Worth Winning (15 page)

He was seated upon a chestnut gelding that was obviously superior in every way to the mare she’d seen Mr. Alver coaxing. She’d spent most of their last two meetings trying not to look at him. But now she had no choice but to look and to acknowledge that he was a truly handsome man. Well-proportioned—not athletic, but lean in a way that was very attractive. His hair thick and almost lush. His eyes fringed by lashes that were too long for a man, his lips . . .

She pulled her thoughts back and tried to focus on the rest of him.

He was wearing a dark-blue riding suit that was obviously made of superior material, with fobs and buttons that shined. It was the clothes, more than anything that reminded her: this was not her Archie. And perhaps it would’ve been more accurate to say that he’d never been
hers
.

The hair, the fobs, even the chestnut proclaimed him to be, most assuredly, Lord Robeson. Not the forgotten third son who’d shared dreams of becoming a writer, when they’d shared dreams and, it had seemed, so much more.

He slowed his horse to a trot and came to a stop in front of her, slightly out of breath.

“Good morning,” he said in his deep voice, a hint of the gravitas that had always pulled at her seeping through. He smiled, showing a nice line of white teeth and made no effort to hide his perusal of her body, no doubt taking in everything from her plain gray dress to the straw bonnet that she’d probably worn years before, when they’d first met.

She curtsied. He was a lord now, after all, and hadn’t her stepmother told her to curtsy? To be polite and more deferential?

“Lord Robeson,” she said quietly.

There was a brief pause. “Surely you and I are past the stage for such formality.”

There were a host of replies she could have responded with, some bitter, some polite. Finally, she settled upon: “I don’t think it would be wise for us to be informal.” She looked up, making eye contact briefly before she deflected her glance and squared her chin. She wondered whether he had deliberately set out to find her; he wasn’t a morning person. He knew of her walks. He had met her here, once, near the river, back when they were still exchanging promises, quoting and seeking constantly to outdo one another in how romantic they could be . . . as if falling in love, or the amount of love one fell with, had been a competition. She cringed now, inwardly: she didn’t allow herself to dwell on the foolishness of the past, but it was hard not to.

He dismounted with a grunt and stood next to her.

“I’m not sure how to convince you to listen to me. But let me start with a simple truth: I never forgot you or our time together.”

Julia had dreamed of those words. In the weeks, months, and years since Robeson had left, she’d pictured this scene: him coming to her, apologizing, and then saying he still cared for her, still remembered their plans from years past. Her imagined self always did one of two things here—either she laughed and rebuffed him, so that he would finally understand what he’d lost, or she threw herself into his arms and admitted that a small corner of her being had always remembered and perhaps reserved a bit of hope as well. Now she realized that neither option was viable. For one thing, he hadn’t said that he still cared about her, merely that he still
remembered
her. She let out a small huff of breath. “It’s been eight years, Lord Robeson—”

“Archie,” he interrupted.

Julia lowered her eyes. “I think I prefer to address you properly, my lord. If you don’t mind.”

Robeson stepped closer and had the temerity to reach for her chin, as if they were engaged in one of their long-ago arguments; he forced her face and gaze upward before saying, “You don’t still hold those thoughtless words against me, do you? I had just lost two brothers, a father. You had just rejected me, if you’ll remember. You, of all people, should understand what it’s like to deal with that kind of grief. I was mad with it. When you didn’t show up, it felt like everyone in the world had abandoned me.”

Julia looked into his eyes and remembered everything she’d told him about losing her own mother. How she’d wept for weeks and then, even years later, would tear up when her mother’s favorite sonata was played at a musicale or when she walked past a certain copse of flowers. She couldn’t decide, for a moment, whether she should be flattered that he’d remembered or annoyed that he’d used her feelings against her.

“I know what it’s like to grieve, yes. But you must think me a complete simpleton if you would have me believe that it was mere grief that made you say all you did. Nor was it your grief that kept you away these past eight years.”

A small flush stained Robeson’s cheeks, and he abruptly released her chin. “I could have returned, of course. But I had business, properties. There was much to do.”

She didn’t believe him. But she saw no benefit in provoking him.

“I understand,” she said.

“You don’t. But that doesn’t signify. I didn’t expect immediate forgiveness.”

Julia looked into his eyes and said quietly, “I didn’t realize you’d apologized.”

He broke eye contact and let out a small snort of laughter. “I haven’t. And I won’t. Not until you’re willing to listen to my side of the story.”

Julia sighed. She very much doubted that there was an explanation that could possibly suffice. “Is that what you want from me? To listen to your side of the story?”

“It would be a start.”

Julia was silent for a moment. “To what end?”

Robeson looked away, scanning the distant fields. “You could forgive me, and then . . .”

He trailed off, and Julia could tell from the way he was looking at her, the way he’d let himself trail off, that he was done speaking, for now. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. It had been like this eight years ago as well. He’d flirted with her, he’d insinuated and hinted, without ever declaring himself. He’d even talked, initially, of other women and would compare them to Julia in a sideways fashion, complimenting and then criticizing, trying to mold her into his ideal. And she furiously tried to take every one of his suggestions. He’d waited until her infatuation for him had been startlingly clear, before . . .

No, she couldn’t go through that again. The self-recriminations. The doubt.

“You’re forgiven.”

“Just like that,” he snapped his fingers.

“Of course not just like that,” Julia said. She could hear the trace of bitterness in her voice and made herself take a deep breath before continuing. She turned, trying to focus her eyes on the unfolding sunrise, the filter of light through the dense clouds, the morning sounds that were routine to the countryside. She reminded herself that he wasn’t necessarily trying to start an argument, that perhaps he merely needed a sense of completion, as she’d often thought she did.

The chestnut whinnied, having been still for far too long. Julia gestured to the pathway in front of her, and they seemed to reach a tacit agreement that they could walk while they talked.

She decided finally that there was no point in subterfuge. It had never been her strong suit and never would be—more important, it just wasn’t who she was. Julia turned to look him in the eyes, noting that they were as crystal blue as they had ever been. She smiled a little, thinking about how angry Claire would be, that after all her methodical coaching about how to handle men in general, and this one in particular, Julia was still, at the end of the day, going to handle things in her normal, straightforward manner. “I was wrecked. Distraught and completely beside myself when you left. I’ve always thought that was such a silly, stupid phrase—how can you be yourself and also beside yourself? But it’s true. I blamed myself. I thought that if I’d only let you, that night . . .”

He stared at her intently and finally said, “I’ve never forgotten you.”

Julia wasn’t sure she believed him, but she remembered that Robeson had never responded well if he thought he was being challenged; it didn’t matter if he knew he was in the wrong. The one time she’d caught him in a lie, he’d been completely unreasonable. He’d half-apologized afterward but had insisted that his display of temper had been instigated by Julia’s tone, Julia’s questioning, Julia’s lack of trust. And really, what did it matter, now? If he truly still remembered her and thought of her fondly, wasn’t that a salve to her vanity Proof that something good could still be salvaged from their summer romance? And if he’d forgotten, then wasn’t he lying out of politeness? Offering it as a balm to past wounds?

His gaze held hers, and she finally said, “It’s been eight years since you were last here, which means I’ve had plenty of time to think about our relationship and move on.”

“And that’s what you’ve done. Move on?”

Julia was breathing heavily. So deeply that she could smell the scent he wore: a musky fragrance that was a little too heavy-handed for her taste. She half-smiled. Trust Archie to ignore all the emotions she’d just shared and focus merely on the part that affected him directly.

“What do you want from me?” she asked finally, wearily.

Robeson sighed, a bit dramatically, Julia thought, as though performing for an audience. “I never meant to hurt you. And you must know how painful it is, for me to hear how . . . affected, you were by my stupid, careless words. I was wild with grief at the time. All I could think about was what I’d just lost. A father who’d always been a pillar in my life, brothers that I had looked up to and had grown up with. You.”

Julia looked down, wanting to believe, yet not quite believing, everything he was saying. It sounded convincing, and of course there was a part of her that wanted to be convinced, to believe that the version of the past Robeson was presenting now was the truth. It would mean, at the very least, that he hadn’t rejected her. Not really.

And yet, Julia was older now. Older and, she hoped, at least a little wiser.

Death was always devastating and shocking, and she didn’t mean to diminish that, yet she couldn’t ignore the fact that it felt odd, and a little false, to hear him talk about them now, in retrospect, as if they’d become more dear to him in death than they had been in life.

Julia nodded, not wanting to challenge anything he was saying, and not wanting to intrude upon any of the stories he might have created for himself, to justify his behavior, since the time she’d known him.

Robeson continued, turning from her to give attention to his horse, so that it almost seemed as though he was talking to the animal, instead of her, “It’s ancient history, I suppose. And perhaps not as pertinent to the present as I thought.”

Julia sighed soundlessly. “If you ever want to talk about your father or brothers, I’d be happy to listen.” She was still the rector’s daughter, after all, and she had a duty, didn’t she?

Robeson chuckled and said, “No. The last thing I want is your sympathy or pity. That’s not what I—I guess what I’m really asking for here is . . . a second chance.”

Julia’s mouth opened a little, in spite of herself. This simply wasn’t who Robeson was: even before he’d become Robeson, Archie had always hated asking for anything, risking rejection.

“Why?”

“Nothing. Something. Who knows?”

Julia laughed; she couldn’t help herself. In all of her imaginings of this particular moment, she had never imagined that he might turn to her and say, “Who knows?”

“I don’t think it would be wise to go down that path, not again.”

“And that’s not what I’m suggesting. At least not right away. I’m not trying to re-create the past, or even start again where we’d last been. I sought you out because I still remembered the walks you like to go on, Sunday mornings, because I knew that I owed you an apology, even if you weren’t quite ready to hear it yet, and because, seeing you again, Jules, well, it’s reminded me of everything you meant to me, once. I know that it’s been eight years, and perhaps you’ll say that that’s eight years too late. Yet here you are, still unattached, and I too have yet to choose a wife. I’ll be in Munthrope for the entire summer, and maybe all I’m asking is that you stop freezing me out, as if I’m a stranger, unhappy that I’m even in the same town as you.”

“I? Freeze you out?”

“Don’t pretend you haven’t. You’ve avoided me rather assiduously. Chatting with the village outcasts at the picnic. Insinuating that it was unpleasant even to bump into me. It’s particularly obvious, given the amount of attention I’ve received from everyone else.”

Julia smiled a bit humorlessly, “And how do I know that’s not all you’re after? A complete set? All of the women of Munthrope at your feet?”

“Because you know me.”

Julia’s heart skipped a beat, in spite of herself. Was it true?

Robeson continued, “Eight years ago, no one else paid me the least attention. They only care now, because I’m a viscount. You cared for me . . . before. So whose attentions do you think I value more highly? All I’m asking is that you be slightly less contrary than you normally are, that you remember all that we once said and meant to each other.” When she stayed silent, he pressed on, “You fell in love with me when no one else knew I existed. Don’t tell me you’re now rejecting me simply because it’s once again against-trend.”

Julia thought about it, and let herself think about all the dreams and fantasies she’s buried deep within her. She gave her head a small shake, knowing that her already loose topknot was probably in even wilder disarray now. He was saying all the right things, but it was far, far too late. “I truly, genuinely, believe that the time for that has passed.”

“And if I’m not willing to accept that?”

Julia felt her eyes watering a little, despite all her many promises to herself never to show weakness or shed tears in front of this man—him, above all others. Everything sounded right, and yet . . .

“I don’t think so,” she whispered, even though a part of her wished she were giving a different answer, or at the very least, that he would challenge her rather wishy-washy refusal.

“But you’re not sure.”

Julia bit her lip. Was she? A few years ago, this would have been everything she’d ever hoped for. But she had changed since then, hadn’t she? “I don’t even know you anymore,” she said finally. This, at least, was the complete truth. She didn’t know this man, who slicked his hair back, who wore flossy fobs and pinned what looked like real jewels into the folds of his cravats. This man who was suddenly asking for a second chance, something she would never have thought the old Archie capable of.