A Little Bit Wild (4 page)

It was no different for the men, so far as she could tell.

"I'm sure he is perfectly nice—"

"You'll find out soon enough. Jude will spend time with you this week. Enough time that no one will talk if a betrothal is announced a fortnight from now."

Protest bubbled inside her. She wanted to scream a denial. Fall to her knees and beg. Shout at the world to leave her be.

But her brothers were right. She was not a child anymore, not by even the most liberal definition. So Marissa folded her hands together and nodded. There would be time for another solution, if one was needed at all. This was not the end. Jude Bertrand was not her husband.

Yet.

Mr. Bertrand stood at the end of the hall, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out a narrow window. Sunlight should have streamed through the glass, but the wide span of his back blocked every single ray. If he did dance, Marissa should not like to be the girl whose slipper he trod upon.

Yet as rough a figure as he cut, she could see no other reason to believe that Jude Bertrand wasn't a gentleman. It may have taken yards of fabric to cover those shoulders, but the lines of the coat were impeccable. His hair might look a bit coarse, but it was trimmed straight and neat at his neck.

He shifted, and his hair glowed in the sun, revealing that the dark shade was not true brown but auburn, and Marissa found herself cringing to think that it must have been quite red in his youth. What a little ruffian he would have looked. Red-headed and coarse-featured. What a little ruffian his
children
would be. And with her own red hair, there would be no escape from it.

She'd meant to approach him with determination, but her feet slowed at that thought.

Perhaps Mr. Peter White was not such an awful choice, after all. He was witty, and he kept a merry crowd of friends.

She stopped, intent on escaping without notice, but Mr. Bertrand cocked his head and turned toward her.

"Miss York," he said solemnly.

When their eyes met, she blushed, thinking of what he must know about her. "Mr. Bertrand," she murmured.

He smiled, and his smile, at least, was pleasant, despite the vulgar width of his mouth. "Have you decided if I may escort you to the breakfast room?"

The question recalled her earlier rudeness.
If
I may escort you. But in truth, he wasn't asking about breakfast. He was asking if she might marry him at the end of the month. If he could pretend to be her suitor. Because she'd lost her virginity the night before on the couch of the sewing room. Her cheeks burned with heal. "Of course, Mr. Bertrand. I'd be honored."

He nodded, but the tilt of his mouth made clear that he found her answer amusing.

"This is overwhelming," she explained. True enough, but she knew that much of her discomfort was because she could not picture marrying a man like him. She liked handsome, elegant, finely made men. Jude Bertrand was . . .

Marissa could not bring herself to call him ugly, not when he was treating her so fairly. But his face was wide and looked hewn from stone, with an old break in his nose as if the sculptor's chisel had slipped. His cheekbones were high and broad, and the wicked angle of his eyebrows added menace to his masculine features. That and his unrelenting largeness. . .

When he walked toward her, Marissa snuck a peek at his thighs. The muscles strained at his trousers in a vulgar display. He was made for the battlefield or the shipyard, not the ballroom.

Still, when he offered his arm, she took it, aware of a hint of spice in his scent.

His arm was too solid beneath her hand. More like the wood of a banister than the flesh of a man. She supposed that might be comforting if she knew him, if he were charged with the duty of caring for and protecting her. But he was a stranger, so she felt nothing more than a vague anxiety and kept her fingers light against his sleeve.

"I apologize," she murmured as he led her through the doors of the breakfast room. "I'm sorry I did not know you earlier."

"You needn't apologize. I didn't expect I'd drawn your notice."

Marissa glanced around the room, noting that one guest was leaving, and only one other, her elderly Great Aunt Ophelia remained. Marissa leaned a little closer to Mr. Bertrand. "I don't understand why you're doing this."

"Are you not hungry?"

"I mean this," she protested, waving an impatient hand. She lowered her voice. "Why did you volunteer to court me?"

He stopped their slow progress toward the buffet and angled his body toward her. "Because I like you."

"You just said yourself that you don't even know me!"

"No, Miss York. I said you didn't know me. But I have liked you from the moment we met."

Shocked, Marissa drew back so that she could more easily see his expression. His mouth offered her that crooked smile again, as if he knew some secret about her. And so he did. "You have never even asked me to dance."

"Would you have said yes?"

No. She knew she would have found an excuse not to dance with him, and a sharp stab of guilt left her angry. "Are you saying you were too cowardly to ask, for fear I might say no?"

"On the contrary. I was brave enough not to interfere with your clear affection for graceful young boys."

"My..." Marissa stared at him, her lips parted in shock. Surely he couldn't mean that he'd noticed her secret. No, he only meant that she liked to dance with elegant gentlemen.

Just as she snapped her mouth closed, Mr. Bertrand winked and tilted his head toward the sideboard. "Shall we break our fast, Miss York?"

Relieved to have time to puzzle out this strange conversation, she nodded. But her relief faded a bit when he picked up a plate and gestured her ahead of him.

He was on his best behavior, it seemed, and meant to serve her breakfast. A lovely effort, except that gentlemen were notoriously stingy when it came to filling her plate. She was a lady. Her appetite was meant to be dainty.

It wasn't.

But she look a deep breath and pasted on a smile because ladies did not snatch plates from gentlemen's hands in order to get another ration of bacon. She could always sneak back for more when he went riding with the other men.

He stood still next to her, both hands holding the plate at waist-level. She glanced toward the kipper fork.

"Please," he murmured, nodding his head toward the dish. "I wouldn't presume to know your tastes just yet. Allow me to play footman." He held the plate out to clarify.

Marissa's heart beat fast in surprise as she carefully served herself one kipper and then a tiny spoonful of stewed apples. When she reached the bacon, she slid two slices onto the plate, then darted a look at him.

Mr. Bertrand raised an eyebrow, offering that same secret smile. As if he knew her.

Or perhaps that was just the way a smile looked on a mouth so unfortunately wide.

Marissa bit her lip and added three more slices, staring at the blunt thickness of his thumb as she did so. When she looked up again, his smile was wider.

What an odd man. She served herself more generously with the remaining dishes.

He followed her to the table, delivering her plate with a little bow before he filled his own.

When a footman approached with tea, Mr. Bertrand requested coffee instead. "Would you prefer coffee, Miss York?"

Would she? She started to say no, but paused when her tongue touched the roof of her mouth.

Half the male visitors preferred coffee, but all the ladies drank tea. She'd tried a sip of coffee once, and it had been awful. Bitter and harsh. She hadn't liked it... and yet she wanted it again, if only to be daring.

Marissa glanced to her steaming cup of respectable tea and shook her head. "No, thank you."

Disconcerted by his smile, Marissa took a bite to buy herself a moment of quiet. She was supposed to be getting to know this man, yet every moment with him left her more confused.

She did not want to like him. He was taking advantage of an awful situation. He was unattractive and strange. She would not like him just because he offered her an extra portion of bacon and a sip of a daring drink.

Her aunt excused herself before Marissa was halfway through her plate. "Have a lovely morning, Aunt Ophelia," Marissa called out loudly. The half-deaf woman waved an irritated hand.

They were alone.

Marissa decided to be up-front, because she was simply no good at prevarication. "Mr. Bertrand, this is obviously a delicate matter. I find it difficult to address, and yet I have no choice, due to my own... poor choices."

His voice remained as calm as if they were speaking of the weather. "I assure you that you may speak freely. I'm quite aware of the circumstances and am entirely unfazed by them."

"But... I don't understand you. How can that be?"

"Miss York, your brother may have told you that my father is the Duke of Winthrop? As lofty as my father's title is, my mother is not the most respectable of women."

"Well, I assumed ..."

"She is a paid companion."

"To whom?"

"To whichever gentleman she deigns to love at the moment."

"Oh!" she yelped. "I thought... oh, I see."

"She loved my father for a good many years, but he was not her only gentleman admirer, and she was not his wife. So when I tell you that you may speak freely with me, I am not being polite. You were with a man last night, and he is even less appealing a suitor than I, and so here we are."

You were with a man....
Her heart beat so hard that he must be able to see her pulse in her throat. He could undoubtedly see the scarlet blush climbing her cheeks. There was no hiding behind euphemisms. He knew that she lain down and raised her skirts and allowed Peter White to... do that. "I'd had too much wine."

"As is often the case in these situations."

"Mr. Bertrand," she snapped, "I am trying to discover your motives."

"I've already confessed my motives. I like you, Miss York. Is that not enough of a reason?"

"No! It makes no sense. You know nothing of me but this awful thing I've done. What could you possibly like so much that you would be willing to marry me?"

He finished his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup as he swallowed.

"Well?" she demanded.

Mr. Bertrand set the cup down, the proportions of it ridiculously small in his wide fingers. He politely raised his napkin to his mouth, the white linen calling attention to his tanned skin. No wonder she'd thought him a groundskeeper. It was likely he was related to one or two.

But regardless of his base beginnings, there was nothing subservient in his eyes as he leaned toward her. His eyes radiated all the confidence of a duke as he met her gaze.

"I like you, Miss York, because you are wicked, and there can he no finer a blessing for a man than a good and wicked wild. Wouldn't you agree?"

His words were so shocking that Marissa could not comprehend them for a moment. Wicked? He'd called her wicked? Blood rushed in her ears as the offense sunk in.

"How dare you? You are absolutely—"

He pushed back his chair, interrupting her tirade. "I'm sure you are correct. No need to continue. Consider me chastened. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm dreadfully late for the hunt." He bowed as if he weren't being rude, and murmured, "Miss York," as though he had a right to address her with such warmth in his voice.

Marissa gawked at his wide back before it disappeared through the door. For a long moment, she just sat there, stunned, but nothing could keep her still for long. Marissa clenched her jaw and stood to serve herself a second helping of every dish.

She'd been wrong about him being a gentleman. Very wrong indeed. And if he thought she would tolerate him even an instant longer than she had to, Jude Bertrand wasn't as wily as he seemed.

Jude pulled on his finest evening coat, ran a hand through his hair, and met his own happy eyes in the mirror. Unfortunate face or not, he'd managed to get under Marissa York's skin this morning. He wagered that no one had ever called her wicked before, and she would deny the label to her last breath. But the truth always proved more tenacious than a lie. His words would be hooked in her thoughts precisely because she suspected she truly was wicked.

Yes, he was far from pretty, but he had no doubt that Marissa had been thinking of him all day. She'd probably rehearsed an outraged speech she meant to deliver as soon as she got him alone. He'd be happy to oblige by finding them some privacy. After all, he thought her outrage a lovely thing.

A knock sounded abruptly on the door of his chambers. "Yes?"

Aidan York opened the door and gave him a once-over. "I can't believe you're going to be my brother," he growled.

"Don't worry. I'll put in a good word for your import business with my father, if that's what you're after."

Aidan snorted, but then he frowned at the ceiling. "Actually, since you brought it up . .

Jude clapped him on the shoulder and turned him toward the hallway. "Best get your sister to the altar before we talk cozy alliances. I believe she finds this an imperfect match."

"Yes. That could be a problem."

"I've no doubt Marissa prefers charming boys, but there's no changing that. My job is to convince her that she might be looking for something entirely different in a man."

"I see." Aidan tossed him a warning look. "You know she plans to call off if there is no child and no scandal."

"I don't mean to fix my place by guaranteeing one or the other, if that's what you mean."

"Good. Unwise as she may have been, she's a good girl, and I won't see her suffer."

Jude arched an eyebrow at the implication that marrying him would be suffering, but he held his tongue. He also refrained from mentioning that he suspected Marissa was anything but a good girl. Older brothers weren't inclined to welcome that sort of speculation, and apparently even less inclined to notice bad behavior.

"She complained to Edward about you again, you know. Said you were unacceptable."

"The story of my mother, I'm sure."

"You told her the truth?" "I did."

Aidan paused at the top of the staircase, frowning down at his shoes. "Will she visit your mother at Christmas, do you suppose?"

Jude thought of Marissa sitting in his mother's parlor, taking tea with the beautiful, improper women who always gathered there. She would love it, and so would Jude. "I would not do anything to offend her," he answered carefully.

"See that you do not. But... if you do go, might I tag along? That woman your mother calls Kitten ..."

Jude was halfway down the stairs and still laughing when he caught sight of a new guest. His laugh ended on a low groan. "What the hell is Patience Wellingsly doing here?"

Aidan glanced toward the woman below, and his face hardened. "Christ."

Jude raised an eyebrow. "I thought you found her amusing."

"I did, yes."

Jude had no problem reading between the lines of those three words. Aidan was notoriously popular with the ladies. And he was also notoriously averse to any relationship the lasted longer than a week's time. Upon spying Patience, Jude had assumed she would be a problem for himself, as she'd been hinting at an affair for months now. But it seemed she'd prove more of a problem for Aidan.

"So ..." Jude ventured.

"I presumed a friendship at the end of the Season would prove conveniently limited. I see I was wrong."

The woman, forty years old and still stunningly beautiful, glanced up then, and her renowned blue eyes widened as they touched first on Jude and then on Aidan. Her smile welcomed them both, and though her face bespoke her intelligence and her warmth, her eyes warned of tenaciousness. When Patience wanted something, she usually got it. Jude had sidestepped that trap, but Aidan apparently hadn't.

"How long will she be here?" Jude murmured.

Aidan shook his head. "I didn't know my mother had invited her. She'll stay the week, I would imagine."

"Well, I'd appreciate if you'd keep her busy. Don't want her interfering with my courtship."

"Sod of f," Aidan answered, though his lips barely moved. They reached the last step, and Patience stepped forward. "Mr. York, what a pleasure to see you again. And dear Mr. Bertrand, how have you been?"

Jude's irritation toward her softened. He hadn't minded her pursuit this summer. She was amusing and interesting. But she was known to fall madly in love at the drop of a hat. Even her husband had joked about it when he was alive. Aidan, equally well-known for loving no one, had been foolish to get involved.

Jude bowed over her hand, offered an honest compliment on her beauty, and quickly excused himself. He felt the red-hot burn of Aidan's glare burrowing through his shoulder blades as he walked away, and Jude stretched his shoulders back with a smile. He was under no obligation to help his fool of a friend. He had wooing to do.

Unfortunately, Marissa had not been standing at the bottom of the staircase, arms crossed and foot tapping out her impatience. Was she actively ignoring him? Only one way to find out.

Jude made his way first to the drawing room and then to the music room. Dark notes greeted him as he drew close to the threshold, and he was hardly surprised to see Marissa at the piano, coaxing out the angry tune. When she looked up to see him smiling, her fingers banged harder.

"Marissa!" Lady York screeched. The music stopped, and the last notes rang through the room. Lady York cleared her throat and tempered her volume. "Do play something a bit gentler, dear."

The other guests shifted, some hiding smiles.

"I don't feel gentle tonight, Mother. Perhaps you would care to play?"

"Oh, I couldn’t!” Lady York trilled, already pushing forward in her seat. "I haven't... well, all right. If you insist. Mr. Bertrand, would you accompany me? You have such a lovely deep speaking voice."

His chin jerked up in shock. "Er, I must excuse myself, madam. I've been told my singing voice evokes thoughts of dying wolves. But please allow me to escort you to the piano."

He delivered her safely to her scat, and she protested that if he didn't sing, she would have to sing herself. After a bit of coaxing, she acquiesced with a giggle of delight. Even the slightest acquaintance could see that Lady York loved performance above all else, and she launched happily into a romantic song about a knight and his fair maiden.

Jude's fair maiden glared from the settee as he walked toward her.

"Miss York," he said quietly.

She did not offer her hand.

"You look beautiful this evening." She did. The faint red of her hair glinted in the candlelight. He wanted to lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head, but her glare warned that she might box his ears if he did. And the other guests might find it shocking as well.

"You called me wicked," she hissed.

Jude grinned. Oh, yes. She'd been stewing all day. "May I?" He took a seat before she could say no, and Marissa sat straighter so that her shoulders would be an inch farther away.

"Your dress is the exact color of a lake on a cloudless day. Stunning."

"Sir, you cannot insult me and then carry on as if we are to be friends."

"Did I insult you?"

"Obviously."

"I did not intend to. I find wickedness to be a personal grace. Naughtiness is even better." He leaned closer, and she could not inch away without drawing attention. "Wouldn't you agree, Miss York?"

She stood so quickly that the breeze she created raised his hair. He stood with a bit less haste. "Shall we stroll about the garden? It's an uncommonly warm evening."

"Dinner will be served soon."

"Then I promise not to stroll you all the way to London."

She was breathing fast, nearly panting with anger, and Jude cast an admiring eye at the slate of her neckline. Modest enough, but straining to contain her emotions.

"I believe," he said so low that she angled her head to hear him better, "that we have important matters to discuss. In private." He offered his arm, and Marissa cast a quick look about the room before she look it.

"A few minutes. Nothing more."

A young buck watched with a patently confused frown as Jude led Marissa out of the room. Jude smiled easily back.

When they stepped from the hallway through the patio doors, Marissa took a deep breath and let go of his arm. "You are insufferable," she growled. "To ask if I am wicked. As if I were a naughty child. "

"Oh, Miss York. I assure you I meant nothing of the sort."

"What did you mean, then?"

Jude clasped his hands safely behind his back so he would not be tempted to find out just how naughty she was. "How many men have you kissed?"

She drew breath for at least three seconds, the air wheezing inside her tight throat. "Mr. Bertrand!" she finally managed on a strangled gasp.

"More than a few, I'd wager. As I have kissed more than a few women. Mouths are enticing things, are they not?"

She shook her head hard, just once, as if she needed to clear a thought. "I will not have this conversation with you. I am a lady, sir."

"Yes, you are," he murmured, watching her chest rise and fall in the dark light of dusk. "And unlike other gentlemen you may know. I would not dream to tell you that ladies do not like to kiss. Or do not like to think of men. Or cannot be tempted by a pretty turn of leg."

Her breathing slowed. She stood quiet, still as a statue in the deepening night. "I... is this what you meant to speak of? This is ridiculous."

"No, actually. I meant to find a moment of privacy so that you could say all those things to me that are swirling inside your head. You're angry?"

"I... yes. No. I am simply ..." She took another deep breath, and set her shoulders back. "Mr. Bertrand—"

'Jude, please."

A few seconds ticked by before she relented. "Jude. You must see that we are incompatible."

"I do not."

"But you are older than I and—"

"I am thirty years old. Your friend Mr. White is twenty-seven, I believe."

"Oh. Mr. White. Yes. Well, I suppose you seem much older than he."

"Indeed I do."

"And you are so very different. And while I truly appreciate you stepping forward to assist me, I wish to explain my plans."

"Your plans?"

"Yes." Nodding, she folded her hands together and began to pace a short path across the stones and back. "I do not expect there to be a scandal. And if there is not a scandal, then there is no reason to proceed with this charade."

"But there may very well be a scandal. Or a babe, at least."

Her body jerked to a stop, and her hand opened against her stomach. "No. I'm sure there's not."

' "You've bled?"

"My God, how can you speak of such things?"

"I've spent a great deal of time with women who concern themselves with the subject."

"Well, I do not normally concern myself with such topics and do not wish to speak of it. Not with you."

"I understand. But you may always speak openly with me. If you have any questions, anything that you've wondered about, do not hesitate to ask. You're an intelligent woman, Miss York. You must be eaten up with curiosity."

"About what?"

"About men and wickedness."

"No!" she gasped. "No, I am not! And regardless, I have no intention of marrying you, so it would be entirely inappropriate."

Jude stepped closer, arms burning with the impulse to touch her. He fisted his hands tighter. "How about we strike a deal? I will step aside with grace and goodwill if your wishes prove true. Despite my heartbreak, I will smile and kiss your hand and bid you farewell. But in the meantime, we will be betrothed. Truly."

"But. . . but I don't even like you."

"Truly, Miss York, can you not at least pretend I might have tender feelings?"

"I'm sorry! I'm only being honest. And what do you mean, 'pretend'?"

"Pretend. That you like me. That you trust me. Pretend that you may speak your most intimate thoughts. "Tis all I ask."

Head cocked, she stared at him with a frown. "Have you no pride?"

"Ha. On the contrary. I have far too much. Why, look at me. Who am I to presume to court you? A big, ugly bastard son of a French courtesan? How could I possibly win your heart?"

Though he grinned to soften his words, Marissa looked more upset than ever. She didn't seem to realize that he'd drawn close enough to see her expression clearly, despite the dark.

"Do not look so sad for me, Miss York."

"I don't think you're ugly."

"Yes, you do."

When she shook her head, he finally let his hands free and raised one arm toward her. He slid the edge of one finger along her jaw, paying close attention to the detail of her skin. Soft and fine and warm against his, and the hitch in her breath added weight to his blood so that each beat dragged through his heart. "You are too beautiful for me," he whispered.