Worth Winning (13 page)

After almost half an hour of increasingly imbecilic questions, Robeson (taking what must have been his sixth turn), turned to Julia Morland.

“Miss Morland, I do believe you’ve yet to answer a question.”

Julia met his eyes calmly and said, “That’s true.” She paused for a moment and then looked down and plucked a blade of grass that had landed on her skit. “I pick the ‘Commands’ option.”

Nadine giggled for no apparent reason. Really, Charles thought, the girl had a disease. Her voice dripped with saccharine falseness as she said, “No woman ever picks ‘Commands,’ Julia. What if he asks to kiss you or some other highly improper thing? ‘Questions’ is safer.”

Julia stood her ground. “I’m sure Lord Robeson wouldn’t ask me to do anything that might endanger my reputation. It’s a simple picnic game, after all.”

Robeson was silent, though the sides of his mouth seemed to be twitching upward in a none-too-pleasant smile. Nadine persisted, “Oh, you just want to seem different, that’s all. No one else has picked the option, so you’re trying to stand out.” Perhaps realizing that her response had come out a little harsher than she intended (or was willing to appear in front of such company) she tittered, as if she had said something witty.

Julia pursed her lips, and said nothing. “As long as it’s a choice, I choose ‘Commands.’”

Robeson stopped fighting the smile, and his lips curved upward. “Excellent. I command you to kiss the most handsome man here.”

There was a small gasp. No one had expected such an outrageous request, of course. They were the type of people who liked to flirt with . . . well, flirtation. But to suggest something that was obviously scandalous was another matter altogether. Next to him, he saw Claire tense in worry for her stepsister.

There was a small pause before Robeson continued drolly, “Of course, I’m a fair-minded person. If you’d like to change your mind, I would make an exception and allow you to pick ‘Questions.’ You know what they say about women and their inherently fickle nature.”

“Oh, well done,” Nadine said, placing her hand lightly on Robeson’s arm. She smiled up at him, but Robeson’s attention was fixed solely on Julia. Undaunted, Nadine turned to Julia, and said, “I did tell you it wouldn’t do to try to be too different.”

“Kiss the most handsome man here,” Julia repeated calmly.

“Yes.”

Charles smiled. From the calmness of Julia’s demeanor, he could guess what she was about to do, even if Robeson couldn’t.

No matter how much she’d liked Robeson in the past, clearly he didn’t know her well. He’d underestimated her mightily if he thought that such a simple request would fluster her.

“With pleasure,” Julia said serenely, smiling at the group. She stood up, walked the few yards that separately their small circle from where her father and stepmother sat: she was fanning herself and drinking from a now-warm glass of lemonade, while he was leafing through a large, leather-bound tome, oblivious to his surroundings.

She walked up to them, calmly, despite the fact that fifteen pairs of eyes were trained and focused intensely on her. She said softly, “Papa.”

He looked up, his glasses askew, his nose a bit sunburned from spending all day outside. He was not, and probably never had been, a very attractive man. But he had the kind, almost beatific face that spoke of love and patience. She leaned down and kissed his cheek and then turned and walked back to the group, taking her seat on the far side of Nadine.

A couple of the women giggled, and at least one man chuckled appreciatively.

Mr. Morland blinked a bit, and then looked back down at his book, obviously not curious enough to wonder why his daughter had kissed him in front of all of her friends.

“That was cheating,” one of the Stapleton girls said, while Nadine fumed.

“Or just very clever,” said Penelope. “What young girl doesn’t spend some portion of her childhood thinking that her father is the single most attractive man she’s ever met?”

“Yes, but Lord Robeson clearly said the most handsome. Didn’t he?”

There was a gaggle of arguing, which Robeson cut through. “It was well done,” he said, albeit a bit grudgingly. “I’m well satisfied with Miss Morland’s interpretation of my command. The field, as they say, is yours.” He gestured broadly, and Julia inclined her head slightly. She looked around the group as if deep in contemplation.

“Mr. Alver has yet to answer a question,” Nadine said, obviously thinking to push the two together—and further away from Lord Robeson.

Julia nodded and turned her attention toward him. Charles found himself curiously disappointed by Nadine’s interference: now he would never know whether Julia might have chosen him independently, without the malicious promptings of the elder Miss Clark.

“Mr. Alver, will it be hemlock? Or would you prefer to leave the picnic altogether?”

Charles smiled. Though there were several confused faces around him, he knew exactly what Julia was referring to. “Whether or not Socrates had the option of fleeing, and not, ah, partaking of the poison, may very well have been apocryphal.”

Julia sniffed, while others continued to look befuddled. “I’ve a higher opinion of Plato.”

“Must you make everything some lecture on—” Nadine began and was cut off by a gesture from Charles. He looked at Julia intently, wondering what she would ask. “Questions.”

“For shame, Mr. Alver, after the wonderful example I just set?”

He was almost positive that Claire gave a small, decidedly unladylike, snort.

Smiling widely, Charles said, “I would, except that I have no parents to hide behind or who will shield me from possible consequences.”

Julia’s smiled, and she seemed not the least bit upset to have her triumph painted in so disparaging a light. She then asked, “Do you consider yourself the most handsome man here?”

Laughing, Charles said, “That’s a bit of a cheat. Even if I had, you’ve already shown me the error of my ways.” He gestured to the rector, who was still buried in the book he’d brought.

Julia shrugged. “Yes, well that is my question.”

“It’s a clever question,” Oliver said, with a twinkle in his eyes. “She’s really asking, Mr. Alver, whether you’re the most arrogant man in this group.”

“Oh, I can answer that,” Robeson chimed in, though for once, all the attention was focused squarely on Charles, rather than the viscount.

“And if I said yes?”

“We know already that you think it’s the truth,” Robeson interjected a bit sullenly, though still, no one paid him any heed. Even Nadine seemed to have her attention focused squarely on Charles himself, as if seeing him for the first time, studying him and perhaps realizing that yes, he was quite an attractive man.

Julia’s answer was calm and measured, with just a hint of amusement. “It would prove that you’re capable of answering a simple yes or no question with a simple yes or no.”

Charles smiled, while a few around him protested that this was too simple a question. “And if I said that I don’t give two figs about outward appearance, mine or others’?”

Oliver interjected this time to say, “Then we’d know you were lying.”

“Thank you for the confidence, old friend.”

“Oh no! I didn’t say I agreed, mind. Miss Morland isn’t asking whether you’re objectively handsome, just whether you think yourself handsome, quite a deep question.”

Nadine sniffed, and one of the Stapleton girls muttered, “It’s not that clever.”

Charles waited until they were done with their remarks. Normally, he didn’t relish being the center of attention, though it was a role he was often thrust into. But after having spent an entire afternoon in the shadow of both Oliver and Robeson, he found that he was enjoying himself, especially because he could see Robeson’s annoyance writ clearly across his face. He asked, “What man wants to admit that they’ve measured themselves against other men?”

Julia shrugged again and said, “It’s meant to be a simple question, Mr. Alver. And not even a particularly embarrassing one. Quit stalling.”

“Fine,” Charles said. He looked around. Oliver was pleasant enough to look at, now that he examined his friend more closely, and Robeson was objectively a physically handsome man, but he’d be damned before he’d add to the heap of compliments Robeson had already received that afternoon. “In the interest of proving that I can answer a question without too much prevarication, yes, I do believe I’m the most handsome man in this group.”

Robeson gave a hoot of laughter. “God, you really think a lot of yourself, don’t you?”

Charles smiled and waited a moment before saying, “Familiarity breeds . . . well, most certainly it does not breed contempt. What confident man wouldn’t answer in the affirmative? I’ve looked at myself the most, so of course, I prefer my features to others. I’m sure it’s the same reason that Miss Morland finds her father so handsome, and why every young girl goes through a stage where she thinks the same. That’s not to say that my peers don’t have attractive, unique qualities that I might not be able to compete with. For example, Lord Billings is more blond.”

“Thank
you
, old friend. It’s such a reassurance to know that while I might not be the most handsome man around, I can certainly strive for the title of most
blond
.”

Charles ignored his friend’s only somewhat teasing tone. “And you, Lord Robeson, of course carry the assurance of wealth that always lends one a certain air.”

Robeson’s eyes narrowed, as if he were once again unsure about whether he’d been insulted or complimented, but he made no reply.

“Wait, wait,” Julia said, holding up her hand. “Before you go through every gentleman here and list all their attributes, let’s just acknowledge that once again, you are completely incapable of answering a simple question simply. And that you seem almost compelled to add addendum after addendum to what might have been a simple yes or no proposition.” Julia smiled, and Charles smiled back. He hadn’t meant to and wasn’t really thinking anything much at all—simply that he enjoyed Julia’s mode of conversation, and when she smiled at him, it seemed natural to smile back. And that in this setting, with her looking confident and fresh and full of life, he might almost imagine her to be a pretty girl. There was an effervescent quality about her, and when she baited him, it felt natural to answer, and bait, and . . .

Nadine’s eyes narrowed, “Have you known one another long?”

He knew it was all in his mind, but Charles could almost feel his blood cooling. He never singled out women publicly. And yet here he was, at a picnic, smiling back at Julia as though he were some lovesick dolt. It was about as public, and as singular, as he could imagine.

He opened his mouth—to say what, he hadn’t yet decided—but Julia beat him to it. She turned to Nadine calmly and observed, “I don’t believe it’s your turn.”

There was a dangerous moment, a tense second where Nadine might have chosen to pursue the topic further, but she chose to laugh. Most likely, she disliked the idea of attention being focused on anyone other than herself, and thus the moment passed. Charles asked Claire whether she’d ever had any scandalous dreams. Claire gave a lighthearted answer, and a light tone was reestablished. The game went for a few more rounds, but the excitement seemed to have gone out of it. Soon after, people began packing up their blankets, and, with a last press of hands, as they once again implored Robeson to accept their various invitations, the picnic was over.

If there was one thing Robeson had learned from the picnic, it was that all was not well.

A week, damn it. They’d only been here a week—less than a week.

Yet it was clear,
pellucidly
clear, that Dresford had made progress. Pellucid clarity. God, how he hated that man. What kind of man used words like
pellucid
?

Even now, living as a mere mister, Dresford still walked and talked and
lectured
like the self-important ass of an earl he was. He declared himself well satisfied with the lodgings, perfectly content to ride Robeson’s worst, most placid gelding; he ate the tepid offerings of the last-minute cook Robeson’s secretary had found and drank decidedly second-class wine without a grimace. In the past week, Dresford had walked around with an almost perpetual self-satisfied smirk, as if he were well-pleased with everything. Even at the picnic, when he’d been practically ignored by the women (surely a novel experience), Dresford had proclaimed proudly, assuredly, that he thought himself handsome, and then there was the way he and Julia had looked at each other . . .

Robeson’s fingers closed tightly around the rim of the wine glass his butler had filled for him; he knew that his thoughts were unraveling. What was the point in taunting a subject that never rose to the bait? And worse, one that wasn’t even here to hear the taunting.

It was with great effort that Robeson kept himself from hurling the glass across the library. He’d given in to such tantrums in the past, when he was a little child. He’d broken a vase his mother had been particularly fond of when he’d learned that as the third son, he would not be allowed to go with their father to visit their estate in Italy. It had been an educational trip, his parents had explained, and there was no reason for
Archie
to learn Italian.

He’d purposefully etched a variety of nasty words into his father’s favorite vellum imprint when he’d been told that he’d have to suffice with his brothers’ old horses.

On his eighth birthday—one that his parents had forgotten—he’d smashed his father’s brandy decanter against the corner of the ancient Persian rug in the viscount’s old office, embedding shards of glass in its plush surface.

Each time, when his petty acts of vandalism had been discovered, he’d received a lecture, a whipping, and had been told to clean up after himself: they weren’t about to punish their servants by making them tidy Archie’s messes. This, then, had been the hierarchy he’d been raised in: even the servants were above him.

Richard, as the eldest, was the rightful heir. Robeson had understood and accepted this. He’d watched jealously as Richard had received almost all of their father’s attention, advice, love, and guidance. Each year, he’d been given presents designed to outdo the lavishness of the year before. But even Russell, the second son, had enjoyed luxuries Archie could only dream of: better horses, multiple tutors, private fencing lessons.