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.
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.
Chapter 5
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 wa
sn'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."
A Little Bit Wild Page 4
