Worth Winning (8 page)

They were both silent for a moment: it had been the news of the season of course—a terrible fever, was the story. The Barrington men had all been in Italy: the only reason Robeson had been spared was because he hadn’t gone with them. What a blessing, everyone had said: that something of the family survived, that the viscounty wouldn’t revert to some distant relation.

Robeson continued, “I rushed back to London to handle the affairs. I inherited a title I’d never thought to have, estates I had no experience managing. And, of course, there were the arrangements. You wouldn’t believe the fuss it was, just to have their bodies shipped back.” His gaze grew distant for a moment. “And the rest, as they say . . .” He made a small spiraling motion with his fingers and seemed momentarily to be lost to his memories.

Charles hadn’t known Robeson well enough to know whether he’d been close to his father or brothers and had had only the gossip to go on, almost all of which had been focused on what a tragedy it had all been, what an unexpected blow. He was silent, as surely a moment of silence was warranted. He tried to digest what Robeson had revealed and found it a bit difficult to imagine a younger Robeson, bored, but ultimately restrained and acting the gentleman.

Still, hadn’t he himself made his own share of mistakes in the past? He’d certainly led on one or two particularly forward debutantes only to drop them, losing interest once the chase was over, dismissing the incidents as worthy lessons learned for the women in question.
He’d
never taken it further than flirtation, so who was to say that Robeson might not have shown similar restraint? And Robeson’s portrayal of Julia was plausible; clearly she was not a woman who did things in half measures. She was unabashed about the various subjects she enjoyed, and it wasn’t inconceivable that a younger, perhaps less assured, version of Julia might have fallen for a man like Robeson and then have gotten carried away. He could almost see her making a nuisance of herself, believing that being truthful and forward about her feelings was the correct and most appropriate thing to do.

It would be the least painful explanation as to why she’d hesitated and then spoken of Robeson in an almost wistful tone of voice.

“Then what exactly made you pick her for me, if she was such an easy conquest all those years ago? Why not pick someone who’d be more of a challenge?”

Robeson smiled, raised his eyebrows slyly, and said, “I hear she’s gone off men.”

“I see.”

It was all Charles said, and after a moment, Robeson said in a goading voice, “What, exactly, do you think you see?”

“You believe she still cares for you.”

Robeson tilted his head and took his foot off the table. He put his cup and saucer down and then rested his hands on his knees, leaning forward. “I don’t have to explain myself. I don’t owe you anything. I tell you merely because it amuses me, as does this entire exercise in futility.”

“You’re that certain of the outcome, then?”

Robeson shook his head, almost sneering, “You and your arrogance. You’ve always made me sick, you know that? As if your earldom makes you somehow superior. Yes. I’m certain of the outcome. I would not have entered this bet, and I would not have chosen Julia Morland, if I didn’t think the outcome was a foregone conclusion, and if I didn’t believe that I’d come out, for once, as victor over you.”

Charles narrowed his eyes and decided that it wasn’t worth his while to continue this argument. What he couldn’t understand was why Robeson seemed to resent him so. Everything Charles had told Julia was true: he and Robeson shared some common acquaintances and had crossed paths a few times but were not—and never really had been—friends. Certainly they’d never had enough interaction for the man to despise him as he did.

All he said, though, was, “So, that’s everything?”

Robeson lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Why would I hide anything?”

A brief pause ensued before Charles said, ticking off the reasons one by one on his fingertips as he enunciated them, “Because the truth might paint you in a different light. Because knowing the truth might give me an advantage in this devil’s wager that we’ve agreed to. Because you’re perverse, and you gain some sense of satisfaction from knowing something I don’t know. I could go on.”

Robeson laughed humorlessly and sat up straighter, holding up a hand in mock surrender. “No need, really. Your vaunted opinions of me and my character are widely known.”

Charles stood up, weary of the conversation and the company. He was tired just thinking about the long months ahead of him, trying to seduce a prickly pear of a woman who clearly wasn’t interested, and living with a man the sight of whom he could barely stand the sight.

Robeson’s voice stopped him when he reached the door. “There are a number of social engagements I’ve accepted on behalf of all three of us.”

Charles turned. He was used to having a secretary screen his invitations. He was used to turning down almost everything and then showing up, unannounced, simply because he could. He gave himself a mental shake: even in his own head he was starting to sound like a bit of a spoiled, pompous ass.

“Oh?” Charles asked, knowing that he should be grateful: scheduled balls and parties would at least provide him with continuous opportunities to talk with Julia and to woo the chit.

“We’re holding a dinner, of course. That was arranged long ago, especially to introduce you to your prey. But there are quite a few engagements beyond that. Apparently the matrons of Munthrope are all trying to outdo themselves to entertain a viscount and a baron. Billings and I are the most famous, eligible bachelors they’ve seen in years.” Robeson paused. “If they only knew.”

“Luckily, they won’t,” Charles said abruptly. “The whole point of this bet, besides my teaching you a lesson and getting that damned painting, is to escape high society’s matchmaking mamas.” He forced his voice to a more even level; it would never do to let Robeson think he was actually affecting him, that he was anything less than perfectly contented. He smiled. “It’s refreshing—invigorating, actually—to be the hunter rather than the hunted.”

Charles would have felt far less sanguine if he had known that Munthrope, despite its almost backwater status, had its own share of ambitious mothers, who were no less devious and had daughters they considered no less marriageable than their London counterparts.

The rector’s second wife, once quite a beauty herself, was every bit as scheming as high society’s most persistent and tenacious leaders. And, just a few hours after Charles had blithely declared himself safe from matchmakers, Phyllis was applying herself to the rather thankless task of cross-examining her stepdaughter, Julia.

As was the family tradition, they ate an earlier-than-usual meal together. It had been Phyllis’s idea. Her husband, the prototypical absent-minded scholar, was wont to forget the first few meals of the day, leaving his tea and snacks untouched. Nagging was of no use: if she interrupted Mr. Morland during his studies and told him it was time to eat, he would usually look up, smear his shirt with ink or whatever he was experimenting with, nod absently, and then promptly forget the conversation had ever taken place.

Phyllis had discovered early on in their marriage, however, that if she sat with him and listened to him talk about his studies, it was another matter entirely. As long as he had a topic that interested him, he would eat. So she’d learned to place food in front of him, to arrange plates of snacks so that there was a variety of options within reach while he lectured.

She’d even had fun experimenting at one point: she could almost get him to gain weight if she just fed him sugary things for long enough. He rarely commented on what he ate; she doubted he noticed, much. She even arranged his clothes. She’d once put the same shirt on top three days in a row and hadn’t been particularly surprised when he’d put it on, day after day, without comment or notice.

Phyllis shook her head. She would never understand how he’d survived without her or how his first wife had managed to . . . well, manage him. She knew him to be completely infatuated with her, that he was as devoted to her as any husband could be, and yet . . . there were still days when she was sure that he didn’t give her a second thought, days when he was so immersed in his studies that he would have to be forcibly reminded that there was a world outside his overpacked, overfurnished study, always overflowing with books.

Early in their marriage, she’d suggested she could help organize his study. Well, she’d never make that offer again. The look of horror on his face would’ve rivaled the expression of a great actor pretending to see a ghost.

She’d relented, and proposed instead that there ought to be some amount of time where Mr. Moland was away from his actual studies, and allowed instead to cogitate in the company of his family. It had taken time, and several awkward, fitful starts, but they had eventually gotten used to having meals together. Dinners where Mr. Morland was encouraged to expound upon his readings and his experiments. Which brought her back to her present mission. Though Phyllis had never been a particularly active parent in Julia’s life—not for lack of trying; she simply had nothing in common with her stepdaughter—she did care about the young woman and felt that it was well past time she married. She was, what, twenty-five, almost twenty-six? Where
had
the time gone?

She waited for her husband to finish his thought—something having to do with maths or a proof, or both—before cutting into her dessert; she’d allowed herself to be a lax stepparent for far too long. She’d be seeing to Claire’s season next year (delayed already, because of her husband’s illness last year), which meant that it was well past time she married Julia off. If the matter were left to Mr. Morland, Julia would probably grow old and gray at the vicarage.

“I hear that you’ve had a run-in with the viscount.”

Julia’s eyes darted toward Claire, who gave the tiniest shake of her head. Watching the exchange, Phyllis’s eyes narrowed: she hated being kept out of the loop.

After a strategic pause, Julia answered, “I did briefly see Lord Robeson.”

Mr. Morland looked up from absent-mindedly pushing the treacle tart around his plate. “Robeson, Robeson—he inherited Langley, didn’t he? Years ago?”

A shadow crossed over Julia’s face, and Phyllis bit her lip. She’d been so excited about meeting the new viscount—she hadn’t lived in Munthrope the last time he’d come around, before he’d unexpected become a viscount—that she’d only gradually noticed and began wondering about Julia’s lack of excitement. Julia had never spoken of having a previous attachment, and yet . . .

“Yes. He was here years ago, to visit his aunt at Langley, before he became Robeson.”

Mr. Morland nodded. “I remember him. He attended my sermons and several dinner parties. What was his name then? Pascal. Mercury. Atmosphere. Bar.”

Julia laughed, as if her father had made some great joke. “Barrington, Papa. Barrington. Nothing like bar or any other pressure measurement.”

“Right, right.” Father and daughter shared an indulgent, almost congratulatory smile. “How is he? I don’t suppose he remembered you?”

Julia’s face seemed to pale a little, and while her father didn’t notice, Phyllis did. She intervened smoothly, “Even if he didn’t, I’m sure he does now. And more importantly, what is this I hear about guests? Is he having a house party?”

Phyllis knew he wasn’t. She knew that there were three single men currently staying at Langley, and she hadn’t for one moment forgotten Robeson’s upcoming dinner party, but she also understood that Julia needed a distraction to recover, to mask her uneasiness at the mention of Robeson’s name.

“Yes, I met all three of them, actually: Lord Billings and Mr. Charles Alver. Both of them”—she paused and wiped the corner of her mouth deliberately before continuing, as if choosing her words carefully—“both of them acquaintances of Lord Robeson.”

“And?”

Julia eyed her treacle tart as if afraid it might wander away. Her lips pursed and twisted a bit, though she chose a carefully neutral tone. “It’s possible I wasn’t entirely polite.”

“To Lord Robeson?”

Julia nodded. “And Mr. Alver.”

Mr. Morland frowned. “Were they improper or rude in some way? Normally, you’re quite well behaved.”

Claire gave an unladylike snort and ignored her mother’s disapproving glance. “She’s quite blunt.”

Mr. Morland looked up to acknowledge his stepdaughter briefly before nodding in agreement. “Yes, but truthful. Tell me Jules, were they improper?”

Julia’s cheeks colored again, and Claire looked down briefly, clearly knowing more about the situation than either of their parents. “Not exactly. I was . . . flustered, because of the way they came upon me was all. And today, when I walked with Mr. Alver, I was direct.”

Phyllis mentally noted with approval the way Julia seemed to be tripping over her description of Mr. Alver. A nice, untitled man, a quiet country life . . . it was exactly what she would have envisioned for her stepdaughter. Her husband, meanwhile, said, “Direct is good. Direct is always good. Well, not always. I’ve always found that you should be careful of words like always.” He stopped and laughed at himself for a moment, as if realizing what he said.

“Yes, always be careful of
always
,” Julia repeated wryly.

Father and daughter smiled at one another while across from them, mother and daughter rolled their eyes.

Phyllis made a mental note to find out more about Mr. Alver. The first hurdle was, of course, seeing how he’d react upon meeting Claire. She was proud enough to admit that her daughter was quite beautiful and that she fostered immodest but (she believed) quite attainable aspirations for her daughter. But for now, Julia was her priority, and it was paramount to assure that Mr. Alver, if suitable, was not attracted to Claire. At all.

She looked across at her daughter, not quite eighteen and practically embodying the idea of the beautiful English rose, and thought it would take a special man indeed not to be even a little turned by Claire.