She started to shake her head, then froze when his thumb brushed her mouth.
Jude rested the pad of his thumb on her bottom lip, memorizing the feel of her breath rushing over him. "You are. People will talk when they see us together."
"Jude—"
"They will whisper and frown, and you will blush with mortification. But I will not mind, Miss York. Do you understand?"
"No," she breathed.
His thumb must have inched forward of its own accord. Her top lip brushed it when she spoke. Her breath came faster. Jude stared at her mouth with the fascination of a hungry predator. "I am not a boy. I have not been a boy for a very long time. And I was never pretty, so there is no point in wishing it so. But there are great advantages to loving a man. You will decide for yourself which you prefer. Boy... ?"
A tiny shift of his thumb and it was resting at the seam of her mouth.
"Or man?"
When her lips parted, he felt a torturous hint of heat and moisture and promise. He dragged his thumb gently across her mouth until he reached her check.
Her breath came faster. She leaned toward him. Jude smiled. "Now shall I escort you to dinner?"
"Pardon?" The word was all gentleness and night. Her eyelids dipped in a sleepy blink as he touched the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
"It's time for dinner,
mon coeur."
"Is it?"
When he dropped his hand, Marissa frowned and stepped away, as if recalling that she did not like him.
"Come, we must put on a show."
She hesitated for only a moment, her eyes sweeping up and down his body for one last evaluation. Then she laid her hand on his and let him take her to dinner. This time, her fingers rested more easily against him, and Jude walked into the dining room with a smile that set that young buck's teeth on edge.
The boy would probably ask Marissa to dance at least twice tonight, and Jude would watch happily from the side. He did not mind Marissa entertaining herself, so long as her evening ended with him.
The music room had been cleared for dancing, as the ballroom was too large for so few people. Marissa's mother perched impatiently in a chair near the piano, waiting for the gentlemen to wander in. The musician at the piano played a happy tune, but Marissa watched her mother frown. Lady York did not approve of leaving the men in the dining room with their port. She felt their absence postponed the merrymaking, and she went to much trouble to keep the house lively in the evenings.
Lady York took pride in having the merriest house party in the country, and it went on for nearly a week instead of the traditional three days. The York estate was well known for hosting country dancing and traveling plays during the hunt. She hired musicians every night, and organized card games and charades if there would be no dancing. But there would be dancing tonight.
The music room was large enough to accommodate quite a few couples, and the fiddler was ready, but they were missing twenty or so gentlemen.
Finally the low notes of male conversation rumbled into the room, and the first few men stepped in.
Jude was not among them. Marissa craned her neck, but did not see him in the hallway either. She had no idea why she was looking for him. He'd been seated across from her at dinner, after all, so she'd gotten her fill of looking. Still, conversation had been impossible, and Marissa had found herself wondering what he'd said to the lady on his right that had made her laugh so. And why had the woman on his left stared at him with such bright eyes and touched his sleeve every few minutes to draw his attention?
It made no sense. He wasn't handsome or elegant. He didn't offer a title. Then again, he
was
interesting. Intriguing, even.
For instance, what had he meant about being a
man ?
Peter White was hardly a boy at twenty-seven.
"Miss York," a voice said from close by, making Marissa jump as she twisted in her seal.
A gentleman stood there, but he wasn't the one she'd been watching for. "Mr. Dunwoody," she said, offering a wan smile. Mr. Dunwoody had been high on her list of potential lovers earlier in the week. Alas, White had been less polite and more persistent.
"Miss York, may I sit with you?"
"Yes, of course. How was your hunt this morning?"
"A bit slow, I'm afraid." He launched into a description of the disappointing ride. Marissa nodded politely and shifted her feet. Unlike her mother, she preferred that the men linger over their port with a bit more tenacity. If they spent a full hour discussing their unfortunate male topics amongst themselves, perhaps they'd have exhausted the tales by the time they joined the women.
"But," he finished his story with a deep breath, "I wished to inquire if all was well with you?"
The muscles of her neck went stiff. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't they be?"
"You seem... not yourself today."
"Mr. Dunwoody," she said with a brighter smile. "I hope you are not telling me I look unwell."
"No! No, of course not, Miss York. You are radiant as ever. Your eyes are the loveliest shade of green, and your hair ... an indescribably delicate red."
His cheeks went pink as he spoke, and Marissa couldn't help but notice the sculpted bow of his mouth. Such fine lips he had. A bit narrow, but perfectly proportioned to his slim face. She had tried to tempt him to kiss her, but he had grown flustered and nervous.
She smiled more widely. "I hope you will still beg a dance tonight."
"I will! Absolutely, I will. In fact, might I commit you to the first dance?" He raised his hand, drawing her attention to his long fingers. Her waist tingled at the thought of his hand touching her there.
"That would be lovely, sir."
He smiled in answer, but it faded quickly. "Urn. I inquired after your well-being because I had heard that you and Mr. White argued last night."
Her skin ceased to tingle and turned to ice instead. This might be it. This might be the moment when she realized that she had no choice but to marry Jude Bertrand.
Dunwoody cleared his throat. "I can't help but notice that he has since departed. I hope that whatever happened, your feelings weren't injured. He seems a nice enough fellow, but perhaps overconfident."
"Oh ..." He looked sincere, not curious or sneaky. He might truly believe there'd been only an argument. So Marissa nodded. "We argued, yes. And in my anger, I asked him to leave. I regret that now, of course. It was impetuous."
"I'm sure you had your reasons, Miss York. I've never known you to be rash."
Marissa forced a smile. Mr. Dunwoody was the type of man she would rather marry. Quiet, gentle, and handsome... and apparently unaware of her flaws. But perhaps not biddable enough to accept another man's child? Still, he seemed to like her, even if he'd never mentioned a future.
He cleared his throat, and she had the brief, mad thought that he might propose then. "Do you know if Miss Samuel is expected this week? I know you are close friends, and I'd heard her mother has recovered from the illness that kept them from London."
"Oh, I think ..." Her words faded away as she realized what he must mean. He admired Elizabeth Samuel. Perhaps he even thought he loved her. As well he should. Beth was her best friend and a wonderful person. This solved the mystery of why Mr. Dunwoody had never kissed her. "Yes, she promised she would try to come. I'm sure she'll arrive any time now. Have you written to her?"
He flushed again. "I did not feel it proper. We only met once. "
"Well, I'm sure she'll be happy to know she's been in your thoughts."
The music paused for a moment, then started again with a chorus of swirling notes. Mr. Dunwoody's elegant fingers touched her arm. and he smiled brightly. "The first dance?" he asked, and Marissa rose to dance with him.
He swung her around in a lively jig, and soon enough others joined them. By the time the dance was over, Marissa was laughing and struggling to catch a full breath at the same time. Mr. Dunwoody's hand settled on her back with a steady touch, but she told herself not to enjoy it. He liked Beth, and Marissa could only be glad.
As he led her back to the settee, his smile grew strained. "Who is that man?" he murmured.
She looked up and saw that Mr. Bertrand had finally arrived. Arm resting on the mantle, he spoke with Aidan, but his eyes watched her. She expected jealousy, and yet his eyes sparkled with laughter.
He made no sense to her.
"That's Mr. Bertrand, a friend of the family." And
perhaps my husband.
He was bigger than every other man in the room. Taller and wider. He drew her eye even as she thanked Mr. Dunwoody for the dance.
When she saw that Jude was moving toward her, the hair on her neck rose with awareness.
"Miss York," he murmured. "You're a beautiful dancer."
"Thank you. Do you dance, Mr. Bertrand?"
"I'm capable of it."
She waited from him to request her hand, but he merely stood politely. Marissa's heart shrank with disappointment. She couldn't marry a man who could not dance. Dancing was one of the joys in her life. Dancing and riding and reading novels. And on special occasions, letting men do thrilling things to her body.
Boys,
Jude's voice seemed to whisper in her ear. Marissa jumped with shock, her gaze traveling down to his hands.
"Weil," she said, "If you'll excuse me, I owe my cousin a dance."
"Of course. I'll enjoy watching your grace from afar."
Flustered, she hurried toward the other side of the room, though she had no idea where Harry was or whether he might want to dance. But as she crossed the room, she caught sight of one of the maids hovering in the doorway. The girl's eyes widened when she saw Marissa, and she tilted her head toward the side before disappearing.
Having a bit of experience with the situation, Marissa followed.
"Miss," the girl said as soon as they were alone in the passage. "A note."
"From whom?"
"'twas left at the kitchen door, miss."
Nerves sizzling with excitement, Marissa hid the note in her skirts and hurried toward the next closed door. The sewing room. She hesitated before it, then shrugged away her misgivings and stole inside. The sconces were lit, as if her brother no longer trusted the darkness of unused rooms. Guilt overtook her for a moment, but she tried to look at the room with clear eyes. There was no ghost couple here, replaying her misadventures of the night before. There was no stain of her innocence on the settee. It was just a room.
Hands trembling, she opened the note.
My Darling,
Despite my rash words, I would not ever see you come to harm. Please forgive my behavior. My passion far you misrepresented itself as rudeness. I love you.
Pray, reconsider your refusal of my offer. I would spend every night as I spent that brief hour in your arms.
"Hour," she muttered. It had been hardly thirty minutes in all, and yet it had felt an eternity.
I am humbled by the gift you granted me. Please be my wife.
For a moment, she thought affectionately of Mr. White's legs. Of his closely shaven jaw and tender hands. Those hands had looked so promising, and yet they'd delivered so little pleasure. His thighs hadn't brought much pleasure either, but at least he hadn't marred her face with a stubblcd chin. Could she marry him?
Her mind rebelled at the thought. Perhaps dancing wasn't as important to her as she'd believed. She did not give Mr. White's proposal another moment of thought. Instead, she folded the note with a sigh and was turning to leave when she saw that she wasn't alone. Jude lounged in the doorway. "Oh! I was just..."
"He isn't blackmailing you. is he?" She realized then that the mysterious smile was finally gone. In its place was ice and warning.
"No! No, it's nothing like that. He only says he loves me."
"Ah. Are you inclined to forgive him?"
"Of course not!"
The iciness melted into a satisfied smile. "Good." He sauntered in and wandered toward the settee. "So, Miss York, this is the site of innocence lost."
"Mr. Bertrand!" she gasped.
He winked and dropped onto the settee, patting the seat beside him. "It's Jude, remember?"
"Jude," she mumbled.
"So, tell me something, Miss York. Was it worth it?"
Her body hovered in a strange place, half cool with horror and the other half chinning with an odd excitement. This man sat there and said these outrageous words as if they were perfectly acceptable. As if they shouldn't offend her. As if she would
want
to speak of them.
She eyed the cushion next to him.
"It can be enjoyable, you know."
"I know that," she snapped, before dropping down beside him.
"Was it?"
"No," she huffed.
He stiffened beside her. "He wasn't rough?"
"Oh, no! He was only ... unimpressive." As soon as the word left her mouth, Marissa realized how inappropriate it was. How should she know of such things? "I mean—"
But Jude was laughing beside her. "Unimpressive, eh? Well, that is a tragedy, but perhaps a welcome one for a lady's loss of innocence."
"How so?"
Jude leaned back and stretched his arms across the back. "It can be painful, and I would hate to think of you in pain."
"Well, there was a bit of discomfort, but I rather think that was due to him squishing me." She snuck a glance at Jude. "Now that I think of it, you look unfortunately heavy."
He tilted his head in such gracious acknowledgment that she felt churlish. "I can assure you I've not yet squished a lady. Not even once."
Interest prickled through her with a feeling like all the hair on her body standing at attention. "So ... are you very experienced, then?"
"Experienced enough."
"What does that mean? Among gentlemen, I mean. There is an entirely different standard from what I can gather."
He settled one ankle on his knee, and his thigh ended up very near her hand. "It means that I have had practice at bringing women pleasure."
Pleasure. The very prize she'd been seeking to reclaim ever since that fateful night two years before. Pleasure. And aching. And surprise. A knot low in her belly seemed to acquire weight. She squeezed her thighs together. She hadn't thought Jude Bertrand could make her feel that way with his inelegant largeness.
But his words were so ...
plump
with confidence. Not arrogance. Just assuredness.
He
had no doubt he knew how to bring pleasure, and so she had no doubt as well.
"Is it—" Her voice emerged a bit cracked, so she cleared her throat and tried again. "Is it a secret then? The way to bring a woman pleasure?"
"From what I've heard from women, yes. It seems a knowledge gained by only a happy few. Still, I'd say it's a more important skill than jumping a hedge, for instance, and yet so many husbands spend far more time learning of horses. You wouldn't want one of those husbands, would you. Miss York?"
"I-I'm sure I don't know what you mean."