Worth Winning (27 page)

It was all so . . . domesticated.

Of everything that had happened this past afternoon, being held like this was by far the least scandalous, and yet in some ways it felt the most intimate of the various acts they’d engaged in. She’d fallen asleep in his arms. She’d let him hold her and . . .

His eyes opened even as her thoughts whirled. He propped himself up on one elbow while his other arm still lay on top of her; he smiled down at her languidly. “Hello there.”

“Hello.”

Julia’s gaze continued to meet his. It would’ve seemed churlish to play at being demure, especially in such circumstances.

“Have you nothing to say?” he teased gently, his arms tightening a little around her.

She pointed rather shyly to a small scratch along the inside of his collared shirt. “Did I do that?” she whispered.

Charles smiled widely. “Yes, only imagine the damage you might have done if I hadn’t had most of my clothes on.”

Julia looked down, not sure how to deal with his teasing tone, and he continued, “Is that all you have to say to me right now?”

“You look quite handsome in repose,” she said, without thinking.

His eyes widened, and his head fell back against the pillows in laughter. It was a moment before he had regained enough control to gather her in his arms once again and partially lifted her so that she was lying on top of his body, absorbing the last of his chuckles. In a relaxed, all-too-knowing manner, his hands trailed down her body, even as she wriggled and tried, rather unsuccessfully, to pull the quilt back over herself.

She blushed a bit and then added, “Not that you’re not fine-looking, even awake.” She stammered and then made a concerted effort to compose herself before continuing. “It’s just that when you’re asleep, you seem far more carefree and . . .” she trailed off again as he continued chuckling. “It wasn’t meant as an insult.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, striving for some measure of composure. “That’s what makes it so deliciously entertaining. It might be the best not-an-insult I’ve ever received.” He paused for a moment and looked up at her face. “I think that you should, perhaps, marry me.”

Julia sucked in her breath sharply. She hadn’t been expecting a proposal. She hadn’t known what to expect when she’d decided to confront him about the bet, but a marriage proposal had not been on her theoretical list of possible scenarios.

“Is that a proposal?”

“Let’s call it at least a suggestion. One that would allow you to gaze upon my handsome face day after day, night after night.”

“So it’s an altruistic gesture?”

“Oh, definitely. You’ve obviously grown far too used to your ways. Everyone in Munthrope is no doubt inured to your brazenness—”

“I am not brazen!”

“Says the naked woman, being cuddled even as we argue.”

She squirmed again, trying to get away, and was stilled instantly by his rather grim-sounding command. “Stop. If you don’t want the entire issue of marriage to be a moot point, I strongly suggest you stop moving. Right now.”

She stopped and blushed, understanding rather belatedly that wiggling while naked on top of a man was not the wisest course of action.

After a moment, he continued, “As I was saying, while the fine residents of Munthrope may have grown used to your shameless, unabashed ways, I am from London.”

The old supercilious note had crept back into his voice, though Julia was almost certain that he had adopted it purposefully this time, to tease her.

“And what does that have to do with anything?”

“In London, we don’t stand by and let depraved women seduce innocent men, not without proper recompense.”

“And the reparation you’d like is . . . marriage?”

There was a moment of silence. “I hadn’t meant to mention it quite so soon,” he admitted finally. “But it does seem to be the general direction we’ve been moving in.” His hands glided over her body again, not in the teasing, arousing way, but rather in a slightly possessive way, as if binding her to him.

“You mean because we’ve—what we’ve done?”

Charles laughed a bit mirthlessly. “I would have rather said that it’s more because of what we
haven’t
done. Yet.”

He smiled at her, inviting her to share in his joke, but Julia bit the bottom of her lip, gnawing at it in a worried way. She looked down at his shirt buttons and tried to hide behind the untidy hair that partially obscured her face from him. “We don’t have to be married to do more,” she whispered finally. She should have been shocked by the words, wasn’t even sure if she meant them, if she truly knew what she was offering . . .

His arms tightened momentary, and his voice had lost its warm teasing edge when he asked, “What do you mean?”
She looked down again, continuing to bite at her lower lip. “You know what I mean.”

“You’re saying that you’d rather have an affair with me than marry me?” His words were carefully enunciated, in a tone that was so calm it was almost frightening.

“I don’t—” she stopped again, for wasn’t that exactly what she had more or less implied just now? “I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think really, yet,” she said finally. “I’m just observing that marriage isn’t necessarily a prerequisite for . . . other things.”

There was a moment of silence, and then he asked, “Is the idea of marrying me so very abhorrent?”

“It’s not that!” She looked up and hit him in the chest—a difficult feat, considering her current position. She scrambled off of him awkwardly and pulled what she could of the quilt along with her, standing at the edge of the bed. “I’m not trying to trap you into marriage,” she said, gesturing rather weakly at the bed and concluding rather lamely, “with all of this.”

“I’ve never, for a single moment, thought you were trying to trap me into marriage. And you can’t be nearly as smart as I think you are if you don’t know better than that.”

Julia smiled, feeling tears welling up at her eyes, not at all certain why she was feeling so emotional all of a sudden. It wasn’t a declaration, but it was perilously, deliciously close. He was saying, she thought, that he cared. And that was something, wasn’t it? Or rather, everything. That was
everything
, wasn’t it?

She could feel tears welling up in her eyes and she looked away. “I need some time to think. I have to—”

She was jerked forward, none too delicately, and his lips matched hers in a ruthless manner, sealing off anything she was about to say. He kissed her thoroughly, passionately, completely beguiling her. Her already tenuous hold on the quilt slipped, and she was leaning forward, about to wind her arms against his neck, when he said, “You think too much.”

He let her go abruptly, clearly frustrated at the both of them, and she made another grab for the quilt, holding it awkwardly in an attempt to cover the most important parts of her nakedness. “I haven’t been thinking
enough
. If you would only stop to consider: we’ve known each other for mere weeks, and during almost all of that time, you’ve pursued me for the sake of a bet. Is that really a foundation upon which to build a marriage?”

“Many of the matches in high society are based on far less. My father proposed to my mother after meeting her once.”

“I’m sure such things are common, in the city. But not here. And certainly not with me. What do we really know about each other?” She paused and tugged at the quilt until he grudgingly shifted, and allowed her to gather the entire quilt around her, wrapping it as best she could, in a haphazard fashion. “I know that you’re a friend, but not a friend, or Robeson’s. That you recently lost your entire fortune—”

“And does that matter to you? Would I be more attractive to you if I were still . . . if I were wealthy?”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve never been, we’ve never had more than a modest income, and it’s never been a problem. But do try and be realistic for a moment. You haven’t talked about how you plan on making a living, nor even how you lost your money to begin with.”

Charles’s face hardened for a moment. “Does it matter?”

Julia laughed a little, the absurdity of the conversation taking its toll. “Yes. No. How should I know? I suppose it would matter if I thought you were a profligate gambler who would leave us forever in the suds—”

“And if I assured you that I never planned on participating in any wagers, ever again? Would that change your answer?”

Julia gave a small shake of her head. “We’re straying from the topic. It’s not about the money, or lack of money. It’s that I don’t honestly know anything about you. I know that you once had a Latin tutor. I know that you are, and aren’t really, a friend of Robeson’s. I know you don’t have any siblings, but I don’t know what your favorite color is, how many sugars you like in your tea, what your middle name is—”

He laughed, his first genuine laugh since she’d turned down his proposal, and held both his hands up in a gesture of reconciliation. “I am definitely not a friend of Robeson’s, though if our story has a happy ending, I’m sure he’ll always occupy a . . . unique place in my memory. My favorite color is green, I take my tea without sugar, and . . .” he trailed off. “What else did you ask me?”

“What’s your middle name?”

“Desmond.”

Julia looked at him, exasperated, certain that he was misunderstanding her on purpose. Just as she was marshaling her arguments to continue, he forestalled her again by saying, “Now, don’t say something utterly trite like I don’t know you well enough to propose.”

“You don’t.”

“I know you’re never afraid to speak your mind. I know you’re clever and scholarly, kind and charitable in ways that I don’t even begin to understand and am only slowly starting to appreciate. I know your taste in literature is somewhat questionable—”

“That is one book—”

“Now, now, let’s not jump to conclusions. I happen to think
The Prurient Accounts of a Bosomy Widow
is quite fascinating. I was speaking of the tomes of Byron your sister claims you prefer.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Byron.”

“Stop interrupting. Where was I? Ah yes, I also know that you’ve got a clever little stepsister who’s completely devoted to you, an academic father who’s similarly doting, a purported best friend I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of, that you’re under the shocking misapprehension about how you get a
little
grumpy when hungry, and of course, you have the most lusciously kissable lips.”

She closed her eyes tightly. He was trying to confuse her, and it was working. She was still trying to come up with a way to refute these points when he continued, “I can learn about the rest later. Few people enter marriage without a few illusions about their mate.”

It was tempting. Of course it was tempting. He’d been seducing her—initially for the sake of a bet—and now for his own mysterious purposes. He wasn’t allowing her time to really think through things, which was what she desperately needed. Time alone, away from him and his . . . logic. “I’m twenty-five years old, a spinster by even the most generous of descriptions. In a few months, I’ll be twenty-six. No one, including me, thinks I’ll ever marry. I’m set in my ways, used to doing what I want, when I want. I like my time alone. Though it’s not something everyone understands, I prefer my father’s company, or a good book, over—”

“Musicales, I know.”

“It’s not just musicales, you know. It’s everything: dances, tea in the afternoons, everything. Since my father is the vicar, we frequently have people over for dinner or are invited to dinners, and though we always accept, it’s not me, not naturally. I prefer my books.”

“I’m not asking you to become some celebrated town hostess. I don’t particularly enjoy entertaining myself. And I loathe musicales. Marry me, and I promise you’ll never have to go to another one. Or better yet, we’ll go together, sneak off together, and read gothic novels.”

Julia gave a halfhearted laugh. He was being charming again, and she knew that it should make her uneasy; she knew that just a few weeks ago it would have made her feel defensive or worried to be charmed, and to want to be charmed, by a man like him.

He continued, “As for being used to leading a lone, independent life: I’m a single man who was . . . quite wealthy, in his mid-thirties. You don’t think I’m accustomed to a certain amount of freedom? In that regard, it’ll be an adjustment, for both of us.”

Julia drew in a deep, shaky breath, finally managing to tear her gaze away from his. “I haven’t even thought of the possibility of marriage in years. I haven’t dreamed of—”

This time, he didn’t pull her forward. Instead he reached out a hand and rested one finger lightly against her lips, forestalling further thought.

“Then start thinking,” he whispered. He leveraged himself off the bed gracefully, far more gracefully than she’d accomplished just a few moments ago. He stood very close to her, but didn’t reach for her, let her struggle with the quilt, one eyebrow raised sardonically at her attempt to obstruct his view of a body he’d already seen, kissed, and caressed. “And start dreaming.”

This last was whispered a bit mockingly, with much the same demeanor she’d seen from him when they’d first met. He looked at her a bit searchingly and then quietly let himself out of the room. A short moment later Julia heard the door of the cottage closing rather definitively and found that she was alone, still clutching the quilt, and as confused as she’d ever been.

Charles walked away from Julia feeling surprisingly hopeful, almost carefree. Sure, he’d proposed marriage and had technically been rejected. But it had not felt like a real rejection.

He pulled a face and quickened his pace. He hoped he wasn’t turning into one of those men who thought himself to be so irresistible that he thought “No” meant “Yes” and “Stop” meant “Go on, please.”

Still, it had been the manner in which she’d said no. Offering to sleep with him had been surprising, but also enlightening. Julia cared for him, of that he was certain. She just wasn’t quite ready to pledge herself permanently.

That, at the very least, was something he could relate to: he’d avoided anything that even hinted at long-term, binding commitment until very recently. He hadn’t even really meant to propose, at least not yet. He’d meant to wait a little while, allow Julia (and himself) to get used to their newfound intimacy, outside the bounds of that blasted bet.