Worth Winning (9 page)

Julia bumped into Charles Alver at almost exactly the same spot, at nearly the same time, the very next morning. She told herself she hadn’t walked there on purpose and that she hadn’t dallied
particularly
in any of her morning chores, hoping to time things correctly.

Though she was at heart an honest girl, even she had to admit that she’d mapped a slightly more circuitous route, just in case. She’d passed by the lemon trees when she’d had no real excuse to do so, just because the grove of lemon trees was where she’d met him that first day. And she’d spent longer than usual at the cluster of peppermint plants—the next scent she was cultivating—taking her time and looking around. Again, just in case.

She’d hardly hummed at all and repeatedly turned around, trying to ascertain whether the noises she heard were footsteps, a horse’s canter . . . or, as had been the case for most of the morning, merely a product of her overactive imagination.

When she’d finally finished clipping peppermint flowers, she covered the collection with a piece of cloth and wondered whether she should snack now or later. She had just decided to reach for the biscuits she’d packed when she saw him approaching from a distance. She, once again with her basket of gatherings; this time, peppermint flowers. He, once again with small—this time, smaller—pieces of paper affixed to his jaw, evidence that he still hadn’t mastered the art of shaving. She smiled in welcome when he called out, “Miss Morland!” And, looking at his face, which was not handsome but very attractive, she couldn’t help but be flattered and perhaps excited that they were meeting again, that he had perhaps wanted to—even tried to—meet her again.

He had said that he knew only a smattering of French. And that he wasn’t particularly interested in astronomy. Or botany. So she had spent a significant part of the night trying to come up with a list of subjects that might be of interest to him.

This had, of course, set off a flood of troublesome thoughts: she wondered whether she was crazy to be thinking so much about Charles when Archie was finally back in town. She wondered whether it meant she was a bit of a hussy, to be thinking about Charles when she should, perhaps, still be thinking about Archie. She worried that she might actually be a tiny bit . . . well, if not interested, then at least
intrigued
by Charles, as well as annoyed and amused and well . . . something. She fretted over what it meant that after all these years she was finally interested in someone other than Archie and that it just happened to coincide with Archie’s return.

Claire had, of course, said it was all perfectly natural and understandable—something about Julia needing to see Archie to be certain she was free of him. At the time, Julia had been unconvinced, but during long, sleepless hours, she’d begun to wonder about Claire’s prognostications. She’d come to no conclusions—at least none that were satisfactory—about Archie and how she
should
feel about him, or even how she did, currently, feel about him.

In between the circuitous thoughts that had traveled through her head, she had also come up with a long list of topics that Charles Alver might find interesting. The list ranged from Latin to politics, religion, and chemistry. She could tell he was an intelligent man—though why she was so certain of this, with only the limited evidence of their awkward conversations, she had no idea—and was convinced that she only had to find the right topic, one he’d be interested in, which would make him feel both comfortable and confident.

During breakfast, she’d even looked up some of the more interesting chemical trivia she’d learned, just in case they met again. It had seemed suddenly very, very important for her to show him that she could talk about things completely unrelated to aphids.

Ultimately Julia, being Julia, forgot all the clever things she had planned on saying and instead said the first thing that entered her mind. Because by the time Charles was standing in front of her, she couldn’t help but remember that they were in almost the exact location as yesterday, at almost exactly the same time. She pulled at a strand of hair that had come undone from her topknot and said slowly, “This can’t be a coincidence.”

Charles smiled—a wide smile that was full of confidence, and yes, Julia admitted, charm. “That we’re both creatures of habit, meeting for a second time?”

She looked into his cool, gray eyes and wished for just a moment that he wasn’t quite so attractive. He wasn’t handsome, but there was something about him that tugged at her.

“Your shaving seems to be improving,” she said.

Charles rubbed his chin ruefully and gingerly removed the two patches of paper. “I’m not sure whether I should be embarrassed or flattered that you’ve noticed.” His voice was smooth and assured, with none of the hesitancy or even awkwardness Julia had sensed yesterday.

Julia wondered suddenly why his shaving was improving. “Are you . . . unused to shaving?”

His eyes narrowed a bit haughtily, as if Julia’s question were impolite or perhaps a bit too forward, which, upon reflection, she thought was probably true. Finally, he explained a bit reluctantly, “I had a beard once.”

Realizing that this wasn’t precisely an answer, Julia returned to their initial line of questioning. “Are we really creatures of habit, or were you trying to bump into me again?”

“At the risk of incurring your wrath, I’m afraid I’ll have to once again reply: yes and no.” He held up a hand as if to ward off Julia’s lecture. “Before you admonish me about the perils of undoing formal logic, let me explain. As you see, I’m without a horse today, but I do enjoy a good midmorning jaunt of some sort, so in terms of creature of habit? Yes. As to the second, though your particular brand of verbal acrobatics certainly isn’t my normal fare, and truly, articulate lacerations would be a more accurate description of your conversational style . . .” He rubbed at his jaw again, this time a bit ruefully, inadvertently drawing Julia’s eyes not only to his jaw but also to his lips. Not seeming to notice how her attention had drifted, he smiled a bit and said, “I heal quickly. And, as long as you promise not to ramble on about aphids—”

“I did not ramble about aphids.”

Charles held up his hand. “As long as you promise to limit yourself to mentioning said insects a certain number of times. Well, I’ll confess that I’m not completely averse to a walking partner. Which means that while I wasn’t actively seeking you out this morning, I saw no harm in retreading yesterday’s path.”

He smiled down at her almost wolfishly, and Julia wondered briefly whether she had imagined the man from yesterday, the one who had been quieter and yes, almost flushed, just talking to her. There was nothing in his current countenance that suggested this was a man who had ever been hesitant or uncomfortable around women.

In fact, Julia was suddenly certain that this was what Claire would call a man of experience, a man who was used to being a predator.

She had been preyed upon once. And had learned her lesson.

After all, what did she really know about Archie? Charles? Or men in general?

She regarded him silently, and faced with her intense scrutiny, the charming, decidedly sensual smile slipped from Charles’s face. “How did you have a Latin tutor?”

If she had been hoping to catch him off guard, she was disappointed. “You are full of rather inappropriate questions today, aren’t you? Why am I unused to shaving? How did I, as a mere
mister
, afford a Latin tutor?”

He practically spat out the word
mister
, and Julia was tempted to take a step back; she could tell that she had touched a nerve and had truly upset him. Julia met his gaze and said nothing. Around them, the countryside was peaceful—quiet except for the background noises common to wilderness: the gentle swaying of the grass, the swishing of the leaves of the trees, an occasional bird that Julia might have been able to identify if only she were paying more attention. From her basket, the strong, unmistakably refreshing scent of peppermint leaves wafted upward, causing her nostrils to flare briefly.

It was possible she was completely wrong about him. He had said that he and Robeson weren’t actually friends, but still, something pricked at her awareness. There were details about him that didn’t quite add up: the way he had treated the mare he’d ridden yesterday, as though it were some clearly inferior breed, as though it had been an insult to have been so saddled. The way his shaving was actually improving. Her father had always been terrible at shaving and had regularly affixed pieces of paper to his face before finally declaring that a beard made him look more ecclesiastical. But Charles was quite obviously improving. Rapidly. He was standing close enough that she could see that the longer scratches were already healing and that today’s nicks were minor indeed.

And of course, the Latin tutor. Not a grammar school education where he’d had to learn Latin on the side, because he was particularly curious. Not even a boarding school, where he’d perhaps been a scholarship student, because he’d shown promise. She had heard of such things happening, rare though they were. A tutor. And not just a tutor who’d been loaned out or one who covered many subjects, but specifically a Latin tutor. It hinted of substance, wealth. He had long ago said he was an only child, which ruled out the possibility that he was the younger son—the untitled but still pampered offspring of a member of the peerage.

As Charles continued to look at her, another possibility occurred to her. She wondered whether perhaps he was one of those one only heard whispered about: a young man born on the wrong side of the sheets. He was on casual terms with a viscount and a baron. So it was possible . . . if his father had perhaps been titled and had seen to his education and perhaps even allowed him to grow up with titled lords? No, that still wouldn’t explain things: his change in fortune was obviously recent—and abrupt.

When it seemed as though Charles was not going to answer, Julia said tightly, knowing she probably should apologize but that was unwilling to do so, “You don’t have to answer. I know my questions are overly direct. If you don’t want to talk about your past tutors, Latin or otherwise, you could simply offer up an alternative topic for discussion.”

He said in a haughty tone, “It is truly none of your business.”

Julia ducked her head a little. At his tone, everything Archie had said to her during their last meeting came back to her.

You so clearly have no idea how to attract, much less hold on to, a man’s interest.

Now that I’ve inherited, I’ll wed a real lady. Teaching you how to act and talk like a lady would be a Sisyphean task: both useless and thankless.

Think of it this way: you were a bit of fun that ended up . . . not being much fun.

She knew that it was as true then as it was now.

But she still remembered what it had been like to hold herself back, to pretend to be someone she wasn’t, simply in an effort to please and fit in. To hold in her questions and her curiosity until she felt as though she’d explode. She’d done it for months because it had been what people expected of her.

No, she amended her own thought, she’d done it because it had been what Archie had expected of her.

She raised her head.
Never again.

For better or worse, she knew who she was; she owned, and was even sometimes proud of, her proclivities. She didn’t retract her question, as she might have in the past. Instead, she said simply, “Then tell me only what you want.”

She met his gaze steadily and hoped that he could see that she meant him no harm, that she could, despite her chatterbox tendencies, be a good listener. She was used to inviting and receiving confidences, and it was an arena in which she was normally quite skilled. She hadn’t lied or exaggerated when she’d told him yesterday that people were comfortable around her, perhaps more so because she was she was seen as being a bit inept socially, a bit backward when it came to conducting conversations.

He said finally, “I had a Latin tutor because I grew up in a household that was wealthy by even the most conservative of estimates. I’m unused to shaving because I employed, and enjoyed, the services of a highly skilled valet until very, very recently.” He paused. Until now, he had spoken with authority, his words having an icy edge to them, but when he continued, Julia sensed the same hesitancy and uncertainty she’d witnessed yesterday creeping back into his voice. “You could say that my fortunes have undergone a . . . reversal of late. My situation has changed drastically, and quite rapidly. I am, of course, adjusting.” He grimaced and looked away as he admitted, “Though not as quickly or as seamlessly as I thought I would.”

There was a huskiness to his voice, an added depth that Julia wondered at; it wasn’t the whole story, but then, what right did Julia have to expect that he share everything with her so quickly? She adjusted the position of her basket and awkwardly shifted her weight from one foot to another, stalling for time. Now that he’d answered her questions she felt a bit foolish about all her suspicions and half-formed worst-case scenarios. Mentally she chided herself: the women who spoke to her from the village had known her their entire lives. They knew that she would not spread tales or judge them. And she acknowledged: she still let the memory and shadow of Archie cloud her behavior. In the past, she’d tried to play at being demure and obedient for him, and these days . . . well, there were times—like now, for example—when she compensated by going too far in the opposite direction.

She sighed. She supposed she ought to apologize. Further, she should perhaps be grateful that Charles was being this forthright about what was obviously a painful change in his circumstances. She wondered briefly whether he had been in business, for how else could his fortunes have changed so rapidly? She suspected he had perhaps personally been responsible for the abrupt shift. Perhaps he had risked too much on the Change? It wasn’t something she knew about, except from stories Jack told her. He didn’t
seem
like someone who would have gambled away his life savings in a gaming hell, but then again, what did she know about him, really?