Worth Winning (3 page)

“Societal norms must be preserved, don’t you think?” Mr. Alver said in what Julia was sure was meant to be a charming, soothing voice.

“Only when it’s the truth.”

“And who’s to say that we can’t observe the niceties while adhering to the truth?”

“Nicety: from the Latin,
nescius
, for ignorant.” Julia knew that she was being rude, and she knew she should stop, yet somehow she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Thanks to Robeson, she no longer tried to be all-things-biddable; she no longer went out of her way to please and mollify; and there was something about this man’s tone, his entire bearing, that set her teeth on edge. “What do the ignorant know of truth?”

Mr. Alver’s eyebrows rose alarmingly, but before he could reply, Robeson waved his arm rather gracelessly at Julia’s basket of lemons, derailing anything his friend had been about to say by saying, “Still obsessed with the freckles, I see.”

Julia drew in a deep breath and turned her attention to Robeson. “Not obsessed, no. Still searching for practical ways to ameliorate an unwanted attribute, yes.” She managed, just barely, to keep herself from explaining that the lemon trees were part of a larger experiment, a side project she and her father had become interested in: whether citrus, if shielded and otherwise protected, might be able to survive a winter outside the greenhouse. She didn’t want any of them to get the impression that she actually wanted to converse with them.

“I’ve always found that freckles, like beauty spots and moles, add something to a woman’s face, a certain flair.”

Julia looked at Mr. Alver wonderingly, perplexed that he actually seemed to be trying to pay her a compliment, in the midst of their argument, as though he thought he was being charming. He’d delivered his pronouncement with aplomb, as if bestowing some great favor.

She sniffed the way her young stepsister Claire did, when the flowers or lace hadn’t been arranged to her liking. “I don’t think you know me well enough to be commenting on whether or not I have any flair. Further, the predilection for exaggeration is gender specific.” Later, when she was alone and had had time to think about it, she was mortified by her own remarks. Though she prided herself on being blunt, she wasn’t usually quite so acerbic. She wasn’t sure whether it was Robeson’s reappearance or something inherent to Mr. Alver that set her back up, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself: no sooner had the words formed than they were out of her mouth.

Mr. Alver’s jaw jutted out and to the side, as if pondering her rather graceless remarks, while Robeson coughed out a laugh, and Billings stood slightly awkwardly to the side, examining the lemon tree as if it were the most fascinating citrus he’d ever seen.

“Are you always so forthright?” Mr. Alver asked, staring at her, his eyes boring into hers. Though they were out in broad daylight, and the question seemed a perfectly innocuous one, Julia experienced a curious sensation. She pressed her hand to her stomach, certain it was merely indigestion. For surely she was past the age of believing in flutters, butterflies, or other romantic nonsense.

“If you mean to ask whether I am always this rude, you should do so. I don’t cower at blunt pronunciations, especially when they’re true. I am forthright, blunt, and sometimes rude.”

She saw the quirk of his lips and wondered whether the man was laughing at her. She almost succumbed to the temptation to apologize, to slip back into being the shy, diffident girl she’d been before Robeson, the one who wanted nothing more than to please.

But she knew better, didn’t she?

She bit her lip and continued in a firm voice, her father’s preaching voice, the one laced with a mixture of authority and forbearing, as if explaining something to a young child, “You should say what you mean, Mr. Alver, and not waste time prettying it up. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”

“Latin and geometry all in one day—” Mr. Alver started.

“Ah, but that’s the one thing I should have mentioned: our Miss Morland considers herself quite the scholar,” Robeson interrupted with a faint sneer.

Julia tilted her head in acknowledgment. It was an old argument between them: Robeson always used to complain that she paid more attention to her studies than to him. But that was then, and both of them had long since made their choices. It seemed silly to second-guess or continue sparring now, when it served nothing and no one. She sighed soundlessly and then picked up her basket and skirts. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me: the day is young, and I have many more errands to run.”

She half-turned before good manners forced her to continue, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Lord Billings.” She paused for a half second before adding, “Mr. Alver, Lord Robeson.” Then she began a brisk pace back to the vicarage. Her walking boots were caked in mud, and the basket of lemons weighed heavily on her arm, but she didn’t let either of these things slow her progress. The only thing she cared about was putting as much distance as possible between herself, Robeson, and his obnoxious friends.

Charles watched Julia Morland’s rapidly retreating back and wondered briefly whether he should just concede the bet now. Rembrandt be damned.

Yes, Julia Morland was moderately attractive—something Charles supposed he ought to be grateful for. He’d been afraid that Robeson would’ve picked out the homeliest girl this side of the Atlantic, just to humiliate him.

While Julia couldn’t have held a candle to the Loretta Fanshawes of the world, she was at least passably pretty. She had a pert nose, too-wide lips, and, of course, the freckles that were so clearly a touchy subject, but still, a decent figure. Her waist had been slim without seeming artificial: clearly this was a woman who did not bother with overly constraining corsets. As he watched her march away in silence, Charles couldn’t help but notice the suggestive sway of her hips.

Physically, she was quite acceptable.

Her voice too, was not unattractive. Clearly, she was an educated woman and not a simpleton. This had been another of his fears: Robeson had described Julia Morland as being “not
particularly
slow” in a way that had seemed to imply precisely the opposite. He had suffered through much of their carriage ride half-fretting that Robeson had paired him with a slow top who would have forced him to talk endlessly of ribbons and lace. He’d squirmed at the idea of having to accede to one of the forfeits specified within their bet.

He thought back to her brief, though invidiously articulate, lecture and mentally shook his head: no, Julia Morland was not slow.

And her smell . . . for he’d been close enough to inhale her scent . . . had been attractive. Unlike the manufactured perfumes that Loretta and many of his other mistresses had preferred, scents that were almost cloyingly clingy and had often caused even his perfectly trained valet to grimace, Julia Morland had smelled like a delightful combination of soap and lemons. Charles thought, with some satisfaction, that her smell matched her personality: fresh, straightforward, and more than a little tart.

Her conversational skills, on the other hand . . .

Charles turned on Robeson, who was still laughing intermittently, despite the fact that Julia’s form was barely a speck in the distance. “A bit of a spinster, you said.”

“Yes,” Robeson said with a smirk.

“More or less decided against marriage and thus a worthy challenge.”

“Those were, I believe, more or less my words.”

Charles paused, his narrowed eyes taking in Robeson’s self-congratulatory expression as well as Oliver’s decidedly amused countenance. Oliver was here to observe and bear witness, after all, and had no particular stake in the eventual outcome. In fact, to ensure his impartiality, he was probably the only person who’d heard of the bet and had not put money down on one side or the other. Oliver remained largely silent, no doubt longing to write to his friends back in town to report the progress of the now almost infamous bet.

“You don’t think ‘man-hating termagant’ might have been more accurate?”

“Now, that’s hardly fair,” Oliver interjected with a half laugh. “I detected barely an ounce of hostility toward, well, me for example.”

“Fine,” Charles waved Oliver aside a bit carelessly. “I’ll agree that ‘man-hating’ might be a bit hyperbolic, if we could reach a consensus on ‘battle-axe who’s allergic to compliments.’”

In truth, he hadn’t been trying particularly hard to impress her. But the girl practically emanated hostility. And the way she’d looked at Robeson . . . the way she’d turned his friendly pleasantry into a snide insult. Clearly the two had history, and being introduced as Robeson’s friend was not going to be counted as an advantage.

“Oh, no. Miss Morland is not a man-hater.” Robeson smiled again, with a stretching of lips and flash of teeth that had little to do with genuine amusement. Clearly there were things Robeson knew about Julia Morland that he was withholding. Perhaps because of the bet, perhaps because he just enjoyed making the situation as difficult as possible. “She’s a dutiful, doting daughter, and her best friend is a man, some untitled bloke, forget his exact name,” Robeson continued drolly, clearly relishing being in a position of knowledge and power over Charles.

“She just . . . what? Took an instant dislike to me?”

Robeson allowed a slow smile to spread over his face. “I didn’t say it would be easy. You told me what your requirements were: someplace quiet, so this wouldn’t spread, someone without expectations of marriage, who would be unlikely to hold you to a fake engagement if it came down to it. Let’s be honest, you had quite the list of requirements. We agreed there would be no widows, no women who might have met or heard of you before. You vetoed anyone younger than twenty-three who might still be at all eligible. You think attractive, desirable spinsters grow on trees? You’re lucky she’s got a half-decent body and is within a decade of us age-wise.”

Charles gritted his teeth. He knew Robeson was right, and what’s more, he knew that Robeson could have made this far, far more painful. Still, it galled him to think that he was having to dance to Robeson’s tune and that Robeson might actually have acted not only fairly, but perhaps generously, in picking Julia Morland as the target.

It was not a comforting thought.

“And did you say she was the vicar’s daughter?”

“Yes. Did I not mention that?”

“You want me to put the vicar’s daughter in a compromising position?”

Robeson’s shoulders moved up and down in a close approximation of a shrug. “There were, if you’ll remember, several other forfeits: a public declaration of her intentions, a short engagement, if you’d prefer . . . and what else? I can’t for the life of me remember now.”

“Garters,” Oliver supplied.

“Ah, yes,” Robeson smiled. “How could I forget? The seduction clause.”

“I’m not sure a woman like that wears garters.”

Robeson’s eyes rounded briefly. “You’re not backing out, are you? I remember you were quite explicit about there being a variety of forfeits. I myself thought that the allowance of clothing was quite generous on my part. For really, how am I to know one pair of garters from another? I mean, how do I know you won’t just go out and buy a pair of garters?”

Oliver coughed a little and said, “That’s why we’re here, I believe?”

“Right,” Robeson concurred, with an exaggerated slap to his forehead. “We, or rather Billings here, is merely a witness to the spectacle. Though I must say, you’re not off to a very promising start.”

Charles gritted his teeth and cursed, not for the first time, the Lorettas of the world. If he hadn’t taken up with her, if he hadn’t given Robeson an excuse to . . .

He shook his head. He was committed now. Vicar’s daughter notwithstanding.

He turned to Oliver and said, “I suppose you’re enjoying this?”

Oliver smiled widely. “I’m just here to observe. There’s a lot of money riding on this.”

Charles closed his eyes and tried not to think about the hundreds of pounds that had been wagered, in addition to the original bet between him and Robeson. A haughty, private earl in disguise, Rembrandt, two thousand pounds, etc. It had all the makings of a farce, one in which he had agreed to star.

Everyone there had been sworn to secrecy, of course, and despite the fact that men were often just as gossip-mongering as the women of his acquaintance, Charles thought that, for once, they might hold true to their word. It was simply too good a story to be able to talk about afterward, to be able to boast, whatever the outcome, that they had been a part of the original Rembrandt Rascals (an odious nickname, but nonetheless the one that had informally taken root).

Further, there was simply too much money on the line, and contingencies had been written into a separate book at White’s, kept literally under lock and key. The rules of the original agreement specified that if any whisper was heard, if any information was leaked beyond the original pool, investigations would ensue, and the guilty party would be held liable to pay out both sides of the betting parties.

Though he normally considered himself a man of honor, Charles couldn’t help hoping that maybe someone would slip up, maybe he’d be recognized or . . . something . . . anything, to get him out of what was sure to be the most miserable summer of his life.

Of all the times for society’s wagging tongues to be silenced.

Julia knocked on Claire’s door and entered without waiting for a reply.

Claire was lounging on the bed, a stack of sketches strewn about her, a handful of pencils tossed haphazardly on top of a shawl. She glanced up in an absent-minded manner while Julia settled herself directly in front of her stepsister’s vanity. She’d hoped that perhaps the sun had added a glow to her cheeks or that she’d find she looked particularly becoming today, but no, the mirror confirmed her worst fears: she looked slightly worse for wear; her eyes were the same dull shade of brown—none of that romantic sparkle novelists always wrote about; her mouth was as wide as ever, which was to say, too wide to be fashionable and not lush enough to be remarkable; her freckles were in full force; and the tip of her nose was slightly red. Julia touched it briefly, wondering whether it would peel. She rolled her eyes and realized that she could stop wondering: of course it would peel. Because the only thing that could make the next few weeks more miserable, the detail that would make her embarrassment complete would, of course, be a peeling, sunburned nose.