and chose the slightly less damaged biscuit to hand to him. She ignored his raised eyebrow—questioning, perhaps, why she had chosen to give him the better of the two biscuits—and folded the handkerchief back over: she had no desire to eat in front of him, while he watched, with his too-knowing smile, as crumbs littered the front of her dress. She said a bit tartly, “In case you’re wondering, I will not be walking tomorrow, which means we will not be meeting.”

He took a bite of his biscuit and chewed slowly, nodding in approval before saying, “Of course you won’t. There’s a picnic. I’m invited, you’re invited,
everyone’s
invited.”

“I’d forgotten. Though really, I don’t know how I could have. It’s been planned since we first got word that Lord Robeson was coming. There’s to be music and, oh dear.” She closed her eyes; it was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment—attend a picnic where the entire village would be there, and where, of course, Archie would be the guest of honor.

“You have something against picnics?”

Julia opened her eyes. “Of course not,” she said, though even she could tell her words lacked conviction. She was trying to come up with something clever to say, something about how she adored such gatherings, simply loved them to pieces, when Charles gently tapped the bottom of her chin, raising Julia’s face and gaze to meet his.

“Until then.” He eyes locked with hers in a most disconcerting manner, and he smiled. Slowly. Every inch the confident, knowingly charming man she’d been so annoyed by upon their first meeting. Except now she couldn’t find it in herself to feel the least bit annoyed. Rather, she felt . . . quite breathless.

He nodded and then walked away without a backward glance, apparently unconcerned by the fact that he’d left her with half a basket of peppermint (which meant she’d have to pick more), half of her food supply (which meant she’d be ravenous by afternoon tea), and most likely unaware that he had left her with a bewildering array of fanciful thoughts, none of them appropriate.*

Things were going better than he could have possibly expected.

Sitting at Robeson’s table, cutting through the chicken, which was too salty, and pairing it with a bite of the slightly doughy dinner roll that had been provided, Charles couldn’t help but think about the biscuit he’d demanded as recompense. That particular pastry had been flaky and flavored with a touch of honey. It had been delicious: the crowning achievement of a morning well spent.

He frowned, wondering how quickly mint went bad. His frown deepened as he wondered,
did
mint go bad? Or did it just dry . . . and keep?

There had been lectures that had probably covered these topics, of course, but he’d never paid particular attention in such lessons. He had a modicum of interest in the sciences and had eventually learned to tolerate maths but had focused the majority of his time at university on things that would more directly impact the running of his estates: the engineering aspects of architectural improvements, soil composition as it pertained to crops. He’d also learned (the hard way, through his allowance and by taking on some of the preliminary responsibilities his father had ceded early on) how to pick trustworthy business partners and managers. He now ran not only his inherited estates but several plantations he’d acquired. He was quite knowledgeable about agriculture, on a certain scale . . .

But herbs and plants, their classifications, storage properties, and such, these were the type of minutiae that gave him a headache. If he needed to educate himself about a particular aspect of crop rotation, barley management, brewing, or whatever else, he would study it. That was how he liked to manage his intellectual pursuits: on an as-needed basis. For everything else, all the less important day-to-day reports, he hired people who knew about these things and would make the required decisions—in fact, he was pretty certain his people hired people for things that small.

He shook his head. He was certain Julia would know, and asking her would give him an excuse to engage her in further conversation. True, her conversational style was a sort of elliptical lecture on anything and everything, and half the time she spoke more like a barrister than what he would have expected from a spinster.

Then again, there had to be a reason she’d remained unmarried . . . and how many men really wanted to marry a battle-ax?

He smiled, wondering what she would have said if he’d told her that. No doubt she would have argued that he was wrong, and that her dialogue was more spherical, or angular. Or she would have pointed out something about the history of barristers, to show that he’d once again been inaccurate in his categorizations. Truly, he’d never met a girl who liked to argue and wind her way through conversations the way Julia Morland did.

Still, despite her tendencies for plague-centric anecdotes and interrogative asides, he was practically . . .
almost
. . . enjoying his time with her.

Not that he was developing feelings for the chit.

A less appropriate candidate for the future Countess of Dresford would be hard to imagine. Even Loretta, who had the morals of an alley cat, was at least beautiful and knew how to hold her tongue in mixed company. Julia, on the other hand, grew on one (much like a fungus, he thought wryly) but would never be considered more than fetching; in the right clothes, with more flattering lighting, perhaps he might classify her as moderately attractive, but she would never be considered a beauty.

Julia Morland, mingling in the ballrooms and drawing rooms of high society? Utter disaster. Nor would Charles ever have considered taking a rector’s daughter as a mistress.

He frowned and cut his meat a little too forcefully, wondering why this realization seemed somehow . . . a sad one. There was no way of prolonging their relationship beyond the short few months the wager dictated. So what? He cut another piece of tough meat. It wasn’t as though he were developing anything close to a tendre for the sharp-tongued little hussy. No, he shook his head. He was thinking about her because of the wager, nothing more, though even he had had to admit that she was such a welcome change from the stuttering debutantes and cloyingly clingy matrons. Refreshing, like the stash of mint he’d obtained from her.

More important, she was clearly enjoying her time with him: the blushes and breathlessness had long ago given away the fact that she found him attractive.

Things were progressing, perhaps slightly ahead of schedule, even. When the time came, he’d win, and then he’d leave. She’d recover, and he’d forget her. As Charles sawed away at yet another piece of chicken, he told himself that this would be the best possible outcome. And, with any luck he’d be back to his town home, enjoying properly prepared meals and resting on appropriately fluffed pillows, one Rembrandt richer, before the summer was out.

“Mr. Alver! I say, Mr. Alver!”

Charles looked up and saw that Robeson had clearly been trying to get his attention for some time. They’d agreed that in the presence of servants, Robeson and Oliver would always address him as Mr. Alver. He grimaced. Apparently he still hadn’t adjusted to his new name and identity.