Worth Winning (12 page)

They fanned themselves, ostensibly because it was hot, but most likely to better spread the scents they’d been told were alluring. And Charles sniffed, feeling a bit sickened, and disillusioned about what he’d always heard described as the simple country life.

The worst part was, of course, the fawning. The endless, nauseatingly obvious, sickeningly saccharine fawning. The way the daughters, and even the mothers, practically salivated over Robeson, and to a lesser degree, Oliver . . . it was almost unbearable. Charles had rolled his eyes and then stopped them from rolling so many times that he had a headache.

Then, of course, there were the invitations, which had already begun trickling in through the mail but were now being repeated in person.

“Oh, Lord Robeson, it would mean the world to us if you—and your friends, of course—would join us for just a small dinner.” This from Mrs. Willoughby, with her daughter standing demurely to the side, looking down and trying to hide what looked like a smile.

“My daughters are more than a little talented when it comes to the harpsichord, and it would be the honor . . . the honorest? Oh dear, I mean the best, just the best, of honors . . . if you would condescend to . . .” Mrs. Perry whispered the invitation, as if speaking in a normal tone of voice might somehow overwhelm her faculties.

“But Lord Robeson,
my
daughter . . .”

And then, of course, there was the flattery. The excessive adulation and heavy-handed inveiglements that made Charles’s stomach turn and churn with suppressed quips and insults.

“Why, Lord Robeson, that is surely the funniest—Dorothea, don’t you agree?”

“Oh, the funniest.”

“Why, my daughter Bethany was just saying what a wit you are, Lord Robeson. Oh . . .”

“No, no,” someone else interrupted, “it would be too much of a disservice to describe his pun as an example
merely
of wit. For I would have said that it took not only wit, but an almost scholarly, academic, and almost . . . philosophical understanding of language . . .”

And so on.

They tripped over one another, trying to outdo one another’s compliments.

Thus far, the women had complimented Robeson on his wit, more-than-his-wit, his waistcoat, his cologne, his fobs, his snuffbox, even the tent he’d had the forethought to bring and set up. One matron, whose name Charles had forgotten, even managed to make Robeson’s sandwich-eating seem like a token of his manliness, something about his hearty,
virile
appetite.

Charles admitted he was a little shocked by this. Not that he hadn’t heard similarly crass innuendos in the past; he just hadn’t expected to hear them in . . . Munthrope. It seemed naive in retrospect, but he had somehow supposed that country women would have been less forward, more innocent, more circumspect . . . especially with the town’s rector sitting so close by.

But no, it seemed that women of a certain age, with daughters past a certain age . . .

Even Oliver had received his fair share of accolades, though most of them centered on how lucky Oliver was to have a friend like
Lord Robeson
!

Charles shook his head in disgust. Halfway between Robeson’s tent and where Julia had relocated, musicians were setting up, which meant that it would now be doubly awkward to extricate himself and get to her side. He’d have to wait through the performance, while watching Robeson and Oliver lap up attention from what was surely most of Munthrope’s female population. He’d never really thought of Robeson (or Oliver, for that matter) as a preener, but there was no other way to describe it: Robeson had straightened his necktie, rearranged his fobs, and had even brushed a lock of hair in front of and then back away from his forehead.

The woman to Charles’s left, whose name he’d also forgotten, squeezed his shoulder and reassured him in a kindly voice, that he, too, was of course invited. Any friend of Lord Robeson’s . . .

Charles closed his eyes and wished himself in Bedlam.

Even from across the pond, Julia could see that Charles Alver was not enjoying himself.

Just as Claire had been surrounded by a gaggle of admirers as soon as she’d sat down, so too had Robeson and his friends been . . . well,
swarmed
would probably be the most appropriate word. From across the pond, Julia could see all her friends and neighbors, dressed in their brightest, tightest dresses, milling around the three men.

Butterflies swarmed, though she didn’t think that was quite the right analogy, despite the jeweled tones of the dresses and the fluttering of hands, arms, and fans. Locusts too, swarmed.

The last time Robeson had been here, he’d been the son everyone assumed was impoverished, inheriting a nice estate, yes, but otherwise too young, too awkward-looking, lanky, gangly and too . . . well, too much of a third son, to be considered a matrimonial prize.

Now, however, everything was different.

Even from a distance, Julia could tell that Robeson was enjoying himself, just as she could tell, from the way he kept pulling at the back of his neck, that Charles Alver was not.

Still, she refused to go and investigate. Refused to be a part of the swarm (for really, that was the most apt description) that engulfed the men. Instead, she forced herself to ask leading questions about Mrs. Leland’s rheumatism, as if it wasn’t a topic about which she’d heard endless details already. She listened carefully about Mrs. Priory’s recent nightmares and sleeplessness. She moved from widow to matron to widow and forced her gaze (as much as possible)
not
to travel back to Charles Alver, Billings, or Robeson. So intent was she on the task of not looking in Mr. Alver’s direction that she didn’t realize their group had grown until she heard Mrs. Leland say, in that slightly-too-loud voice of hers, “Nadine Clark, how nice of you to join us!”

Nadine Clark, wearing an almost blindingly bright purple gown that had small faux pearls embedded in the neckline, smiled thinly. Nadine was tall, well-endowed, and, if not for Claire, would probably have been considered the prettiest girl in Munthrope. As it was, she often found herself listed as a distant second, a position about which she’d never quite become sanguine and which had lent her features a quiet air of discontent, which (of course) only heightened the relative disparity between her looks and Claire’s.

Nadine was accompanied by her sister Penelope, who was been dressed in an equally brilliant shade of green, but who, at the very least, smiled genuinely at the women in front of her.

“We’re organizing a bit of a game for the younger folks,” she said, shooting a pointed and decidedly tactless look in the direction of Ms. Leland and Ms. Burton to make it clear that the elder ladies were decidedly not-invited, before continuing, a bit airily: “We thought we’d come and invite you.”

Penelope gave her sister a not-so-subtle pinch on the arm before saying, “Actually, Lord Robeson particularly asked that we invite you.”

“He did not,” Nadine retorted, with a disdainful sniff that was only slightly overdone. “Lord Robeson may have mentioned that we should walk around this way, something about younger women who had wandered away. But there was nothing specific about his inquiry, just a rather general, broad concern that everyone be allowed the opportunity to . . . feel included.”

Julia pursed her lips, disliking being likened to a lost kitten.

“Your name did not come up,” Nadine said to Julia with a sniff, while Penelope continued to smile. Nadine was far prettier, which, as often happens, made Penelope the far nicer sister.

Julia took a deep breath and said, “While it does sound fun, though Mrs. Paleski was—”

That woman ruthlessly interrupted and finished her sentence: “—was just saying that young people need to have fun. Together.” She clapped her hands over her stomach. “You go. Do as young people ought. Me, I’m thinking about taking a nap.”

“During the picnic? Here?”

“Of course here. It’s a long walk back, and I’ll need company,” she said, jerking her head at Mrs. Leland and Mrs. Priory. “They always make me stay until the event ends.”

“But—”

“Go, Julia. Don’t stay here listening to us talk about the same old topics.”

“But they haven’t even said what they’re doing, yet,” Julia protested.

Mrs. Leland shrugged. “Young people. Games. What’s not fun about games?”

Julia closed her eyes. Clearly she’d find no help in this corner. She got up and smoothed her hands over her skirts. She said good-bye in a slightly pinched voice, trying to ignore the encouraging smiles the elder women gave her.

She had a deep, pitted feeling in her stomach. Fun and games? With Archie as the center of everyone’s attention?

It was hard to think of something that sounded inherently less fun.

“The game is Questions and Commands.” This, from the woman Charles was pretty certain was Nadine Clark, though really, how he was supposed to remember all the names he’d heard he wasn’t sure. She continued, her eyelashes fluttering a bit too often, her manner annoyingly coquettish. “It’s all the rage in London. Perhaps some of you have heard of it?” She opened her eyes wide and glanced pointedly at Oliver and Lord Robeson.

Lord Robeson replied in the grandiose manner he’d adopted since they’d first arrived in Munthrope, as if he were the king himself, “Of course.”

Oliver nodded and said in a guarded manner, “I’ve played it.”

Charles hadn’t, though that was hardly surprising. He detested parlor games and avoided them like the scandal magnets and gossip generators he knew them to be; he said baldly, “No.”

They’d been arranged in a large circle: nearly fifteen men and women who’d been foolish enough to be talked into playing the damned game. Nadine orchestrated the seating, keeping close to Robeson, Oliver, and Julia, while settling Claire next to Charles, obviously thinking she’d keep the competition, and the man she was
least
interested in, as far away as possible.

“No?” Nadine asked, with a brief titter. “Well, it’s easy enough to explain: we appoint a commander, who bids his subject to answer a question. We as a group vote on whether the answer given is honest and thorough enough. If the subject doesn’t answer the question in a satisfactory manner, he, or she”—she paused to giggle again, a manufactured sound that Charles found exceedingly grating—“well, that person pays a forfeit. Of course, if the subject in question has too many secrets and would rather not be asked any questions, they have the option of following a command—usually a task that might be embarrassing.”

“So there’s to be only one commander.” Charles’s voice gave away his intense displeasure, and it was an effort to remind himself that he was supposed to be charming, which meant that he couldn’t necessarily growl in mixed company. He looked across the circle at Julia, who didn’t look particularly pleased or excited by the game’s description. But still. Charming, he reminded himself, charming.

Oliver, ever the peacekeeper, interjected, “More commonly, now, people take turns. Whoever answered the question satisfactorily becomes the new commander.”

Charles smiled with great effort. “Fascinating,” he said, in precisely the same way he might have observed, “There’s a cockroach in my pudding.”

Even from across the circle, Oliver’s wince was clearly visible. Robeson smiled. “That’s an acceptable variant, I suppose.” He turned to Nadine. “Thank you for giving such a very concise description,” he complimented her, bestowing the compliment in a heavy-handed manner, as if he’d just bequeathed the girl a priceless bracelet. “Who’s to be commander first?”

A stupid, pointless question. Several of the women suggested, some shyly, some slyly, that Lord Robeson was the clear choice. But surprisingly, he turned down the dubious honor. “I’ve heard of the game but have never played.” The women leaned in, as if he were imparting something of great wisdom. Some women’s faces already wore a half smile, as if they were ready to laugh at any moment, just in case he said something witty. “Business matters, you understand, keep me away from all of the social gatherings I’m normally invited to.”

Charles grimaced, which was better than laughing. He’d never known Robeson to be anything other than a lazy, indolent landlord, barely interested in the keeping of his own estate.

“As the organizer of the game, perhaps you should go first, to set the example?”

Nadine blushed and pretended to demur before giving in. She promptly asked Robeson to share his greatest childhood accomplishment. Though Charles had never played the game before, he was relatively certain that wasn’t the type of question this game was designed to inspire.

To no one’s surprise, after Robeson’s rather lengthy description of a dog he’d “rescued,” almost all the women sighed. Julia smiled tightly, and Claire inclined her head slightly, as if the story was barely interesting enough to keep her from nodding off.

Interesting, that.

Charles made a mental note to get to know Claire a little better: obviously the chit did not think much of Robeson, and perhaps she would be able to shed some light on whatever might or might not have happened between Julia and Robeson eight years ago.

After complimenting Robeson (on what, exactly, Charles did not hear, for he had forcibly tuned out her prattling) Nadine declared herself quite, quite satisfied with Robeson’s answer. Robeson took a long time, looking around the circle, before finally settling on one of the Stapleton daughters. He asked her to relate the most embarrassing thing she’d ever said in public, to which she’d giggled, and the game was well and truly off.

Robeson, of course, answered the most questions, and also the easiest ones: his proudest moment, his favorite play, and so on, while the other contestants had to describe things like their most revealing mistake, or a moment they wished they could relive or forget.

None of the women ever picked the “Commands” option, and the few times the men (other than Robeson) were asked a question, they too had picked “Questions.” No one had asked Charles or Claire a question yet; the other women were focused on Robeson, and none of the other men had really gotten a chance to participate.