Worth Winning Read Free Page A

Rembrandt, coupled with the fact that he had more or less allowed himself to be maneuvered into an untenable position from which he would have trouble backing down.
    “Come now, Dresford, either you’re in, or you’re out. We’re not missish virgins trying to decide which shawlette brings out our eyes. My Rembrandt against your money and apology. Yes or no.”
    Charles gritted his teeth and threw a quick glance at Oliver, who was giving a barely discernible head shake. This was definitely not the way Charles had envisioned his day unfolding. Still, before he had time to second-guess himself further, he said, “Yes.”
    One of the men who’d been standing to the side gave a hoot and quickly motioned the waiter to bring him some paper. Clearly, a wager of such proportions needed to be written out, the details debated and then formalized. “Though I have some rules: no debutantes. I won’t seriously impede some girl determined to marry. No gossip surrounding this, either. If the merest hint of this gets out . . .” Charles looked pointedly at the ten or so men gathered around in a tight circle. “If I’m going to have to pretend to be someone else, and do so successfully, this will need to have as little publicity as possible.”
    Robeson’s thin smile only stretched farther. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got the perfect location and the perfect girl, for that matter. A place where no one will ever have heard of the Earl of Dresford, and, if you’re curious, a girl who isn’t going to give you the time of day.”

Chapter 2
    “Well, well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”
    Julia stopped humming and felt as if every muscle in her body had suddenly tensed. She would recognize the self-satisfied voice of Archibald Barrington anywhere. She wished she could say that it had become nasally or pinched, but if anything, his voice had deepened over the intervening years and was now infused with a certain gravitas.
    She stalled, wiping her dirt-stained hands thoroughly along the edges of the apron she’d put over one of her oldest day dresses. She’d known Archie was coming back, of course. Her stepmother had talked in breathless whispers about little else for the past three weeks. Munthrope was a small village, and a viscount—any viscount, but especially one they’d all met before and who had since come into a title and fortune—was big news .
    Thus Julia had known that sooner or later she’d have to meet Archie again. She just hadn’t thought she’d have to see him this soon. Or that she’d be quite so dirty and dusty. She steadied her hands and turned to find not one, but three, pairs of eyes trained intently upon her.
    “Lord Robeson.” Julia inclined her head and made a facsimile of a curtsy. “As you say, an unexpected surprise.”
    She held his gaze and forced herself not to fidget, not to give him or his companions any inkling of how discomfited she felt, standing here in her country worst while they appeared in all their splendor. She especially tried not to notice how well Archie had aged: his once lanky frame had filled out nicely, his shoulders looked broader, his blond hair seemed thicker and was styled just so. Despite the fact that his green eyes twinkled with some combination of mirth and malice, Julia couldn’t help noticing that he was, perhaps, the handsomest man she’d ever seen.
    My, what a stir he would cause. With his looks. And his title. And his fortune.
    Eight years ago, no one had paid him any attention. Then, he’d been nothing more than Archie Barrington, the insolvent, shabbily dressed, directionless third son. Even the mothers of Munthrope had thought they’d be able to find a better mate than a brooding, too skinny too quick to laugh, too prone towards making wagers, too . . . everything, third .
    At the time, only Julia had found him attractive; she’d been the only one to laugh at his jokes, to listen to his stories, to look beyond his meager allowance and awkward