A Little Bit Wild

by Victoria Dahl

  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."

  "Really? I'm sure you do." He settled more firmly against the back, stretching enough that his thigh inched closer to her, his knee brushing her skirts. "There is more than one way, you know."

  "More than one way to what?"

  "Pleasure a woman."

  Her pulse took up residence between her legs. "Is there?" she squeaked.

  "Indeed. And of course men are pleased in countless ways. We are easily deciphered creatures. No depth to us at all."

  Oh, but that wasn't true. She did not know any more of men's pleasure than she knew of her own. Did they like the same things? Did they feel the same sensations? Marissa stared straight ahead, hands fisted in her lap. She should not encourage him. She should not lay a hand on his thigh oilcan toward him for a kiss. Then he might think she truly desired his attentions, when all she really wanted was pleasure.

  The faint shush of fabric behind her told her he had moved his hand. And when he dragged one finger down her neck, Marissa shivered and closed her eyes, trying to hold back a sharp sigh.

  "May I call you Marissa when we are alone? We are pretending, after all." His touch circled to the side of her neck as his thumb brushed her spine.

  Marissa felt the tightening of her nipples as gooseflesh flowed down her body. She knew that was a place that men might touch during lovemaking. "Yes, of course."

  "This is nice. Here, in the quiet, with you."

  "Mm." She dared not say more.

  "But your dance partners will be looking for you. Marissa."

  A faint French accent molded her name, the same as it molded his own when he introduced himself. "Mm," she murmured again, concentrating on his hand at her neck. It was hot and surprisingly light against her. She imagined it moving toward her neckline....

  "Shall we?" his quiet voice brushed over her as his palm snuck heat into the nape of her neck.

  Marissa arched carefully, curving her spine more fully into his hold. For a moment, his lingers felt heavier, and tension stretched between their bodies like a visible cord. His thigh tensed, pressing his knee against her. Was he leaning forward? Would he brush his mouth over the exposed skin of her shoulder? Her lips parted to allow deeper breaths. "Yes," she whispered ... and Jude stood and straightened his coat.

  "Then please allow me to escort you to your eagerly awaiting beaus."

  "To what?"

  He offered a hand, and she took it automatically, letting him help her to her feet.

  "But I don't feel like dancing now."

  "Then we shall talk."

  "What in the world would I talk to you about?"

  He huffed a laugh. "Why, anything you might talk to anyone else about."

  Disgruntled by her misunderstanding of his intent, Marissa scowled. All men ever wanted to discuss was horses and government. "Oh, you'd like to hear of my gardening, would you? Or I could regale you with tales of the latest novel I read. Perhaps I shall tell you of my plans for the little pillow I'm stitching."

  "Absolutely," he walked her slowly from the room.

  "I am not appeased by polite murmurings and the glazing of eyes, Mr. Bertrand. But if you care to speak of horseflesh, I will hang on your every word, I'm sure."

  "My God. You have a low opinion of men, don't you?"

  "On the contrary, I like men. They are polite and helpful and necessary for dancing. And men are so handsome and different, aren't they?"

  "Not all of us, clearly, but I'll let that go. You know, my mother enjoys gardening, and I used to spend hours helping her."

  She studied his face to see if he was humoring her, but he looked earnest.

  "She grows herbs in her small yard, and roses along the walk."

  "Really? I have never grown herbs. Cook won't let me into her plot, but roses ... roses are a puzzle. So easily upset and yet so strong and hardy."

  "Like men?"

  Her laughter escaped so suddenly that she put her fingers to her lips to quiet the sound. "Yes! Like men!

  "A laugh," he drawled. "And a common subject. We are like two peas in a pod, Miss York. Will you grant me a favor? Let me borrow the last novel you finished so that we may discuss it."

  "You wouldn't like it. It's melodramatic and overwrought."

  "Then it will remind me of you, so I'm sure I'll enjoy it a great deal."

  "Me?" she gasped, rounding on him just as they entered the music room. "I am not the least hit melodramatic! I am well-known as a calm and composed woman, Mr. Bertrand."

  "My mistake," he said, bowing over her hand to take his leave.

  She felt the faint brush of his mouth on her knuckles, and then he left her. Her frustration bubbled over, and Marissa stomped her foot before realizing the gesture could be interpreted as melodramatic. Or overwrought. Two things she most decidedly was not.

  Her composure was often remarked upon by the people of her circle, and she wasn't going to let Jude ruin her calm. A servant passed, and Marissa snatched a glass of wine from his tray and sipped it as quickly as she could manage. Only to help her composure, of course.

  She forgot all about dancing and glared at Jude Bertrand's wide back. He was insufferable, and she could only pray to God that she did not end up married to the man. He'd drive her mad before the first year was out.

  Chapter 6

  Marissa woke with a tense neck and an aching head. She nurtured the pain into anger as she sipped her tea. She glared at her own reflection as the new maid brushed and styled and dressed her. One stupid, drunken mistake and she'd forfeited all control over her own life. She'd had so little control in the first place and had held onto it with stingy determination.

  Of course, she'd known that she would marry, but Marissa had been in control of when. She'd known she would have to leave her home, but only when she was ready. And she'd known that her life would be spent with a husband, but who. . . the who had been up to her.

  If nothing else, she would at least snatch that one tiny piece back. Who.

  When her most modest dress was buttoned up and smoothed down, Marissa set off to battle with the baron.

  Angling her chin ridiculously high, she pushed open the doors to Edward's study and swept in. Her family had al least taught her how to make a grand entrance.

  "Ah, Marissa," Edward said, glancing up from his papers. "Would you close the door behind you? We need to speak."

  "We most certainly do."

  "So you've heard?"

  Marissa's chin inched in. "Heard what?"

  "Mrs. James Ready asked to speak with me this morning. She had heard there was an incident between you and Mr. White, and she was concerned that it might have been something 'nefarious.' She worried that her daughter might be exposed to the rumors. Millicent is a few years younger than you."

  All the anger drained from Marissa's muscles as if a hole inside her had opened up. Her chin inched down. Her knees lost feeling.

  "I managed to assuage her by bringing her into my confidence. I fed her the sam
e story we gave the servants. That you argued with Peter White over a minor jealousy, and it was nothing."

  "Oh," Marissa breathed. "Oh, that is good."

  "Millicent hasn't behaved strangely toward you?"

  "Not at all."

  Edward's head dropped, and the sight of his bowed neck stole the rest of the strength from her legs. Marissa lowered herself carefully to a chair.

  "Still, I cannot stop all the stories. I'll do my best, but. .."

  She nodded, and kept slowly nodding until the movement faded to nothing. It finally hit her. She had done this not just to herself, but to her family. To Edward, who had never done a sorry thing in his life. And to her mother, who might enjoy the

  fainting, but would not like hearing malicious laughter. And to Aidan, who had heard enough whispered gossip to last a lifetime.

  She could not complain. She could not stomp her foot and demand to he accommodated. If she needed to marry, she would marry Jude Bertrand and he grateful for his generosity.

  Or at least not resentful.

  Edward offered a wan smile. "I'm sure all will be well, 'Rissa. What did you wish to speak with me about, if not Mrs. Ready?"

  "Nothing. 'Twas not important."

  "It seemed important."

  "No."

  His eyes dropped to his desk. "I hoped it was something concerning that note you received last night."

  Shock jolted through her. "He told you?"

  "Who? Jude? No, the housekeeper told me. She is aware that you have behaved in an impetuous way and is eager to keep you from scandal. It was from Mr. White, I presume?"

  "He asked me to marry him," she murmured, surprised at the relief that coursed through her. Jude hadn't betrayed her trust.

  "You haven't changed your mind about him?"

  "No! Whatever happens, I won't marry Mr. White."

  "Good. But you will tell me if he contacts you again?"

  She considered the question for a long moment before nodding.

  "Oh, and Aidan is eager to discover his whereabouts. If he gave a direction, please don't reveal it to Aidan. A murder trial wouldn't help the situation."

  She left the library without another word, and went upstairs to offer her false fiancé an olive branch.