Worth Winning (21 page)

“Frankly, I’m surprised you haven’t been more vocal.” Billings sat down gingerly on the corner of Charles’s unmade bed and placed both hands on his knees, as if to steady himself. “I figured the only reason you’ve been so tolerant is that you’re making progress with the chit?”

Charles grunted. “More or less.”

“Events at the picnic would suggest that things have progressed beyond that, don’t you think?”

“With Julia Morland, nothing is ever as it appears. She’ll lecture you on the art of pedantry one minute and then the next—” He ran his hand through his hair, not sure what the point of discussing it all was. He wasn’t a man who talked about feelings. Men didn’t talk about feelings. At all. Ever.

There was a pause before Billings finally said, “Don’t tell me the girl’s getting to you?”

Charles forced out a laugh. “Don’t be absurd.”

He firmed his jaw and straightened his jacket. He was the Earl of Dresford, damn it! Men of his station did not fall for awkward, bookish spinsters with more wit than . . . “I’m here to win a bet. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“You’re sure about that?”

Charles looked at his friend of many years, thinking that Billings was probably one of the few people who would have dared ask him such a question.

He swallowed the ready affirmation that had leaped to his lips and forced himself to consider, just one moment more. He thought of Julia’s warm responsiveness in his arms, the way she bit her lip when she was perplexed or worried, the way she’d grown on him, much like some type of fungi she could no doubt lecture him about.

He sighed. “Almost positive.”

Charles waited in the same spot the next day. For once, he was quite uncertain of what his reception would be. If it were any other girl, any other situation, he probably would have just cut his losses and run. Emotional entanglements were not his forte. But there was a wager to win. And so here he was, waiting around for Julia Morland, wondering whether she’d be angry or shy, hurt or confused.

What he hadn’t expected, but perhaps should have, was that she’d come walking along, just as cheerful as usual, but this time with her sister in tow.

“Stepsister,” he mentally corrected himself. They were not, if he remembered correctly, related by blood. Which explained why the two looked so different. Where Julia was tall and well-formed, curvaceous and full, Claire was every bit the dainty, almost fragile English rose of a beauty.

He let out a pent-up breath of relief upon noticing that they were dressed in demure, almost boringly bland country attire, what he would heretofore have guessed to be “normal” country wear. Julia’s brown dress was serviceable and long, while Claire’s was a pastel green, and neither woman wore jewelry, or really any adornment other than their bonnets.

Charles was growing weary of the bold outfits that most of Munthrope’s women had been wearing—always draped with a multitude of jewels (sometimes the same set, cleverly rearranged or matched against others)—though it had been clear, from the onset of their arrival, that Robeson’s presence was an event of epic proportions. Except that the more the women overdressed, the more aware, and almost uncomfortable, he’d felt. Not that he’d doubted himself or his appearance, of course. It was just an odd feeling, knowing that, for once, he was the underdressed one. That his were the clothes most likely being judged as subpar.

Watching them approach, he realized that the two women even walked differently: Julia’s strides were naturally longer, well-matched to his, actually, whereas Claire had a dainty step that looked tiring.

Charles nodded when he was certain they could see him and then waited in silence. Though both women were smiling politely, Julia’s face looked strained, and he wondered whether she’d planned this, or her youthful stepsister had merely invited herself along—perhaps an opportunist waiting to make a pass at one of Robeson’s friends?

“Hell and damnation,” he thought. Less than two weeks in, and he was already starting to think like these people. Was he really classifying himself as one of Robeson’s friends?

As if he didn’t have enough intrinsic attractiveness without the title of Dresford, as if a part of him was agreeing with the pecking order that Robeson had predicted, and which the ladies of Munthrope clearly subscribed to—namely, that in the world of eligible men, he ranked beneath not only Billings and Robeson, but perhaps some of the more well-to-do Munthrope natives as well.

Charles shook his head. Such thinking would lead him nowhere. And clearly such things did not matter to Julia. Ironic, that. Robeson had thought he’d been so clever, picking the academic spinster with the sometimes viperous tongue. When, in actuality, Julia Morland was probably the last woman in Munthrope who would care two figs about his title or his wealth or lack thereof.

The two girls stopped in front of him, and Charles bowed politely, murmuring politely about how delighted he was to see both of them.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind,” Claire said, looping her arm through his in what might have seemed a winsome and winning manner had Charles not been so irritated. “It was such a glorious morning. I’m not normally an early riser, but I simply had to explore the countryside, and when Julia mentioned that you often joined her for these rambles, I was, of course, delighted.”

She fluttered her eyelashes expertly and peered at him through their lushness.

Charles sighed soundlessly and smiled politely, offering his other arm to Julia, feeling that at the very least, she could reward him with an arm.

But Julia, that most confounded and contrary of females, demurred, saying that she had various herbs to collect, and it would be easier for everyone if she merely walked beside, or even in back of, them.

So he inclined his head coolly and smiled as if this were all a pleasant turn of events. He escorted the two women down Julia’s normal path and wondered why he wasn’t the least bit tempted by Claire Covington, despite her indisputable good looks and considerable charm.

She spoke of all the normal topics. She neither laughed too loud nor challenged him overmuch when he misused a word or phrase. She didn’t lecture him on the serious vegetable root problem their gardener was facing. She smiled prettily and smelled of some lavender scent that was similar to Julia’s, but not quite the same.

And all the while, Julia walked to the side of them, in front of them, or in back of them, pausing to clip peppermint or taking a nervous nibble from a biscuit when she thought no one was watching her.

“Oh, Mr. Alver,” Claire laughed, next to him, so that he had to scramble to remember: had he said something funny? What had they been talking about? Art? London? Theater? They’d flitted across any number of topics within the past twenty or so minutes, though none of them had made a particular impression on his brain.

At least not the way aphids had. And of course, comets. Or, for that matter,
The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Buxom, Merry Widow.

“I, er, I do apologize, but I seem to have been woolgathering. What were we laughing about?”

Claire’s lashes dipped and then came back up. If Charles hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that there’d been a hint of triumph in her gaze. Surely not—what young, attractive woman would be pleased to find out a man
hadn’t
been paying proper attention to her?

“Oh, you ought not to tease me so, you know I couldn’t possibly repeat it, but come, let’s change the topic.” Her hand tightened playfully on his arm, and she said, quite suddenly, “Where did you say you were from?”

Charles had not been the catch of the town, the matrimonial prize, for nothing. He might not remember what he had said a moment ago and whether or not it had been meant, or could even possibly have been construed as humorous, but he did know that he had not, and would not, have talked about where he’d come from. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?” She fluttered her eyelashes and somehow gave the impression of being both sweet and confused at the same time, as if befuddlement were an attribute she’d figured out how to optimize.

“Oh my.” Claire’s eyes opened quite wide, showing off blue eyes that seemed almost layered, they were so deeply, vibrantly blue. “Is it a secret?” she whispered, conspiratorially, head tilting in a beguiling manner.

And when he didn’t answer right away, she whispered again, with a meaningful glance at Julia, “I won’t tell, I promise.”

Charles allowed his gaze to flit to, and even linger upon, Julia’s personage—as usual, just a few steps too far away to participate in their conversation: it was almost as though she were trying to be thought of as a chaperone for her stepsister. Looking back into Claire’s eyes, and seeing the seemingly fathomless vacantness reflected there, Charles almost shuddered.

Not that he was unused to silly women. Or stupid people of either gender. His cousin Harrison was a moron of the first order—and without a carefully kept budget, which Charles’s own secretary helped attend to . . .

But somehow, he had expected more of Claire.

Perhaps, he reminded himself, it was because they were merely stepsisters. Stepsisters who were years apart. He had no reason to assume that Miss Morland’s intelligence and almost frightening astuteness would somehow have manifested in the younger Miss Claire Covington as well.

Miss Covington appeared too flighty to keep two thoughts strung together at the same time.

Charles sighed. Given a dowry, she’d probably make a good match in high society—dim-witted, lovely English roses were all the rage among the peerage right now. And then, just as Julia would have undoubtedly corrected him, he found himself amending his own thoughts: malleable, empty-container-for-brains wives were always popular, regardless of time period or even class distinctions.

Glancing again at Julia, and thinking how refreshing and downright invigorating conversations with her always had been, Charles couldn’t, for the moment, fathom why anyone would choose such a faded, pretty watercolor, when such vibrant oil paintings were available.

Like the Rembrandt he sought to win: bold, yet still beautiful.

“It’s not a secret,” he said, relaxing his arm under her hand. Though of course, he’d been quite careful about revealing as little about himself as possible. Even giving away where Dresford’s primary seat was might be too telling, given the correct company. He said finally, “I spend most of my time in London.”

Claire’s silence and wide-eyed gaze egged him on to add, “I worked there, until very recently.”

She smiled ingenuously while Julia—drat the girl—continued to flit around them, never quite close enough for him to draw her into their conversation. “You’ve come to Munthrope for a vacation, then?”

He sighed again. A place less suitable for a vacation was difficult to imagine. Still, he applied himself to answering Claire’s seemingly endless stream of vapid questions and hoped that come tomorrow, he’d be rewarded with Julia’s, and just Julia’s, company.

An hour later, the two sisters waved good-bye to Charles Alver—Julia, with a mixture of disappointment and relief, and Claire, with something akin to joy.

“Oh that was
fun
,” Claire said, once she was certain Mr. Alver was out of earshot. In response to Julia’s questioning look, Claire said, “I haven’t played the dim-witted debutante for so long I’ve forgotten how fun it can be!”

“You were playing a role?” Julia asked incredulously. She had deliberately tried not to pay attention to the goings-on between her young stepsister and Mr. Alver. Though Claire had volunteered for the walk, saying that she could at least delay whatever situation Julia felt had developed and thus buy her stepsister some time, there had always been a niggling doubt in the back of Julia’s mind about whether Claire might be trying to attract Mr. Alver for herself.

Or worse, that without even trying, Claire might simply prove to be too pretty, too vivacious, too tempting, for any man to ignore. She had therefore been a little perplexed by the annoyed expressions she’d seen flitting across Charles’s face at various points in their walk.

Until now, that is.

“You were pretending to be dumb?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m always pretending. Men don’t like women who are smarter than they are, and well, with the men around Munthrope . . .” she trailed off and looped her arm through Julia’s, shrugging her shoulders slightly. “I like being popular. Pretending to be dumb helps with that.”

She giggled and widened her eyes. If Julia hadn’t known better . . .

“But why do that with Mr. Alver? He’s hardly a simpleton.”

“True, but he needed to be punished.” Claire flicked at a leaf that had fallen on Julia’s shoulder, and Julia swiped at her hand, annoyed that her stepsister seemed to be deliberately evading her questions.

“Look, I have absolutely no interest in your Mr. Alver. I’m here only to serve as a distraction while you sort out your own feelings and thoughts about the man. That doesn’t mean that I like to be ignored.”

“He walked with you and talked with you, rather exclusively, the entire morning.”

“Yes, but his attention was clearly focused on you.” Claire tightened her arm around Julia’s and gave a tinkling laugh. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice? He kept glancing your way and trying to catch your eye, which, I’ll have you know, is extraordinarily annoying. So . . .”

“So, you were merely getting even?”

“Of course,” Claire admitted without a trace of guilt. “Besides, men are far easier to handle when they underestimate you.”

Julia rolled her eyes, but Claire merely smiled winsomely as Julia asked, “And if I have no desire to manage or handle any of the men around me?”

Claire’s eyes opened wide again, and she said innocently, with only the glimmer in her eyes betraying her, “Marriage isn’t for everyone.”

The next few days were unadulterated torture. Charles got up every morning, well before what he would normally have considered country hours, to walk with Julia.

Each and every morning, Julia greeted him as they’d agreed, but she always brought with her, her young stepsister, Claire, which was decidedly
not
a part of their original bargain. And that particular young miss seemed to be getting stupider with each successive meeting, each conversational topic somehow proving duller and more mind-numbingly tedious than the previous one.