A Little Bit Wild

by Victoria Dahl

  And in those few heartbeats, she did.

  Chapter 23

  After dinner, Marissa escaped to her room as soon as she was able. She'd never have entered the dining room at all if not for the hope that Jude would be there.

  She'd told herself that if he came to dinner it would be a sign. A signal to her that he might still care. After dinner, she would be brave and request a stroll through the conservatory.

  But Jude hadn't come down to dinner. And it had been all Marissa could do not to burst into tears over the barley soup. He was gone already, really. And she missed him with a fierceness that turned every morsel of food dry and bitter in her mouth.

  It had been up to Harry to create cheer over dinner, and between him and Marissa's mother, the talk had been lively. Marissa had managed a few smiles for Harry's sake. She felt guilty for having even discussed that he might have been disloyal. Harry had been the one to stay by Aidan's side during those first awful days of grieving. And when

  Aidan had gone off to London to drown his sorrows, Harry had been there to ensure Aidan did not end up murdered in a slum somewhere. Marissa was not supposed to know these things, of course, but she'd stolen looks at Edward's correspondence.

  So she should never have doubted Harry, and her regret kept her with her family through dinner, at least. But now, at nine o'clock, she stood impassively in front of her mirror and let her maid ready her for bed.

  If she were married, the maid would brush out her hair and leave it loose. She would dress Marissa in layers of scandalously transparent fabric, and then luck her into bed to await her husband. Jude would be the man to join her, and he would slide his big, naked body against hers and let her do whatever she wanted with him.

  He'd never tell her no. He'd egg her on and dare her to be naughty. And she would be. With him. For him.

  But when her maid tucked her beneath the covers, there was no anticipation in it. The door closed, and the room snapped to darkness, and that was the end of her day. She was alone in her cold bed, with no husband.

  What if she married someone else? Would that be less lonely? Perhaps her problem lay only in her age. She should've been married by now. Perhaps her feelings had nothing to do with Jude.

  Lying in the dark, Marissa stared at the ceiling above her. It was just another shade of black. There was nothing to see, but Marissa imagined. She imagined that another body lay next to her. A man.

  She imagined him as Charles LeMont. Then as

  Fitzwilliam Hess. She even imagined Peter White and Mr. Dunwoody.

  She wanted to turn toward none of them. In fact, her arms hugged her body at the thought. Charles could not have understood her passion. It would've intimidated him. Even during their bout of innocent groping, he'd been ... surprised. "You should not let me," he'd murmured several times, though he'd shown no interest in controlling his own questing hands. He'd wanted to remind her of her virtue even as he helped tarnish it.

  And Peter White had been the same. You should have stopped me.

  She knew the type now. Mr. Dunwoody could not have been much different. They wanted women to be delicate creatures who could be persuaded, not beings who yearned and wanted.

  Fitzwilliam Hess hadn't minded that, at least, but he would've made an awful husband, all the same. How to turn to a mail in bed when you could not trust a word from his mouth?

  But Jude ... Jude she could imagine beneath her covers, the weight of him on the mattress pulling I her closer. If he loved her, Marissa could touch him with impunity. She could ask him anything. Explore everywhere. He would not think less of her. He would think more.

  And beyond the bedchamber, he would be her friend. He was clever and kind and so comfortable in his skin. "I know who I am," he'd said more than once. And he had known, at least until she'd asked why a woman would love him. What an awful thing to ask a man who was eminently lovable. She was the unlovable one, the one with the cold

  heart and arrogant presumptions and casual dismissals of a good and decent man.

  Good and decent, yes. Too good and decent for her. He'd spent time with her in close quarters, and now he was done. She wanted to imagine that he'd grieve when he left. She wanted to pretend he would sail away and miss her and return someday to declare his unrelenting love. But in truth, he'd go to Italy and spend time with beautiful dark-eyed women who looked at him and saw a man and nothing less.

  He'd do things with them that he'd never done with Marissa. He'd be lost to her.

  Tears dripped into the hair at her temples. She scratched away the tickling feeling and sniffled her self-pity.

  She did not want to give him up. She wanted to be his friend and lover. She wanted him to never belong to another. She wanted to hang on his arm and growl at any woman who came near.

  Marissa wanted to light for him. If she had to fight Jude himself, then so be it. He'd liked her well enough before. He could learn to like her again.

  Heart pounding at her own daring, Marissa slipped from her bed and stole to her chamber door. Though it felt like midnight, it wasn't yet ten, and she stayed at her door for a long minute, listening for her family. The hallway seemed bright as day when she finally snuck out, and the stairway a mile across as she hurried toward the south wing of rooms.

  She didn't know why she was so nervous. If she ran into one of her brothers, she'd simply raise her chin and inform him she was trying to save her betrothal. If she came across her mother, the woman would be giddy with the shock of scandal and lust. Harry would say nothing to stop her, and Aunt Ophelia would likely squint and order a cup of hot milk from the strange maid sneaking about.

  All in all, this was an excellent family to have if one wished to engage in secret trysts.

  Marissa reached Jude's door undetected and felt almost let down by the quietness of it all. But before she had a chance to breathe a sigh of relief, she realized she was about to meet her most formidable obstacle. Jude had been impervious to her feelings earlier. And unlike the men of Marissa's family, Jude seemed to grow cool with anger, not hot.

  She could understand yelling and fist banging and slamming doors. But Jude's cold stare made her want to cower. She wondered if he'd learned it from the duke.

  She wondered if she was stalling again.

  Forcing herself to be brave, Marissa raised her hand. For a split second, she considered not knocking at all. Knocking would give him the chance to say no and send her away. But barging in would be worse than rude. It would be cowardly.

  Marissa set her shoulders and knocked.

  "Yes?" Jude responded immediately, his voice clipped and distant.

  Before her bravery could run dry, Marissa turned the knob and opened the door.

  Jude sat at the writing desk, a pen in hand, neck bowed as he scratched some last line. A forbidding frown drew his brows low, and the scowl stayed in place when he glanced up.

  But she took comfort in the way his pen dropped from his fingers when he saw her standing there. "Marissa."

  "I don't want you to leave," she blurted.

  "Pardon?"

  Marissa shut the door behind her, realizing that even with all her worrying, she still had no plan for what to say. "I don't want you to leave," she repeated, unable to find any other words.

  "I can't stay here forever, Marissa."

  "But you'd planned to. You were looking for a house. You meant to stay a long while!"

  He stared at her as if he couldn't quite make out her voice.

  "You meant to stay, and now you say you're not angry with me, and yet you're still leaving."

  "You were right. It's better if I go."

  "Why?"

  He turned back to the letters on the desk and spread his hands wide over them. His shoulders rose with a deep, slow breath, then slumped when he exhaled. "What do you want from me, Marissa? We've said our good-byes."

  "What if..." Her pulse sped to an impossible rhythm. "What if I say I've reconsidered the plan?"

  "What plan?" The words
were tight with impatience. He wanted her to leave. She took three steps farther into the room.

  "The plan. My plan. Your idea was much better, I think, to treat our courtship as a true betrothal. Can we not simply go back to that?"

  "Marissa ..." He dropped his head into his hands and buried his fingers in his hair. "I do not have the will to puzzle this out tonight. I'm exhausted."

  "But you will leave in the morning, and then... then it will be too late."

  "Too late for what?"

  It was easier to approach him when he wasn't watching her. Marissa crossed his room and watched his shoulders tighten as she neared him. But he didn't look toward her. He simply steeled himself, as if he were waiting for a blow.

  "Too late for me to apologize. I—"

  "You already apologized, and I said I was sorry as well. Can we not—"

  "But," she interrupted, "I haven't apologized for how stupid I've been. How blind. Jude, I don't want you to go." She dared to put her hands on his shoulders. "Stay."

  His head lowered a bit. As if she had defeated him. "To what end? Your games have grown too dangerous. I wasn't trying to tempt you to indiscretion. I was trying to ..."

  She slid her hand up. He wore no cravat or coat, so the skin of his neck was bare to her. He was so warm. Nearly feverish. She curled her fingers to the shape of his muscles. "Trying to what?" she whispered.

  Jude shook his head.

  She could not resent that. She'd been trying to coax him, but she was the one who'd come to say her peace.

  "Jude? I want ... I want you to stay because I think I'm in love with you."

  She felt the flinch of his muscles as if they were her own, but when he spoke, his voice carried not a hint of emotion. "You're wrong."

  "I'm not."

  "You decided you might love me now, because the drama has passed and I'm leaving. That's the only reason."

  "No."

  He turned so quickly toward her that the force knocked her hand away. "You're not in love with me, and this game between us is done."

  "I haven't been playing a game," she insisted. His stubborn expression didn't budge, so Marissa went to her knees on the carpet and look one of his hands between hers. "Jude, listen—"

  "Don't do that, Get up."

  She held tighter. "Whatever my faults, whether I'm shallow or wicked or selfish, when have I ever lied to you? When?"

  "Get up."

  "This isn't a game, Jude."

  He stood and pulled her to her feet as well. "It is a game. Don't you understand that?"

  Marissa's whole body turned cold for a split second, as if she'd moved through a draft in the room. "What do you mean?"

  He let go of her arms and pushed past her to stalk across the floor.

  "Jude? What do you mean that it's a game?" Her frozen body was thawing now, and shaky pain revealed itself. "You were pretending?"

  "No!" he snapped. "I wasn't pretending anything. I liked you, and I thought I could help you."

  "And nothing more?"

  "Oh, there was more. I thought if I teased you enough, if I made you want me, then you might marry me happily. And look. It worked."

  Marissa choked back the lightness of tears in her throat. "I don't understand."

  Jude began to pace, his hands moving in brutal gestures as he spoke. "I wanted to trick you into liking me, Marissa. I knew I could do it. You're passionate and curious and alive. But I don't want that anymore. I want something more."

  "Something more than me?"

  "Something more than lust and whatever affection can be gleaned from that. I've had lust, Marissa. I am not so hard to want, despite what you may think."

  That snapped her back out of her fear. He hadn't lied to her. He'd never made any bones about his intentions. What he was confessing wasn't the truth about what he'd done. He was confessing that she'd hurt him.

  "So you needn't be surprised by your lust," he snapped. "I'm not. That was the entire point."

  "I know you are not hard to want, Jude. Believe me, I know that. But I know you are worth more than lust too. I'm so sorry for what I said. It wasn't that I thought no one could love you—"

  "You have no idea the difference between love and hist. You've said so yourself."

  "When?"

  "When you spoke of Charles and your affair."

  "I was seventeen! I am a woman now, and I can see beyond your body!"

  "I certainly hope so, as you don't much care for it."

  Marissa blinked at his muttered words. She looked him up and down and shook her head in utter shock. 'Jude Bertrand, are you pouting?"

  His eyes snapped to her. "Pardon?"

  "Are you pouting because I don't think you're pretty?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," he growled, but she caught a hint or a flush creeping up his neck.

  "Ha. I think you are. That's fine, because I don't think you're pretty, so there's no need to mutter it like it's a secret."

  "Thank you for your honesty!"

  Marissa crossed her arms and glared at him. "What woman would ever think you pretty? You're big and wide, with legs and arms like tree limbs."

  Jude growled. "Perfect."

  She moved closer to touch a finger to his jaw. "You've a face like an ancient warrior, as if it's seen far more battles than waltzes. And hands better suited for battering opponents than playing the piano."

  He turned his face away. "Touché."

  "You are not pretty, Jude. And I want you more than I've ever wanted any pretty man. You are strong, and looking at you makes me feel weak. For you." She tried to spread her fingers over his cheek, but he stepped away.

  "Weakness is nothing to build a life on, Marissa. This was all a mistake. I wanted you, and I thought being wanted in return would be enough."

  "It's not?"

  "No, it's not! I've been satisfied with being accepted for too long. I would ask more than that from my wife."

  Marissa almost gave an easy answer. Reassurance was a simple thing, because she felt so much for him, but just as she was taking a deep breath, the torment on his face stole her words.

  His eyes glinted with an impossible mixture of regret and pride. "For a dozen years, it's been enough for me to be my father's bastard. To be welcomed as an exotic diversion. To be accepted. And I tried to win your love in the same way. Do you see that? To slip in beneath your defenses and lull you into accepting me." He snarled the word, rage curling his lip. "But I am not a bastard child anymore. I am a man, and I ask for more than that.

  His anger should have frightened her, but she found that she needed to touch him. His words didn't scare her, because she had his answer. She could give him what he demanded. She already had.

  Marissa stepped close, one last time. If he stepped away again, he'd find his back to the wall. "Would you ask for love?" she whispered.

  "Yes."

  She put her hand to his chest, amazed that it could already feel familiar. "And admiration? And respect?"

  Jude closed his eyes, his chest expanding under her hand as he drew in a deep breath.

  "And would you want lust too, I hope?"

  "You're saying foolish things."

  She slid her hand around to his back and laid her cheek to the spot she'd touched. His heart raged beneath her ear. "I love you, Jude."

  "Don't say that, mon coeur. Don't."

  "I love you, and I'm weak with wanting you."

  "That is lust," he insisted, his words hoarse at the edges. "It's only lust."

  "And my yearning to talk with you, to be alone and hear your thoughts? Is that lust as well? I underestimated you, Jude. I dismissed you. And now you're doing the same to me. I love you as a man, and I want you as a husband."

  "Marissa," he said. His hands settled on her shoulders, poised to pull her tighter or push her away. She didn't know, and she suspected Jude had no idea himself.

  "I want this betrothal to be real, Jude. I want you to take me as your wife. And out of all the pretty men I've danced wi
th and all the lust that's burned in my heart, I never wanted that from any of them."

  He drew a sharp breath as if he'd speak, but no words passed his lips.

  "Do you still like me?" she asked, squeezing her eyes shut in preparation. There was every chance he'd seen her true self and changed his mind. What an irony that would be, for Jude to decide, in the end, that she was too ugly for him.

  But perhaps she could turn his own techniques against him.

  Marissa rubbed her cheek against the thin linen of his shirt. He was so warm beneath the material, and she wanted to feel that warmth on her. In her. And perhaps his lust would keep him near long enough for him to see that she had changed and grown wiser. Become more than just a girl who loved dancing.

  His hands tightened on her shoulders, and she pressed her mouth to his collarbone and her belly to his hips. "Do you still like me a little, Jude?" His strong jaw Hexed, and Marissa put her mouth to that hard edge and gently bit down.

  His body jerked against hers.

  Marissa hummed sympathetically against his skin. "You reap what you sow. You teased me, Haunting your body in front of me, and now I want to have it."

  "Stop," he barked, setting her back from him. "I don't need to be teased into wanting you, damn it. I take myself in hand every night out of lust for you."

  Her sex tightened with sharp need. She knew what he was saying. She could picture it. "So take me."

  "I won't. You'll change your mind, and then where will we be? You never wanted me for a husband, and I refuse to live fifty years looking at regret in your eyes."

  "Bah! That's nonsense. When have you ever known me to regret anything?"

  His scowl softened, as if he were actually considering her question. "You regret Peter White."

  "Well, that's true. But to be specific, I regretted Peter White's failures." Marissa could've sworn she saw his mouth twitch into a momentary smile. "You wouldn't give me any cause for regret, would you, Jude?"

  "I would disappoint you in countless ways."

  Shaking her head, Marissa reached for the ties at the shoulders of her gown. "I'm shallow. If you keep me happy in a few small ways, what more would I ask?"