would apologize in a heartbeat. I’ll forget the fact that you’ve insulted me and . . . I’ll admit I’m an arse.”
Charles allowed a moment to pass before murmuring, “I didn’t realize the latter was in question.”
To his left, Oliver tried unsuccessfully to turn a snort into a cough. To his right, Lord Cleyara slapped his knee and murmured, “He’s got you pegged.”
But Robeson ignored them and pressed on. “I’m serious, Dresford. I think you’re so used to being the famous Earl of Dresford, whose reputation alone makes damsels faint and swoon, that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have to survive just based on your wits alone. In fact—” Robeson paused dramatically, clearly enjoying the amount of attention they were generating, “—I’ll wager, anything you like, that you couldn’t do it.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“Make a girl choose you—become your mistress, accept a marriage proposal, publicly declare her love for you, forfeits we can discuss later—believing that you were nothing more than a lowly commoner, a mere mister with limited means and no reputation, no connections.”
“That is the most asinine suggestion you’ve ever come up with,” Charles said, though he could see the trap had already opened beneath him. If he backed down now, people would talk, saying that he was afraid to be without his title and his reputation, that despite the fact that he always treated them lightly and never flaunted either, he was as attached to them—more attached, perhaps—than even someone like Robeson. Or worse, that he doubted his ability to attract women without his title and background.
No doubt Loretta Fanshawe, once she heard about it, would spread and expand upon this particular story until it was whispered about in very saloon and ballroom. Either way, Charles would have no peace this season. He could walk away now and call Robeson’s bluff, or he could entertain this ridiculous wager. Neither was particularly appealing.
“I abhor theatrics in general, and public declarations seem particularly base.”
“Then suggest an alternative.”
Charles could think of several. What he couldn’t figure out was a way to wiggle out of the noose that was being tightened slowly around him. The silence yawned in front of him until finally he said, “What, exactly, do you have that’s worth wagering?” It wasn’t polite to boast of one’s wealth, but the truth of the matter was, how could Robeson’s viscounty be compared to the Dresford earldom? It was difficult to think of something Robeson could possibly wager to make it worth his while.
“My Rembrandt.”
Charles took a slow and measured breath and tried not to show his excitement. Robeson’s father had acquired a Rembrandt landscape some years back—one that had, when Charles had first seen it, made him feel calm and peaceful made him feel calm and peaceful in a way that no other painting ever had.. He’d remarked on it the one time he’d been to Robeson’s townhouse and had even offered quite a generous sum for it.
“Your Rembrandt,” Charles said finally. “And what do you want in return?”
“Two thousand pounds. And a public apology.”
Charles closed his eyes briefly. The money was inconsequential. It was, in fact, exactly double the sum Charles had offered to pay years ago, when he first saw the painting: he’d been that taken with it. But a public apology? The very idea of having to be at the center of such a display . . .
“You heard me—public.”
Charles opened his eyes and saw a bevy of spectators, most of whom had long ago given up pretending disinterest, several of whom were standing in a small cluster around them.
“Name your terms—what girl, how much time, what are the forfeits, etc.—and I’ll think about it.”
Robeson smiled, and Charles felt a tingling feeling down his spine. Though he hadn’t agreed yet, he knew he would—because of the opportunity to get his hands on the
Charles allowed a moment to pass before murmuring, “I didn’t realize the latter was in question.”
To his left, Oliver tried unsuccessfully to turn a snort into a cough. To his right, Lord Cleyara slapped his knee and murmured, “He’s got you pegged.”
But Robeson ignored them and pressed on. “I’m serious, Dresford. I think you’re so used to being the famous Earl of Dresford, whose reputation alone makes damsels faint and swoon, that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to have to survive just based on your wits alone. In fact—” Robeson paused dramatically, clearly enjoying the amount of attention they were generating, “—I’ll wager, anything you like, that you couldn’t do it.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“Make a girl choose you—become your mistress, accept a marriage proposal, publicly declare her love for you, forfeits we can discuss later—believing that you were nothing more than a lowly commoner, a mere mister with limited means and no reputation, no connections.”
“That is the most asinine suggestion you’ve ever come up with,” Charles said, though he could see the trap had already opened beneath him. If he backed down now, people would talk, saying that he was afraid to be without his title and his reputation, that despite the fact that he always treated them lightly and never flaunted either, he was as attached to them—more attached, perhaps—than even someone like Robeson. Or worse, that he doubted his ability to attract women without his title and background.
No doubt Loretta Fanshawe, once she heard about it, would spread and expand upon this particular story until it was whispered about in very saloon and ballroom. Either way, Charles would have no peace this season. He could walk away now and call Robeson’s bluff, or he could entertain this ridiculous wager. Neither was particularly appealing.
“I abhor theatrics in general, and public declarations seem particularly base.”
“Then suggest an alternative.”
Charles could think of several. What he couldn’t figure out was a way to wiggle out of the noose that was being tightened slowly around him. The silence yawned in front of him until finally he said, “What, exactly, do you have that’s worth wagering?” It wasn’t polite to boast of one’s wealth, but the truth of the matter was, how could Robeson’s viscounty be compared to the Dresford earldom? It was difficult to think of something Robeson could possibly wager to make it worth his while.
“My Rembrandt.”
Charles took a slow and measured breath and tried not to show his excitement. Robeson’s father had acquired a Rembrandt landscape some years back—one that had, when Charles had first seen it, made him feel calm and peaceful made him feel calm and peaceful in a way that no other painting ever had.. He’d remarked on it the one time he’d been to Robeson’s townhouse and had even offered quite a generous sum for it.
“Your Rembrandt,” Charles said finally. “And what do you want in return?”
“Two thousand pounds. And a public apology.”
Charles closed his eyes briefly. The money was inconsequential. It was, in fact, exactly double the sum Charles had offered to pay years ago, when he first saw the painting: he’d been that taken with it. But a public apology? The very idea of having to be at the center of such a display . . .
“You heard me—public.”
Charles opened his eyes and saw a bevy of spectators, most of whom had long ago given up pretending disinterest, several of whom were standing in a small cluster around them.
“Name your terms—what girl, how much time, what are the forfeits, etc.—and I’ll think about it.”
Robeson smiled, and Charles felt a tingling feeling down his spine. Though he hadn’t agreed yet, he knew he would—because of the opportunity to get his hands on the
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