Worth Winning (30 page)

It was such an enormous amount of money. To think that he might have debts that exceeded that was . . . frightening. Many of the women who came to Jack’s factories and houses spoke of men who’d indulged in such a way, who frittered away money as if it was water.

And yet . . .

For the first time, she felt a particular kinship to those women whom before she’d merely pitied. Before this moment, she’d always assumed that love could be controlled, decided upon. That a woman might care for a man and yet still choose to walk away, that she didn’t have to be tied to her life by one bad choice.

In some ways, she’d always wondered whether a few of the more dramatic women were being hyperbolic on purpose when they declared that just as their men hadn’t been able to help themselves, hadn’t been able to control the drinking or the gambling, they hadn’t been able to give up the life that had led to them being abandoned and alone, destitute and desperate . . . it sounded awful now, but Julia had always secretly wondered if perhaps the women had been attracted to the drama, had hung onto it for the sake of the excitement.

Now, finally, she knew better.

She didn’t love Charles
because
she now suspected him to be a profligate gambler incapable of living with his means . . . she loved him
despite
the worst-case scenarios running through her head.

Despite her best efforts, despite her theories and her book sense, the endless books of poetry and theory articles she’d read on everything from animal husbandry to new ideas about compulsions and our underlying motivations, she’d been unable to direct, regulate, or in any way control or rein in her emotions.

Yes, she was in love—desperately, irrevocably in love—with Charles Alver.

Only she didn’t even know his name.

She’d been youthfully infatuated with Robeson, had known everything from his favorite color to his deepest wishes and dreams. She had excused any signs of bad behavior or temper, wanting to believe that Robeson was perfect. In many ways, he had seemed ideal to her—he’d been the first man who’d really shown interest in her as a member of the opposite sex, as someone worthy of being wooed as opposed to being merely a friend or confidant, a willing dance partner when there were no other options. And so she’d allowed herself to be blinded to his faults, and had seen (or at least admitted to) almost none of his faults until it was nearly too late.

In her saner, more rational moments, she’d often been thankful about the fact that he’d tried to force the issue between them, suspecting that if it hadn’t been for Robeson’s timely, if rather ungentlemanly, alcohol-induced advances, she would never have truly understood how mistaken she’d been.

But with Charles . . .

She saw and recognized Charles’s faults. She had observed many of them firsthand: that he’d obviously been brought up surrounded by wealth and privilege and thus had very little understanding of what it meant to live without. That he assumed that those who were less fortunate weren’t just unlucky but perhaps unworthy of help or aid.

And now, that he was perhaps not just a liar or someone who might wager on a girl’s innocence, but also a gamester, addicted to the tables, confident, as people who were a bit too prone to wagering always are, that they can best the game, or even luck itself.

Yet despite what she knew, and what she suspected, she cared for him.

For a brief, mad moment Julia wondered whether she were rich. She knew she held shares in several companies that Jack owned and that over the years he’d purchased and maintained a fund for her. Could she support Charles in the lifestyle he’d grown accustomed to? How much money did she have, truly? And how much was a lot?

It seemed suddenly preposterous to her that she’d never really thought about it before and that she had turned down all Jack’s offers to go over her finances, telling him merely that she trusted him and that she was confident she’d be able to find him if and when she needed the money.

Then again, she’d never before envisioned a scenario in which she’d suddenly need a large sum of money. They lived comfortably at the vicarage and never wanted for anything. Jack occasionally sent what he called dividends, or little “leftover” amounts from this transaction or another, and, more often than not, Julia had merely donated the money—a few pounds here, a few there. She’d never really paid attention.Finance was Jack’s domain, not hers.

But now, could it be hers and Charles’s salvation?

Julia walked for a long time, thinking and rethinking everything she’d been told. Cursing herself for being a fool ten times over—for caring about a man like Charles Alver, for not knowing even how much the supposed dowry Jack had been managing for her was worth, for her involvement with Robeson and all that it had led to.

By the end of the day her legs ached, and her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but at least she’d stopped laying blame and questioning the
whys
and
whats
of her situation.

She loved Charles Alver, whatever his name was. She couldn’t change that fact. Which meant that she had to find a way to know the truth about him, to know how much of what Robeson had insinuated was true. And to decide whether she’d be able to accept him, if it really was as bad as she feared. Whether that was the type of life she could live.

She warned herself not to jump to conclusions, to gather as many facts as possible before coming to any binding decisions.

Charles was feeling on top of the world.

He’d been about to leave for his morning walk when the housekeeper approached to tell him that he had a note.

Please meet me, same location as yesterday, at your earliest convenience.

The note was unsigned and in an envelope that had been plainly sealed, but he’d had no doubt whatsoever as to the sender.

He’d left with a spring in his step and in a nearly exuberant mood—not an emotion with which he was overly familiar. He smoothed his hands along his cheeks as he walked, enjoying how smooth they felt, how they were completely unmarred by little pieces of paper, as he’d finally mastered the art of shaving himself.

Raises, he reminded himself: his entire staff needed raises.

He smiled as he walked. If all went as planned, perhaps he could reveal himself to Julia and her father as Dresford, as early as this afternoon. By tonight he could send missives to his valet and secretary, and within the week he’d be safely ensconced again in his London home or perhaps his Derbyshire estate. Either way, he’d have his servants again, freshly laundered sheets, the springs of mint, the delectable morsels his various chefs prepared, and of course, his fiancée. How could life get any better?

He glanced over his shoulder a few times, feeling as though he must be tempting fate even to have such thoughts, but there was no one about. There’d been long stretches of nearly empty plains as well as copses of deodars here and there, but he wasn’t being followed: it would have been too hard to do without attracting notice, so there was no reason to think that he and Julia would be interrupted.

He thought back to her note: it had hardly been romantic, but then again, his Julia didn’t seem like the sort to need or even want fanciful phrases. And he liked her all the more for her straightforwardness.

He knocked on the cottage door, and, mere seconds later, Julia opened it, looking a bit flushed, her cheeks a bit puffy.

He frowned. She did not look like a joyful woman who was about to accept a marriage proposal. She looked like a tormented soul who was about to receive her reckoning.

He stepped inside, noting her worn day dress, a pale-peach color that suited her well in theory, but which, like many of her other outfits, was a bit worn and frayed, and not the least bit fashionable or modern.

She closed the door behind him, and he saw, with some satisfaction, that the curtains were only half-drawn today, enough to let in light without leaving them vulnerable to prying eyes.

“You’re earlier than I expected.”

“You said ‘at your earlier convenience,’ and so, here I am.”

When she remained standing, statue-like next to the door, Charles reached for her hand and found it quickly jerked from his grasp.

“Please, I—I have some questions I have to ask you first.”

Charles smiled, some of the tension leaving his body.
Was that all?
“What is it this time? Are you curious about my favorite planet? Or the cut of steak I most prefer? Rest assured that I will answer any question you put in front of me, as long as you will not overly delay addressing the one question I’ve posed to you.”

“Is your real name Charles Alver?”

He couldn’t stop himself from freezing. Robeson. Of course. He rubbed at his neck, wondering if it had been the faint scratch marks that had given away how far he and Julia had proceeded. “I gather you’ve been talking to Lord Robeson.”

“So it’s not your actual name?”

“It is a part of my given name, but not all of it. For the purposes of this wager, I thought it would be best to introduce myself . . . incompletely, thinking it would preclude certain . . . complications.” He paused, wondering if he should reveal himself now, while still struggling with his desire for her to accept him without additional reassurances, without the title and prestige that would come along with being Dresford or becoming the Countess of Dresford. “I was going to tell you, after our engagement.”

He would have said more to reassure her if she hadn’t, in true Julia Morland fashion, leaped headlong into her next inquiry. “Did you really have a mistress named Loretta?”
Of course, he thought to himself, why wouldn’t he bring up everything? All at once? He sighed. He had never before envisioned himself needing to explain the existence of a past mistress, especially not with the biddable young thing he’d eventually take as a wife. He would have been careful to pick someone malleable enough, unformed enough, to accept that such were the ways of London society—that men of his rank and wealth were accustomed to maintaining mistresses with whom they had physical relationship that were in no way romantic, while wives produced heirs and looked the other way.

He snorted a little: he could not imagine Julia looking the other way. Nor could he envision himself ever needing or even wanting any woman besides the completely unbiddable creature standing before him, questioning him like an angry fishwife.

“I did, indeed, have a mistress named Loretta Fanshawe. And, before you go further, I will freely admit that I had mistresses before her as well. None of them were ever hurt either during the course of, or by the ending of, the liaisons, and our emotions were never involved.” And then, because Julia’s face looked stony, and she appeared to be very near tears, he continued, “I don’t envision maintaining a mistress in the future, and I can’t change the past, no matter how you might disapprove.” He sat down on the chair farthest from her. He desperately wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her worries away, but he could tell that she was in a fractious mood and just as liable to slap him as kiss him. He decided it would, for the moment, be best to concentrate on verbally allaying her fears and save physical seduction as a last resort.

“Now, what other crazy doubts has Robeson sown? What else will I need to address before I can make you my wife?”

“Have you ever been engaged before?”

“I’ve never even seriously contemplated the idea of matrimony before. I knew I’d have to marry, at some point—”

“Because you have lands that are entailed?”

“My, Robeson has been busy, hasn’t he? Yes. I have lands that are entailed and for that, as well as other . . . considerations, I have always expected that I would need to—want to—eventually produce an heir. But I never contemplated any of the debutantes who were thrown my way and have certainly never proposed to any woman of my acquaintance. Thus, no, I have never before been engaged. Did Robeson say otherwise?”

Julia shook her head. “No, I came up with that one all by myself. I wanted to know whether—if it was just the bet, or if it was something you’d done before, or if,” she paused for a moment and took in a shaky breath, “if I were special to you in some way.”’

Charles smiled widely and beckoned her to come closer, relieved when she complied, when she stood close enough that he was finally able to pull her, unresistingly, down onto his lap. “What else must I answer? Are there any other fanciful thoughts you want me to address or allay? Any other malicious rumors inimical to our union?”

“I’ve always loved that word. Inimical, from
inimicus
.”

“Remind me to send a thank-you letter to my Latin tutor, just as soon as you finally consent to marry me. I don’t see how else I’d be able to communicate with you or keep up with your . . . unique style of conversing. Who would have thought we’d go from pseudonyms to mistresses to Latin, all in one breath?” He held her closer, though he made no moves to kiss or even caress her. “There are no enemies here, Julia, and the only thing obstructing our union is . . . you.”

“You really want to marry me?” Her head was bent, and her voice was barely above a whisper, one that he had to strain to hear.

He tightened his arms around her. “I’ve asked you, haven’t I?”

“It’s not just to win the bet?”

“The wager was technically forfeit the moment you found out—since it seems that Robeson’s already spoken to you and been quite selective about what he’s told you, I imagine he knows that you know.” He waited for her little nod of confirmation. “Which means that we only need to tell Billings for it to all be official.”

“Billings knew of the bet?”

“He’s here as an officiator of sorts, to report back on who was the victor, and who the loser, to make sure that there was no cheating or any sort of underhandedness.”

“And there really is no way for you to win now?”

Charles let his confusion show upon his face. Why would he still care about winning the bet? He would miss having the Rembrandt, of course, but there were other paintings. “I suppose I don’t know for sure. That is, we didn’t technically write in a clause covering what would happen if you guessed that there was a wager going on. If either of us told you directly about the bet, then the wager would be over, and whoever told you, or let the bet be known, would be declared the loser. But I suppose we didn’t really think of the possibility of you intuiting or guessing about it.” Charles smiled a little, hoping that she would join in his amusement. “Knowing you as I now do, I can’t imagine how Robeson could’ve not thought of such a contingency.”