Worth Winning (16 page)

“You do. Let me prove it to you.”

Robeson’s words were still in Julia’s mind a few short hours later, both during and after her father’s sermon.

All three of Munthrope’s current most eligible men sat still, outwardly attentive, throughout Mr. Morland’s service. The rest of the congregation on the other hand . . . Well, it was clear, even from Julia’s position in one of the front pews, that there was more shifting, whispering, and even giggling than was usual for a Sunday service focused on Job’s lamentations.

It was clear that the women of Munthrope were all jostling for a better angle, more direct access, to Robeson, Billings, and Mr. Alver (in that order). As the last lines of the closing hymn faded, the men were surrounded, flanked on all sides by ambitious mothers, their ogling daughters, and quite often, their almost comically lethargic, unwilling spouses and fathers.

Seeing the matronly women of Munthrope (all dressed, rather noticeably, more formally than a sleepy Sunday service would have otherwise warranted) flowing in and around the three men, crowding them, to the point where they could barely move from their seats, Julia was reminded once again of locusts. Hungry, swarming locusts.

Claire shot Julia a superior, I-told-you-so type of glance and rolled her eyes at the efforts of what her stepsister often deemed
lesser
mortals. Claire was, of course, used to being the one pursued, not the other way around. Even if she had been interested in any of the three currently waylaid bachelors, she would never have given any indication.

Julia had laughed at this and asked whether Claire was certain she wanted to wait, when there were Very Eligible Bachelors afoot, but Claire had shrugged daintily, saying, “There’s too much competition right now. I’ll bide my time.”

“Before you act?”

“Before I decide whether Lord Billings is interesting enough to warrant acting.”

Julia laughed while Claire continued to lecture in earnest: that matrimony was not something to be taken lightly, and also, not an undertaking for amateurs (which she had clarified, unasked, was the correct classification for almost every other female in Munthrope).

Now, Claire looped her arm through Julia’s, and the two made their way slowly outside, exchanging pleasantries and good-byes with the precious few people who weren’t approaching Robeson, Billings, or Mr. Alver. Though Julia let her gaze wander a couple of times, Claire steered her firmly and kept them moving swiftly away from the rest of the congregation.

“It’s better this way,” Claire said. She’d waved airily at her mother and stepfather and then escorted Julia home, as if not trusting her elder sister to behave herself, if left unsupervised.

“It’s not as if I’m really going to approach Robeson,” Julia had protested, as soon as they were out of earshot. Though his words were still ringing in her ears, she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to share any of the particulars with Claire, at least not yet.

“After the picnic
, he’s
not the one I’m worried about.” And, with that, Claire had gone upstairs for what she called some private sketching time. She’d refused to elaborate, only quipping that, as a woman of five and twenty, wasn’t it about time Julia made up her mind?

By Thursday, Charles was certain that Julia Morland was trying to avoid him.

He’d been quite pleased with himself after the picnic and had thought he’d intercepted several discreet glances both during and after the church service. Thus, when he set out at the normal time on Monday, he’d expected to find her more or less where he’d always did: somewhere between the lemon tree, the vicarage, and the clearly trod pathway that seemed to frame the outer part of Langley House.

Except there had been no sign of her Monday or Tuesday. On Wednesday, he’d gotten up earlier and had walked around longer, trying to meet her “accidentally,” and the closest he’d gotten? At the very end of his walk, he’d seen her from a distance entering the vicarage, after looking around furtively. He would have wagered money she’d been looking for him. Which begged the question: why was she avoiding him? After already establishing that they were both clearly creatures of habit, why would she suddenly alter hers? He could have chased after her, but that would have been exceedingly bad manners, and what was more, it would have made him appear desperate.

He shuddered. He was almost—
almost
—starting to feel sorry for Loretta, and all the other mistresses he’d discarded with nary a second thought. He wondered whether this was what it had been like for them when he’d started avoiding them. Though he had only avoided them after making it clear that the relationship was over and that attempts to further said situation would be futile.

He shook the thought aside. He was almost certain Julia would be at the Clark musicale Thursday night, and he saw no point in making himself a nuisance before then. He was tired of getting up earlier and earlier and of having to fabricate answers every time Robeson asked thinly veiled questions about how his days and mornings were progressing.

He’d sleep late Thursday and find a nice way to corner the damned girl and get some answers: the first of which would be, why the hell was she avoiding him?

Julia hated musicales.

It wasn’t that she hated music. She’d spent a fair share of her time reading about artists, composers, and the creation of musical instruments. The construction of a violin, the way the corpus was made of two arched plates, the look and feel of the instrument, the way the strings were wound to allow for just the correct amount of tension—
that
, she found fascinating.

Having to sit through a number of musical performances in a stuffy, overcrowded drawing room where fanning herself would be considered impolite and where every shift and shuffle would be noted by every member of the audience, who would be doing their best imitations of Greek statues? That, Julia considered pure, unadulterated torture.

She didn’t mind music, if it was in the background, especially if she had a book to read or a task to do. She enjoyed humming and had an ear for a good tune. But the sitting still. And the quiet. It was maddening, really. Which was why she’d long ago devised a plan of action, when it came to musicales. She arranged herself in one of the farthest corners and would give up her seat to anyone so that she could stand near the doorway. Then, partway through the first, sometimes the second, number, she’d simply disappear.

Munthrope was a small village, yes, but not that small. She wasn’t one to attract attention to herself, and her absence was rarely, if ever, noticed. If her stepmother asked her, casually, where she had been during a particularly stirring rendition of Scarlatti, Julia would purse her lips, cross her fingers, and hint that she’d had stomach problems. As Phyllis believed that discussing bodily functions (and especially malfunctions thereof) was an exceedingly unladylike pursuit, she rarely questioned her stepdaughter further.

Phyllis had not, as of yet, realized that Julia’s stomach troubles and Munthrope’s musicales had an alarmingly high, if slightly improbable, correlation with each other.

Julia had gotten so used to being able to escape during the musicale and then returning near what she estimated to be the end, that she’d begun bringing reading. She’d sewn a little pocket into her petticoat and would frequently sequester away a novel, a pamphlet, or whatever . . .

The Clark musicale on Thursday night was no different. Except that she had two reasons for escaping. First, was her aforementioned hatred for musicales and the types of strictures enforced at such affairs. Second was that she was certain, and if such a state had been possible and existed beyond the bounds of literary hyperbole, she would have said that she was
beyond certain
, that Mrs. Clark would make sure Robeson, Billings, and Mr. Alver would attend. With four unmarried daughters, three unmarried man must have seemed like manna from heaven.

And while Julia had no particular opinions about Billings, the question of what and how she felt about Robeson was a pressing and slightly thorny issue. As for Charles Alver? He was a man Julia wished she could think of less. Or even
think less of
.

Julia smiled and then frowned. Clever wordplay that was stuck in her head always seemed such a waste of time—if only she had someone to share it with. Someone besides Jack, who was forever traveling and would only play upon her puns until they were past recognition. Certainly not Robeson, who had always looked at her with a perplexed expression on his face, a roll of the eyes seeming to be waiting around the corner. For Robeson, any joke he hadn’t thought of, or didn’t immediately get, wasn’t worthwhile. No, she’d never been attracted to Robeson because of his sense of humor. Deftness of wit was more something Charles Alver—

No, no. Best not to go there again.

Julia sat as still as she could during the first part of the performance. But it was harder than usual. Not only were there more people (and thus more likelihood that her every minuscule shift and shimmy would be noticed), but also, it was strikingly clear that none of those in attendance had any interest in the music itself. Instead, the unmarried (and even some of the married) women of Munthrope sat politely, listening to the music, while sneaking furtive glances at Robeson, batting their eyelashes while arranging their faces in perpetual half smiles.

Another of the tricks Claire had tried, but failed, to teach her: how to arrange one’s face so that there was a suggestion of a smile, a promise of something more. To Julia, it had always seemed simpler to match her facial expressions with the appropriate corresponding emotion. When she was happy, she smiled. When she was hopeful, she smiled. When she was sad, she frowned. She liked things simple. Direct. Uncomplicated.

Julia didn’t understand and, perhaps more to the point, didn’t want to understand, the concept of the promised smile. It was a level of flirtation that was simply beyond her capabilities. Combined with slightly widened eyes and carefully orchestrated indrawn breaths, the slight curve of the lips seemed to be constantly suggesting . . . what? Flirtation? More?

Beside her, Claire did not smile or frown. Instead, she looked serene and at peace. From outward appearances, one would think she was concentrating on the music and was completely unaware of the men who threw glances her way or the men at whom everyone else threw glances. Knowing Claire, Julia knew better and was not fooled by her deliberate nonchalance. Duplicating such a display was a completely different matter.

Even Nadine Clark, who was one of the starring performers, still managed to throw less-than-subtle smiles toward Robeson. With every turn of the page, the girl somehow managed to raise her eyes and give a small flutter of the eyelashes . . . all the while, never missing a single note. It was simultaneously impressive and slightly sickening.

Julia was certain that if she really had to sit through an entire such performance, she’d develop a very real stomach ache. So, halfway through the second number, she inched toward the doorway, her left leg only slightly weighted down by the latest gothic novel she’d bought and which she’d promised to Mrs. Paleski as soon as she was finished. They were terrible, she knew it, but she wasn’t above losing herself in what her stepmother loftily called litter-worthy literature once in a while. This particular book featured a busty widow, a sinister not-a-blood-relative uncle whose defining characteristic seemed to be an overly developed leering perusal of the widow’s bosom, and of course, buried treasure.

Julia shuffled her way along the Clark’s back corridor until the strains of the harpsichord were barely audible and let herself into their secondary sitting room. She was a frequent visitor; the Clarks were a social family with four unmarried daughters, after all, and they frequently needed unobtrusive company—like females who weren’t likely to provide competition to their daughters—to round out the numbers at their dinner table. Julia was familiar with the layout of the Clarks’ home and was certain that this particular room, used most frequently as a secondary library for Sir Jonathan, was very unlikely to be used during such a gathering.

She arranged herself toward the far end of the room, where a lamp was kept lit for Sir Jonathan. While he often proclaimed himself to be a scholar and even occasionally engaged Julia’s father in debates on what he liked to term the politics of the day, it had always been easy to see that what Sir Jonathan really valued was peace, quiet, and a nice, warm brandy. The back library, where visitors were never shown and which housed a secret cabinet of his best brandy, was his favorite, and in many ways, the most comfortable room in the residence. In fact, Penelope said that her father often fell asleep in this room, a glass of brandy at his hand, an article strewn on the floor (“for effect,” Penelope had insisted).

Julia was completely uninterested in the idea of brandy, or any substance that might muddle her thinking. She was similarly unimpressed by the magazines and journals Sir Jonathan had strewn around the room to lend the room a more academic appearance. Most were months old, and several were ones that he’d probably borrowed from her father.

Still, Sir Jonathan’s lovingly worn chaise longue was, to Julia, a masterpiece: a Recamier he’d had custom made after seeing a French portrait of some society hostess. It was perfect, with pillows that could easily be arranged, raised ends to prop one’s feet and head against, and upholstered with a lushly crimson, densely constructed velvet over what felt like the softest padding ever made. Lying on it always made her think she was reclining on a cloud of feathers.

Julia arranged the two pillows just so and then tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. With everything arranged to her satisfaction, she rather gracelessly flipped up her skirts and was wiggling the latest novel in Minerva Featherington’s series out of its hiding place when she heard a noise behind her. The book slipped out of her fingers and onto the carpeting with a small, but very noticeable, thud, and Julia let her skirts fall, whirling around and smoothing her skirts simultaneously.