Worth Winning (20 page)

She’d wanted it to happen, had been eager for the experience.

She just hadn’t realized, at the time, quite what kind of a kiss he’d intended or that they would stray so very far into what were clearly deep waters.

She
ought
to stop him. She knew that. She suspected even he knew that.

But the logical part of her brain, the part that had always been clear about her moral code and that had always led her away from temptation, had become curiously muted. The only chorus she could hear, over and again, was her own jagged breath, and the almost wanton encouragement of her body, which seemed to be begging, pleading for more.

When he whispered, “Trust me,” she’d been tempted to laugh and to reply that she didn’t think she had much of a choice. Neither her body nor her mind nor her emotions—none of the elements she was accustomed to grouping together and labeling as herself—seemed to be obeying her commands.

She had felt his hands moving lower, into what should have been foreign, forbidden territory but could do nothing more than to cling to him, swept away by her emotions and the sensations he was introducing her to. She had just enough sense to murmur, the slightest bit alarmed, when she felt him slowly gather her skirt, lifting it higher and then fitting his leg between hers, but the moment passed just as quickly as it came. She breathed heavily and grasped at the collar of his shirt, at his back, at anything that would give her even the slightest sense of balance as she felt his hand skim along her thigh. She would have gasped, if he’d allowed it, if he’d given her even the briefest of opportunities to draw breath, but he merely deepened their kiss, and where he led, she gladly followed.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased her into the grass below the tree until she was lying on her back, with his body half-covering hers, his leg still somehow wedged between hers. Her skirts were bunched to one side while his hand roamed up and down her leg, fondling, massaging, and leaving a trail of heat wherever his fingers trailed.

“I’m not sure I . . .” she started, though even she didn’t know how she’d intended to finish that sentence. He kissed her again, and it seemed to become a moot point.

Still, he seemed to know intuitively what she was worried about, even though Julia was, herself, unable to articulate it. Charles whispered against her lips, “Don’t worry. I won’t go too far.”

Any relief she might have felt at these words was belied by the fact that at that moment, the hand that had been resting on her knee was drifting slowly, yet inexorably, toward the thin slit in her undergarments. She could feel the cool breeze of the summer day against her flushed skin; she noted the warmth of the stray rays of sunlight, alighting on her exposed body; and yet, at the same time, she was entirely focused on Charles and what he was doing.

At first, it seemed as though he would do no more than cup her delicate flesh, but then he began touching her, so softly at first that she could almost convince herself she was imagining it. He stroked her teasingly, and then slowly, tantalizing, allowed one finger to part and then enter the swollen, far-too-tender flesh that had become the very focal point on her being. She moaned and gasped against his lips. She felt her hips rising to meet his hand with a sense of urgency that was in complete contrast to the slow, measured actions of his fingers, which stroked and fondled, entered and retreated with an idleness that seemed designed to drive her mad.

She gripped at his arms and moaned again, leaving herself completely open to the sensations, just as her body seemed completely open to his. Of their own accord, her legs seemed to part farther, and grant him even greater freedom and access. Against her throat, he murmured encouragingly and seemed to half-growl his approval, his lips moving down her neck even as his fingers continued to work their magic in the core of her being. They slid in and out in a rhythm that only he seemed to be aware of, moving gently against the little peak of flesh where all her nerves seemed centered, only to retreat again.

Not knowing what else to do, and only vaguely understanding what she was doing, she moved her hands from his arms to his head. She gripped at his hair and tried to force his lips back to hers to try to regain some semblance of control over the situation.

He complied readily, willingly, and soon, his entire body seemed to be grinding against hers, his fingers upon her flesh became more urgent, and the distant, cresting wave that had seemed so far away was suddenly upon her, crashing, making her feel as though she’d come apart at the edges. She screamed, and the sound was swallowed, almost completely, by his rough kiss, by his hand at her hip, steadying her, even as his other hand seemed to wring the last moments of ecstasy from her nearly limp body.

“Oh my,” she breathed.

Though Charles felt as though he had experienced her pleasure along with her, he would have expressed his delight with a few slightly choicer words than “Oh my.” Watching her come apart in his arms, watching her transform into a creature that was almost pure physicality, had been one of the most arousing experiences of his life. Even now, his body throbbed in protest; pressed against her as he was, it demanded release, with a small corner of his brain urging him to continue, that the girl was willing, more than willing.

But for once, he held his needs in check and his desires at bay. She was untouched, a virgin, a rector’s daughter. She deserved more than a despoiling in the middle of the woods, where anyone could walk by and hear her moans.

He didn’t quite know what to make of their experience yet. He certainly couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed an interlude to get so wildly out of control. But it seemed to be the effect she had on him. There was something about her completely unadulterated responses that had undone what he would once have thought of as his rigidly imposed self-control. Never before had he been so sorely tempted to ravish a girl against a tree, in broad daylight.

Always before, he’d had more sense about such things. Planning, finesse, something to differentiate him from a rutting footman barely in the first flush of youth.

He stroked her hair away from her face as she lay there, her eyes still closed, her skin still flushed. Julia was . . . special. Different from all who had preceded her. Her responses had been a potent aphrodisiac, one that he couldn’t possibly have accounted for. She was—

His thoughts seemed to screech to a halt as his hand, which had been resting on her hip, moved down to confirm what his addled brain had just told him. Julia was not wearing any garters.

Yes, he’d known the occasional woman who . . . but Robeson had been quite clear on that being the only forfeit. Only after quite a bit of protest had two other avenues been written into the agreement. Robeson had initially been quite stubborn that garters be the only allowable proof of seduction. How had . . .

“Do you never wear garters?”

Julia’s eyes struggled to open. “Pardon?”

“What I mean to say is, what I want to ask is… Oh hell and damn. There’s no easy way to ask this, but is it well known that you don’t wear garters?”

She struggled to sit upright, and he didn’t make any move to help her, a burning anger building inside him as suspicions began to loom large in his thoughts.

“Why would it be well known?”

“Why, indeed.” He knew he sounded angry, perhaps even dramatic—all the things he loathed—and yet he couldn’t seem to help himself. “Tell me, what’s the history between you and Robeson?”

If possible, Julia flushed even more. “I don’t—I don’t know why you’re suddenly asking me this.”

A small corner of his brain warned him to keep his cool, to stop while he was ahead. That there were many, many logical explanations, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from asking the one thing he most wanted to know, the thing he most feared had happened. “Has he touched you? The way I did . . . just now?”

Julia didn’t answer. The color seemed to drain from her face as she gathered her skirts about her, sitting up straighter and smoothing the loosened edges of her bodice. From where Charles was sitting, it seemed that the emotion that flickered across her face was shame.

He gripped one of the hands that she’d clasped in her lap and lifted it upward, trying to force her to face him. He asked again, as though grinding out the words, “Did he?”

She jerked her hand from his before he had an opportunity to stop her. “You have no right to ask those questions, no right to demand any answers. Unless you’re going to tell me that was the first time you’ve, that you’ve—”

She stood up and turned away from him. She calmly smoothed her skirts, though he could tell her hands were shaking. “I’d rather walk the rest of the way on my own.”

“I’ll walk you—”

“Oh please, don’t play at the chivalrous gentleman now. I doubt anything will happen now that could possibly be,” she paused and then continued quite deliberately, enunciating each syllable carefully. “Nothing could be worse than what just happened.”
And with that, she lowered her head and walked away, leaving Charles looking and feeling disheveled and confused. He stood there, watching her retreating back, still trying to puzzle out what had just happened. Still angry. And still very, very aroused.

It didn’t take long for Julia to piece at least some of the puzzle together.

The way Charles had asked about whether she wore garters, the specificity of it, and the way he’d referred to Robeson in particular, meant that he had to know something, or suspect something, about her past with Robeson.

It wasn’t something she liked to think about, not anymore.

That final episode between the two of them, when Archie had accused her of leading him on, when he’d tried to . . .

It was inconceivable that Archie, of all people, would have wanted to brag about that episode in their lives, would have shared it. And yet, clearly, he had. And with Charles Alver.

The only question now was . . . why?

He couldn’t have told the whole story, else Charles wouldn’t have seemed so angry. He would have already known that she never wore garters. Yet he knew something . . . about that she was certain.

Hours later, sitting in the relative quiet of his room, Charles still couldn’t quite decide what to make of the day’s discoveries—and what to do about them.

Since their interlude, Charles had accepted that there were things Robeson had not told him about his past with Julia Morland. Clearly, the choice of garters had been strategic. He’d also accepted, albeit grudgingly, that interrogating Robeson further would be of no use. Whether there was, or wasn’t, a past between the two, and the extent of that past, he’d have to find out from Julia if he wanted the truth of the matter.

What was far more concerning—and revealing—was the degree to which he actually cared about what their shared history was.

He wasn’t a prude. In the past, he’d shied away from virgins and those with too little experience to separate out romance from physicality. He’d never questioned any of his former paramours on how they’d become experienced, and he required monogamy only for so long as their particular liaison endured. Not once, in all his years, had he questioned a mistress, a lover, or any woman with whom he had had a fleeting encounter about her past: her husbands, her lovers, and so on.

As far as he was concerned, he was experienced, so why shouldn’t his partner be as well?

But the degree to which it bothered him that Julia might not be completely inexperienced—and this, despite the fact that her responses showed her to be, at least to a certain degree, a relative innocent—well,
that
had been the most troubling revelation of all.

He wasn’t pleased that he found her quite so darned attractive. He also wasn’t pleased that he’d almost lost control and taken her, as if he had been the inexperienced whelp, overcome by arousal, in the middle of the woods.

But caring about her supposed past . . . he shuddered at the very thought. It hinted at feelings and emotions, a level of caring and commitment, that he was loathe to delve into too deeply.

He’d spent the past few hours reminding himself exactly who he was: the sixth Earl of Dresford. He was wealthy, he moved in elite circles. When he chose to marry, he could pick from the crème de la crème, the top of the top.

More than that, he had responsibilities. And there were expectations. A man in his position
could
marry a woman like Julia . . . but of course there would be talk. People would assume he had fallen in love with the chit. That he cared for her, that he . . .

Not that he didn’t care for her.
A little.
Or perhaps more than a little.

He was a bit shocked by the thought and would have pursued it further had it not been for the knock on his bedroom door. He opened it to find Billings standing at the doorway, peering in.

“I say, these the quarters Robeson put you in? Had to ask two maids to direct me here. The first one just giggled, and the second was rather unspecific.”

Charles grunted in reply. He was, by now, fairly certain that his guest “suite” was actually a converted nursery and the lowliest excuse for a guest room that Robeson could have possibly put him in. He was fairly certain that Robeson had put him here as a way of tacitly informing his servants just how poorly they could treat this particular “guest,” but it would’ve seemed petty to say so, directly. So instead, he gave a forced jerk of his shoulders and said, “I’m sure it’s to keep up appearances.”

Billings poked his head through the door again, muscling his way into the room and looking around in a rather unconvinced way. “I’m sure you’re right.” His light-brown eyes took a last, sweeping glance around the room before finally focusing on Charles. “How are you holding up?”

Charles just barely stopped himself from grunting again. “You mean how well am I tolerating the luxurious accommodations? Or how well am I enjoying the condescension of being slighted by servants who think me unworthy of serving warm eggs to? Or—?” He drew himself up abruptly. He was acting childish, and he knew it. Most of his frustration had nothing to do with the servants or the living quarters at this point. “I didn’t mean to complain.”