A Little Bit Wild

by Victoria Dahl

  Utter madness.

  Cousin Harry rose, tortured regret twisting his mouth. "I can't help but feel responsible. Peter White was my friend, after all. I apologize to all of you for inviting him."

  "Nonsense," Edward said. "Aidan and I knew him as well. It's no more your responsibility than ours. Please don't give it another thought."

  Harry didn't look convinced. "I wish it were as simple as making him step forward as a gentleman. I'd be gratified by the opportunity to persuade him."

  Marissa closed her eyes to try to find some calm, but when she opened them, she found that Aidan had crossed the room and now stood before her. She'd been wrong to think he would wound her with a glare. He looked at her with disappointed pity in his eyes.

  Tears gathered in her throat like a lightening fist. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But can we not reconsider this plan?"

  Edward shook his head. "It is enough of a risk to wait the month out. I have given you that, 'Rissa. It's more than our father would have done."

  "But that man ... he is entirely inappropriate. I would not even trust him to see me across the street, much less give the rest of my life to him."

  Aidan finally spoke. 'Jude Bertrand is a gentleman and a good friend. I would not have let him offer otherwise."

  "He looks as if he were dragged from the smithy's hearth!"

  "Marissa," Aidan bit out, and she finally saw the scorn she'd feared to find in his eves. "You sound like a silly, spoiled chit. A decent man has offered to help solve a problem that your thoughtlessness created. Perhaps instead of acting like a rude child, you could treat him with a bit of graciousness."

  Anger rose up to cover her hurt. "I don't even know him!"

  Aidan leaned toward her and pointed a finger at her chest. "Here is what you need to know: He's smart. He's decent. I've never seen him mistreat a woman. And he is willing to marry you and accept another man's babe as his own firstborn child without a moment's hesitation."

  "He ..." She threw up her hands in frustration. "And what kind of man would do that? He must be a grasping, prideless fool who wants nothing more than to elevate himself with a convenient marriage!"

  Edward crossed his arms. "Marissa Anne York, you forget yourself. Need I explain to you the kind of vile words others would use about you if the truth gets out? Your disdain is sadly misplaced."

  Her anger left her as suddenly as it had appeared to prop her up, and she felt the full force of her brothers' scorn. Her shoulders slumped, and she pressed a hand to her forehead. "I'm sorry. I'm sure he is a fine man, it's just that..."

  "As these things seem so important to you," Aidan interrupted, "understand that Jude Bertrand is the acknowledged son of the Duke of Winthrop. Jude needs no elevation, Marissa. Not from the mined sister of a baron, certainly."

  Marissa closed her mouth so quickly that her teeth clicked.

  Aidan's own teeth looked ready to crack under the pressure of his clenched jaw. He shook his head in weary disgust. "You are no longer a child. You've made sure of that. You will marry Jude or you'll marry Peter White, but Mr. White will not make a very good husband with his throat cut out, I'm afraid."

  "Aidan," she whispered, starting to reach for his arm, but he stepped away from her. "It's not fair. You'd never be forced to marry a girl who—" Horrified with what she'd been about to say, Marissa cut off her own words. "I'm sorry."

  For a moment, his eyes went dark with pain, but he gentled his expression with a smile. "Life is unfair, little sister, but Jude is a good man. I wouldn't have it otherwise."

  She nodded, knowing that was true. He finally reached for her, pulling her close for a tight hug before he kissed her cheek and let her go. Marissa wanted to cling to him, but she could see he was already far away, his eyes looking into the past. "If you'll excuse me ..."

  He would take one of his long rides now, and be gone for hours. Her friends all thought his brooding irresistibly romantic, but Marissa couldn't share their admiration for his sorrow.

  She stared at the closed door of the study for a long moment.

  "I agree with Marissa," her mother said in a wobbling voice. "That Mr. Bertrand has a frightening appearance, and he moves like a thief. I still don't see why she can't simply marry Mr. White. He's lovely and handsome, and his sister is married to George Brashears. Do you remember Mr.—"

  "She can't marry him," Edward cut in on a sharp note, "because he deceived her into giving up her virtue in a deliberate attempt to force her into marriage. Does that seem lovely to you?"

  "Well ... if he claims to be in love with her ..."

  Both Edward and Marissa glared furiously at her, and their mother finally lay back in the chair with a martyrlike sigh. "I suppose you must be right, Baron. Oh, this is all so difficult to accept! My poor family!" And she was gone into one of her swoons again.

  Marissa turned back to Edward. "The acknowledged son of a duke. He's natural born then?"

  "Yes."

  She started to raise both hands to plead with him, then thought of what Aidan had said. She lowered her hands. "I have never even spoken with him, Edward."

  "He's visited us four times, but if he doesn't make a pretty turn in the ballroom, I suppose you do not see him."

  The awfulness of that truth swept over her like an icy breeze. Gooseflesh sprang up on her skin. And yet, what could she say? She liked to dance with handsome gentlemen. She enjoyed their flirtatious attention and the excitement of stolen kisses. And when there was no music or dancing to be had, she preferred that they disappear into their smoky male habitats and leave her alone with her friends.

  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.

  Chapter 3

  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 a
t 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 wo
nder 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.

  Chapter 4

  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.