Table of Contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

Chapter 1

Lincolnshire, 1847

The man above Marissa York groaned loudly, his breath shuddering over her cheek.

She turned her head and frowned at the wall as the room spun slowly around her. Goodness. This wasn't going well at all. Thankfully, it seemed it was nearly over.

After an endless summer of pretending to look for a husband in London, Marissa had thought to treat herself to a night of forbidden pleasure. It was her family's first house party of the hunting season, after all. Everyone else was having a rollicking good time, and Marissa had thought to find some fun too. But instead she'd found clumsy rumbling, not to mention a bit of discomfort and lots of grunting. Perhaps this was why girls were ordered to keep themselves pure for marriage. No matter how unfortunate the consummation, there was no turning back afterward.

"My love," Peter White sighed into her ear. "My sweet, sweet Marissa. That was beautiful. Perfect."

"Perfect?"

"Oh, yes."

She stretched her neck, trying to ease the strain on her back. "Um, could you please ... arise?"

"Of course, I'm sorry." He pushed up to his elbows. Unfortunately, though this eased the weight on her chest, it pushed his bottom half more thoroughly against her. Everything down there felt rather... squishy.

"Mr. White, please? Get up?"

He gave her a sly grin. "Don't you feel silly calling me Mr. White right now?"

"No."

"When we are married, I hope you will call me by my Christian name, at least in—"

"Pardon?"

He leaned down to press a kiss to her nose. Marissa wiped it away.

"I'll speak to your brother tomorrow," he purred.

"You will do no such thing! Now get off. It's taking you more time to dismount than you spent riding."

Finally, the stubborn fool seemed to sense that she wasn't limp with gratitude at his rutting. He drew back, squishing even more firmly into her.

"Oh, just get off me, you great dolt!" she cried.

He gasped, "Marissa!" as shocked horror took over his face.

And that was when she heard the footsteps in the hall. Her eyes went wide. She pushed at his chest. And the door opened.

Marissa held her breath. It was dark. The light

from the hallway might not have reached them. If they just kept quiet. . .

Peter White cleared his throat. "If you would close the door, please. We require privacy."

Before her shock could twist into anger, the shadowed figure shifted. "Pardon me?" Her brother's voice.

Oh, no. Not her brother.

The door flew fully open, and Marissa had to squint against the light from the hall, so she could only assume they were now visible. Her heart sunk down to rest on her spine. "No," she breathed.

"Marissa Anne York!" her brother bellowed just before he lunged for the man atop her.

Mr. White was finally off her, but she could hardly summon a feeling of thankfulness. The shadows of the two men merged into one large beast that lurched into the darkest corner of the room. Vases shattered. A table crashed into the wall.

"Stop!" Marissa screamed, hoping her shout would put an end to the fight and stop time as well. If she could only go back to a half hour earlier when she'd finished that last glass of wine and let Mr. White coax her into this room . . .

Tempted to jump up from the sofa and sprint to her chambers, Marissa instead chose the more daunting path. She tugged her skirts down and pushed unsteadily to her feel to face her brother. "Edward! Stop. Please."

"You foul bastard," her brother's voice huffed.

A loud thump of flesh on flesh made Marissa flinch. The chaos ceased, and suddenly only the sound of the two men panting emerged from

the dark. She could do nothing but stand there and shake.

"Edward?" she breathed.

Broken glass slid against the wood floor. One of the shadows rose up and started toward her. Marissa backed away, afraid of her brother, only because she couldn't see him. He would never hurt her, no matter what she did. But he looked like a goblin coming at her from the dark.

Or perhaps it was Mr. White, and her brother lay unconscious on the floor.

"Edward?"

The shadow shifted at the last moment, her brother's snarling face finally coming into the light, and he moved past her. Glass rattled. A match struck.

Light swelled slowly over the room. When it reached the farthest corner, she saw that Mr. White wasn't unconscious at all, but sitting up with a hand pressed to his eye. At the sight of him, Marissa had to tamp down an urge to fly at his face and do further damage. Easier to be furious with him than with herself.

A shadow cast itself from the hallway, and Marissa glanced up to see her cousin Harry standing there.

"What in the world is all the ruckus?" Harry asked. Oh, this was only getting worse. How many others had heard?

"Marissa," her brother said, that one word full of worry and hurt and confusion and fury.

She wrapped her arms around herself and turned slowly toward him. "I apologize." Her voice was steady, just as she meant for it to be. "I did not mean for you to see that."

"See it?" he barked.

A maid appeared at Harry's side, her apron clutched in her hands.

"Harry," Edward said carefully. "Please wait for me in the study. And close the door:"

This situation would have to be handled very carefully. Her family was not known for coolness or rationality. Impetuousness flowed in their veins like blood, and she'd clearly gotten her own share of it. But now she'd need to choose her words carefully. "Edward. I'm sorry. Obviously, I acted as ... I was not—" She was interrupted by the worst possible statement.

"We shall marry immediately," Mr. White said from the floor.

Her brother was already nodding.

Marissa shook her head to counter him. "We most certainly will not."

Glass shifted and clinked as Mr. White moved. "If you'll give me a few moments to ... arrange myself, Baron York, I will meet you privately in—"

"No!" she protested. "There will be no meeting! I have no intention of marrying Mr. White. None at all."

Her brother turned toward her, his green eyes bruised with hurt and disappointment. "You can't mean you dallied with this man without even a hope of marriage?"

"That's exactly what I mean. And if I'd have considered the idea before, I certainly wouldn't now. Do you see any evidence of gratification on my face? I wouldn't marry that eager hound for anything."

Edward's eyes snapped back toward Mr. White. "Did he force himself on you?"

"No, no. He only failed to meet even the lowest expectations of performance."

"Performance?" her brother sputtered. "What could you know of—"

"Here now!" Mr. White said. "I won't tolerate this. We shall be married as soon as we can possibly manage. Baron York, do you have any means of arranging a special license?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Marissa interrupted. "I won't marry him! I can't possibly make it any more clear." Whispers floated in from the hallway on the tail end of her words.

Mr. White, having apparently rearranged himself, strode forward to put a hand on her shoulder. "With all due respect, Miss York, you have no choice but to marry me."

"Excuse me?"

"I've taken your virtue. The maids are already talking. You're mine now, darling."

"Yours?" She jerked her shoulder from his grasp and stepped away to glare at him. "I most certainly am not."

Edward cleared his throat. "Let us worry about our own servants, Mr. White."

"Of course. And the talk will be meaningless once the vows are exchanged. Miss York is understandably beset by emotion. Let's discuss this man to man, Baron. She isn't thinking logically."

Marissa drew herself up in outrage. "On the contrary, I am thinking quite logically. It's very clear to me that I'd rather enter a nunnery than spend the rest of my nights suffering your grunting efforts between my legs, Mr. White. Now I'd like to have a private convention with my brother, if you don't mind."

Her brother choked on horror, but Mr. White's face went red with a different emotion. "I have had yon, and yon will marry me, young lady."

Too late, she realized what he'd meant earlier when he'd first snuck his hand beneath her skirt. "Finally," he'd breathed. "You'll be mine." She'd thought he meant a more temporary ownership. She should have known better. He'd already proposed twice.

Her brother took a step forward. "White, I need to speak with my sister. Please await me in my study."

Anger creased his Hushed forehead. "You can t mean to indulge her. She made her choice when she laid herself down on that couch, sir. I won't let her call off now."

Her vision narrowed until all she could see was Peter White's face. One eye was already swelling. She focused on the undamaged one, wondering how much strength it would take to create a matching set. "You won't let me? I've told you twice now that I won't be your wife."

He had the nerve to smile at her. "If you meant that, you should have stopped me. We will be married. You've no choice."

"White," her brother growled, "Marissa is twenty-two and can't be forced to anything."

Mr. White scoffed. "She might already have a belly full of me. And as the head of the household, it's your job to protect her from her own foolishness. When word gets out that—"

Edward took another step, drawing menacingly close to the other man. "How would word get out?"

"There are forty guests in your house right now, Baron. Surely one of them will hear the tale. Your cousin saw it firsthand. You would not want it put about that your sister is a trollop, would you?" Triumph gleamed in his eyes.

"You awful cur," she whispered. "You planned this."

Edward's hand shot out and wrapped around Peter White's cravat. "You did plan this, didn't you?"

"I mean to give her my name. My devotion. There is no harm done here. She should be honored. My grandfather is—"

She'd heard his speech about the glory of his bloodlines before, so she was relieved when Edward cut it off with a blow to Mr. White's jaw. The man stumbled back, clutching his chin with both hands before he fell to his rump.

"Get out of my house," Edward growled.

"You can't be serious!"

"Go!"

White shook his head. "I'm in love with her."

Marissa gasped in offense, but Edward just pointed at the floor. "Get out of my home, and if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will hunt you down and kill you."

Mr. White watched him carefully, clearly considering whether Edward could or would commit murder. He looked doubtful. Marissa was sure she did too. Edward had a wicked temper, but it cooled quickly. He was known as the mature one in the family. Once Mr. White was away, he was probably in little mortal danger. Unless ...

Edward smiled. "And if I can't find you, I'm quite sure my brother Aidan can. He'll enjoy the hunt, vicious ruffian that he is."

Well, Aidan was another matter entirely. Even Marissa cringed at the thought of him finding out about this. And he would.

Peter White rolled his shoulders and pressed his fingers gingerly to his jaw. "This is absurd. You're both upset. I'll take my leave for now, but I shall return in a few days' time. I love you, Marissa."

"Oh, I'd wager you love the idea of my five-hundred pounds a year," she snapped. Mr. White ignored her and stalked from the room.

She'd wanted him to go, but now she was alone with her brother. Shame welled to her skin like blood. Her throat tightened. "I'm sorry," she managed to whisper.

"Marissa, what... ?" His shoulders slumped. "How could you have done this?"

"I'm sorry! I shouldn't have! I was bored, and I've had too much wine, and I... there's no man I've even come close to falling in love with, and I suppose I was... curious." That was mostly the truth, anyway, with only a few details left out.

"Ah, 'Rissa," her brother sighed. "You've gone and done it this time."

"I was stupid. I know that. But I swear he wasn't nearly so awful beforehand. I rather liked him until this."

Her brother watched her closely, sadness etched on his face in deep lines.

"What is it?"

"I won't try to make you marry him. He's a cad. But—" He reached for her hand and held it between both of his. "You'll have to marry someone now."

"What?" she yanked her hand away. "Why ?"

The door suddenly burst open, and her mother stretched her arms wide, filling the room completely, despite her short stature. "What has happened?" she wailed.

Marissa shook her head. "Nothing. Everything's wonderful."

Her brother waved their mother inside and slammed the door. "Everything is not wonderful. Everything is a mess."

In a highly predictable gesture, the dowager baroness pressed her palm over her heart. "What's happened? Is it Aidan? What has happened to my sweet, sweet boy?"

"It's not Aidan. It's Marissa. She is compromised."

The baroness gasped so loudly that the sound echoed through the room.

"Oh, why did you tell her?" Marissa sighed.

Edward was busy leading their mother toward a chair, where she folded into a graceful faint. Another highly predictable gesture.

He stood straight and dusted off his hands as if he'd just completed a task. "She might have grown suspicious when we arranged your hurried wedding completely out of the blue."

"There's no reason for me to marry!"

"Marissa, don't act even more a fool than you already have. It's clear from what I witnessed that you could very well be pregnant. We must find you a husband immediately."

"That's absurd!" But before she'd finished speaking the words, fear rushed over her on a dark wave. She hadn't really thought of that. The mechanics of pregnancy were a vague cloud of rumor and overheard tidbits she'd collected for years. "I thought... the first time... isn't it impossible?"

"No, it's not. And I rather wish you'd approached me with any questions about marriage and breeding before this happened."

The line of Edward's mouth turned down. "You will either marry that scoundrel or you'll marry someone else. A wedding will help dispel any rumors, and it will go a long way toward distracting from an early birth. And apparently you need some way to occupy your time. Being a wife should take care of your boredom."

"But ..." Her jaw began to tremble, so she clenched it shut for a count often. "But I do not wish to leave here. This is my home."

The anger left his face as if it had been swept away by a hand. "I know. I don't wish you to go either. We shall find someone who will bring you home whenever you wish. Someone biddable."

"Well, who else would marry a ruined woman and accept a bastard?" she whispered. "Someone biddable and ... henpecked."

"Marissa..."

Her mother groaned dramatically, eyelids fluttering. The swoon was about to come to a gasping end.

Panic swarmed through Marissa's chest. She couldn't argue her brother's point. She hadn't meant to bring her family shame. She hadn't meant anything at all by it. But if Peter White spread the tale it would be awkward. And if she was pregnant, there could be no choice. But if he didn't and she wasn't. . .

"Edward, it will take time to find a willing and acceptable match, won't it? Decent men do not hang about at crossroads just waiting for a ruined woman to take them home."

"Ah ..." he started.

"Harry will never tell a soul. And if there are to be permanent consequences, we should know within two weeks. Two weeks would be quick enough! If you must orchestrate a betrothal, let us prepare for it and then forget it entirely when I'm proved, er... unripened."

A blush flared up his neck. "I... is there no one you are fond of? No one who would make an offer?"

"I was rather fond of the gentleman in question before this evening. He's an excellent dancer, and his coat always fits perfectly. But now ... no. No one."

Her brother muttered something that sounded like, "His coat,"just as her mother's eyes fluttered open.

"Marissa," she sighed. "How could you? Why would you do something so awful?"

Awful. Yes, her mother had that right. "I don't know," she replied honestly. There had been wine and secret kisses, and it had seemed rather exciting when they'd stumbled into this room together. Then it had deteriorated into something more easily described in scientific terms than poetry. "Idiot," she bit out.

"Yes, you are an idiot!" her mother cried.

"I meant Mr. White."

"Mr. White," her mother said. "Hm. He is an excellent dancer. And a handsome fellow. He does bring in a fair income. Yes, he'll make a perfectly good husband."

Edward waved her out. "We'll discuss this later, Mother. Right now I have to think. Where is Aidan when I need him? He's supposed to be here, and he probably knows some likely fellows."

"Please don't tell him," Marissa pled. Somehow, she wasn't the least bit surprised that her words preceded the entrance of a footman by mere seconds.

"Mr. Aidan York has arrived, my lord," the servant said, bowing. "He sends apologies for his tardiness and bids me tell you he'll descend as soon as he's washed and dressed."

"Perfect," Edward murmured. "I won't tell him until White has had time to pack and flee. Otherwise we might have a murder on our hands."

"Murder!" their mother gasped, then slumped back into the chair, presumably unconscious, though not so unconscious that she couldn't eavesdrop, of course.

Marissa glanced around to see if there was a chair close enough for her to faint into as well, but there was only the couch, and she'd had enough of that. There was nothing to be done but take a deep breath and live with the consequences of what she'd done.

A moment later she realized there was one more thing she could do. The wine in her stomach began a war with the anxiety now coursing through her body. Head spinning, Marissa leaned over to peer closely at the gold-hued Oriental rug beneath her feet. And then she was sick all over it.

"Did I thank you yet for the invitation?" Jude Bertrand asked half-jokingly as he followed Aidan York down the curved staircase.

Aidan tossed a glance over his shoulder and said nothing, though he raised an amused eyebrow.

Jude had, in fact, thanked him several times already. For some reason, being on the York estate filled Jude with buoyancy. The house was large and airy, the windows looking out onto wild meadows and swaths of forest. The land enchanted him, and the family... well, oddly enough, the family reminded him of his early childhood. Decidedly strange, as his early years had been spent in what had essentially been a French whorehouse.

Chuckling at the odd comparison, Jude ran his hand down the banister, remembering his stay here last year and a certain strawberry-haired hoyden's slide down the wood. She'd thought no one else awake at that early hour, and Jude hadn't disabused her of the notion. He'd simply watched her slide down the banister, and then he'd continued on his way, marveling that no one else seemed able to see the wildness inside her.

He was greatly anticipating seeing her again.

When they reached the first floor, Aidan York nodded to a few of the guests but continued on toward his brother's study. Jude followed. The door was closed when they reached it. Raised voices could be heard vibrating through the wood, but Jude felt no surprise. The York family was surprisingly dramatic for such an established peerage.

Aidan didn't seem surprised either. He simply gave a perfunctory knock and walked into chaos.

The dowager baroness had draped herself across the settee and was weeping loudly into a lace handkerchief. The baron, Aidan's older brother, paced in front of the fireplace, his red face giving him away as the source of the shouting. A cousin was there too. Harry, maybe? He looked decidedly morose.

Jude raised a hand in greeting to the mob.

"Aidan," balkcd Edward. "Thank God you're here!"

Then his gaze shifted to Jude. "Jude, you can't be here. I'm sorry."

"Oh. All right then." He had spun halfway back toward the hall when Aidan's hand stopped him.

"Don't be melodramatic, Edward." His dry voice was a direct contrast to his brother's. "Of course Jude can stay. Now, what seems to be the latest crisis?"

Edward shook his head. "You don't understand. This is serious. And a very private matter."

"Don't tell me you've fallen in love with the upstairs maid?"

The baroness finally roused herself. "Aidan! Don't be disrespectful." She cocked her head toward Jude, and he offered her a small bow while she studied him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bertrand, but you'll have to ..." She stopped and frowned. "Then again, perhaps Mr. Bertrand could be of use to us. He does bring a certain ... perspective."

Jude raised his eyebrows at that, wondering what she could mean.

"Yes!" the cousin exclaimed. "His mother!"

Ah. Jude nodded. His mother. Had Edward gotten a mistress pregnant? "If l can assist you in some way, I'd be happy to. And I was raised from the cradle not to tell tales, of course."

But Edward was shaking his head. "The matter is too sensitive." He tossed a glare in his mother's direction. "As you well know."

Aidan shook his head and crossed the room to the brandy decanter. "This is ridiculous. I'd trust Jude with my life. If he can help you, just spit it out, old man." He collapsed into a chair, so Jude wandered toward the sideboard and poured himself a drink as well. He should have excused himself', but he was more than a little curious now.

He supposed Edward's whisper was meant to be discreet, but it easily filled the whole room. "It's about our sister!" he hissed.

Jude froze and spun back to face the York family. "Marissa?" he asked.

All eyes turned toward him.

"Ah ... I mean Miss York, of course."

When Aidan rose to his feet, the attention in the room shifted to him. "What about Marissa?" His mouth had stiffened to a thin line.

"Now Aidan." his mother said.

"What about Marissa?" Aidan shouted.

Edward took a deep breath and quietly said, "She's been ruined."

Silence fell over the room. Everyone held their breath and watched as the tips of Aidan's ears turned red. Not a good sign.

The baron held up both hands. "The damage is done. We need to find her a husband, and quickly. Perhaps Jude can help—"

"Who was it?" Aidan ground out. "Was she hurt?"

Jude stepped forward, serious now, but Edward was already shaking his head.

"No, she was drunk. And foolish. But not hurt. And the so-called gentleman is gone now."

”Who?” Aidan bellowed.

Edward winced and swallowed hard. "Peter White."

A flurry of muttered threats erupted from Aidan, and then the whole story was told in ills and starts, while Jude listened and thought ugly thoughts about Mr. White. A pretty, arrogant fellow. And apparently a scoundrel. "Cowardly ass," Jude muttered

while Edward explained why Marissa could not marry Mr. White.

"But," Edward rushed on, "she must marry somebody. The servants are talking already. And if that fellow has planted his seed ..."

The baroness's hands fluttered. "This is horrible. Impossible. What if Mr. White insists? It would be his child, after all."

Harry shook his head. "I can feel no sympathy for him there. He had a child by the carriage maker's daughter, and he harbors no tender feelings toward that babe. Cannot even be bothered to set up an income." Harry looked stricken at his own words. "I'm sorry. I should have known he could come to no good. I shouldn't have invited him."

Edward shook his head. "That's not your burden. But now... we must all endeavor to find her a decent gentleman."

"Oh, the torment!" the baroness wailed. "Our Marissa must go to someone kind and respectable. An established man who will treat her well and... and accept the child as his own."

Aidan threw up his hands. "Well, who the hell would do that?"

They all shook their heads sadly and stared at each other.

Jude waited a moment, poking through the swirl of thoughts inside his head to be sure his first instinct was correct. He wasn't a man given to doubting himself, so it took only a few moments to find peace with his decision. Before chaos could begin to rumble through the room again, Jude stepped forward and inclined his head. "I would."

For a moment, no one reacted. No one even looked at him. Then Aidan glanced toward him with a frown. "You would what, Jude?"

"I would marry your sister."

That got everyone's attention.

"You?" the baroness snapped.

"Yes, me."

"But you're ..."

Jude smiled. "A bastard?"

"Well," she answered, "yes. Granted, I thought you might offer a perspective or perhaps advice, but... a natural-born husband ..."

"Ah, but I'm the natural son of a duke. The acknowledged natural son of a duke. And how else would you land a duke's son in this situation? I don't have a title to protect, so I needn't worry about having an illegitimate heir. And I didn't receive my father's name, so I'm not even concerned about passing that on."

He watched the wheels turning behind the baroness's eyes. "You make an interesting point," she conceded.

Aidan shoved his hands into his pockets and glared. "Why would you want to marry my sister? Do you even know her?"

"Of course I know her. I've been here for, what, four parties now? Then again, I'm not entirely sure she knows me."

Aidan grunted in acknowledgement. They both knew that Jude was not the type to attract notice from gently bred young women. He was large and not elegantly made. His features were neither refined nor comforting. Sheltered young girls edged away from him.

But certain types of women—those who'd been unhappily married for a dozen years, for example— those women eyed him with avid hunger in their eyes. He looked like a brute, and a brute was just what they wanted.

"So," Aidan continued in a doubtful tone, "you may have sat across from her at dinner on occasion. That still doesn't answer my question. Why would you marry her?"

"I like her."

"Marissa?"

Jude laughed at the doubt in his friend's voice. "Yes, Marissa."

"She hardly seems your type."

Yes, he had a known weakness for rather naughty women. Jude raised an eyebrow. "Apparently she is exactly my type."

"Right," Aidan huffed, then rocked back on his heels to stare at the floor.

Actually, Marissa had caught his attention the first time Jude had seen her. There was that brightness in her green eyes. Not merriment, but... transgression. It had always been disorienting, being surrounded by people who seemed to consider her the last bastion of calm and propriety in the York family. Yes, she was graceful and tall and lovely, but could no one else see the way her eyebrows twitched any time she overheard a double entendre? Did no one notice the way her eyes traveled over men's bodies when she watched them dance?

The girl liked wine and dancing and pretty men. She rode her horse too hard and was constantly slipping free of her shoes to stroll barefoot on the grounds. Wildness lurked just beneath her skin, and Jude could feel it every time he passed too near.

But because Marissa York raised her chin to a haughty angle when she walked, she was seen as proper. Because she did not faint or yell or laugh as loudly as the rest of her family, they considered her staid. In comparison to the other Yorks she might be a paragon of control, but it was the passion she was trying to keep contained that interested Jude.

He glanced up from his thoughts to find the family exchanging meaningful glances. "Shall I leave you to discuss this?" he offered, and Edward slumped with relief.

"Thank you, Jude," he said. "do have a drink. We need to talk. And I'd caution you to consider this more carefully."

Shrugging, Jude turned and let himself out of the study. He didn't need to consider it further. If he could persuade her to give up her affection for pretty boys, Marissa York would make a fine and naughty wife. But pretty boys congregated in droves at these parties. Jude had set himself up for a serious challenge.

Chapter 2

Marissa waved her hands in helpless frustration as her maid pulled hard on the corset strings. The morning sun mocked her with its cheery brightness as it slanted past the window. Marissa glared at the light, her legs burning with the need to move, to pace, to run to the door and fling it open. "Oh, do hurry," she whispered, clasping her frantic hands together to stop their useless shaking.

The night before, she'd thought she would never sleep. Terror and regret had fought a war for her attention after she'd been sent to her room, and the battle had left her restless. She'd tossed and turned, then paced miles across her chambers, trying to think of a way out of this horrid situation.

No one had come to speak with her, and she'd been too mortified to request an audience. The waiting had been sheer torture.

But in the end, she had slept, and she'd slept too late.

This morning, she found that regret had won the night's battle, and now she felt sick with it.

What had she done ?

Edward's terse note glared white against the dark wood of the dressing table. The writing was spiked with anger, vastly unlike his normally careful hand.

Marissa was wanted in his study immediately. Her fate awaited her. If only she'd been awake and dressed when the footman had delivered the note, she would be there already.

The maid finally drew a dress over her head, and Marissa breathed a sigh of relief as she stared down at the somber shade of pale gray. Perhaps her brother was feeling regret too. Perhaps he'd changed his mind.

My God, how stupid she'd been. How foolish and reckless. It must have been the wine. Yes, the wine. And the fine cut of Peter White's new coat. And as he'd danced, his trousers had tightened over his thighs, revealing every line of their ... elegance.

Men's legs were just so lovely. Slim and strong and exposed in a way that ladies' legs never were. How could they expect that girls should not be affected by the sight? Gentlemen obviously intended to be admired, the way they flashed their thighs about, hardly covered at all in the tight cloth of their trousers.

What hypocrites they were, showing off their bodies and expecting her not to look. Or touch.

Still, she shouldn't have given in to temptation, for it hadn't been worth it. Not as it had been worth it before. Before, there had been much more than fumbling and regret. There had been . . .

Marissa sighed even more deeply, certain she'd never experience such deliciousness again.

"There you are, miss," the maid said. She was new, and betrayed her nervousness by giving one last tweak to the sleeve of the dress.

Marissa nodded. She liked this new girl, but if her old maid hadn't run off two weeks before, Marissa would have someone to talk to. As it was, she felt like an island.

Though Marissa was free to descend to the study, she stared at the door. Aidan must know by now. He hadn't come to her room last night, which likely meant he was too furious to talk. Edward never frightened her, but Aidan ... he was a different sort of man these days, and she worried that she would burst into tears the moment he turned his disappointed glare on her.

He'd once been joyful and charming, but then he'd suffered his own private scandal. The girl he'd loved and meant to marry had died. His anger and guilt over the wretched circumstances had changed him. Now her handsome brother was as cold as he'd once been charming. Marissa did not want to face him.

But it was time to pay the piper, so she gave herself a somber nod and set off for the study.

She expected to find Edward there, of course. And she feared she'd find Aidan as well. But she did not expect a whole room full of gentlemen, all looking toward her as she stood frozen in the doorway.

To be fair, there were only four of them, her brothers and her cousin and another man who looked vaguely familiar. She had the brief impression that perhaps he was a groundskceper, but she could not puzzle that out now, for Edward was walking toward her with a grim set to his mouth.

Her eyes rolled with a touch of panic, and she caught sight or her mother in a corner chair, but her mother would offer no refuge. Her eyes were closed, and she'd pressed a cold compress to her head.

Marissa would face the men of her family alone.

"Marissa." Edward kissed her cheek and took her hands as if she were made of the thinnest glass. "Are you well?"

"Yes, quite."

"You're sure? You do not feel... injured?"

"Not at all." She pushed up on her toes to whisper in his ear. "Is Aidan very angry with me?"

"I believe he's angrier with that scoundrel White."

She snuck a peek over his shoulder to find Aidan staring out the window, his jaw clenched so hard that the muscle jumped in a secret rhythm. "He won't even look at me. Edward, I'm so sorry. Have you... surely you have reconsidered your proposal? I'm certain there's no reason to worry."

"On the contrary, I have found a likely husband for you."

"Pardon?" She stepped back in shock, her heels crossing the threshold so that she stood half in the hallway, as if stepping the last six inches into the study would be an acceptance of this mad plan. "Where could you possibly have found a man who'd marry me?"

"Right here, as it turns out."

"Here? In the district?"

"Here, in our house."

"But who?"

He gestured toward the room. "Mr. Jude Bertrand."

"Mr. Bertrand?" she repeated too loudly. Panic-was beginning to set in. Edward hadn't changed his mind at all. He was moving matters forward at a dizzying pace. "Who is Mr. Bertrand?"

A figure moved from Aidan's side. It was that groundskeeper fellow, stepping toward her, his wide mouth crooked in a half smile as he approached. He stopped a few paces away and made a passably elegant bow. "I am Jude Bertrand," he said, turning the surname into something French and exotic.

"Should you not present him?" she snapped at her brother, meaning to insult the presumptuousness of this man who looked like a servant dressed in gentleman's clothes.

"Miss York, my apologies," the man said, rising now to meet her gaze. "But we have already been introduced. Twice."

"Oh." She pressed her hand to her chest, briefly mortified by her own rudeness. "I apologize, Mr. Bertrand. I must have . .." The words trailed off as she realized how meaningless all these pleasantries were. She slid her eyes toward Edward, trying to convey her alarm.

This man was not suitable. Not at all. He was big and rough looking, built for mucking out stables or loading freight onto a ship. He was not a gentleman. Not by far.

"I ..." She gave up subtlety and raised her eyebrows at her brother.

He smiled. "Marissa, Mr. Bertrand is a good friend of Aidan's, and he has generously offered to... be your escort for the next few weeks. Would you allow him to accompany you to the breakfast room this morning?"

Had she driven her brother to madness? Marissa gave her head a frantic shake. "I would rather a moment to speak with you in private!"

Mr. Bertrand offered another bow. "Of course, Miss York. I'll excuse myself." Again, it was a perfectly elegant bow, but each time he rose, he seemed to grow bigger. He was taller than either of her brothers, and his shoulders looked to fill the whole doorway when she stepped aside to let him pass. Not a groundskeepcr then, but a blacksmith. Yes, she could picture him perfectly in a leather apron, hand grasping a great hammer.

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 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.

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.

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 wasn'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."

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 same 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.

Jude removed his coat and crumpled it into a ball as the distant echo of gunshots hovered in the air. He lay back on the shaded grass, propped the coat behind his head, and cracked open the book that had been delivered to his room that morning.

As soon as the pages had been laid in his hand, Jude had sent word that he would miss the morning hunt, and he'd sent himself off to the garden to read. It was a beautiful morning, surprisingly warm, and Marissa York was softening toward him.

But perhaps softening was the wrong word. Tension was what he was after, and her body fairly snapped with it.

He stared at the first page of the book without seeing it. Instead he thought of Marissa. She was pretty, but more than that, she was fascinating. Her ill-hidden wildness. The way she spoke of men with simultaneous affection and disdain. Her hot temper and cool words.

Neither her activities nor dress marked her as any different from other young women of society. And yet, beneath that facade of normality, something else burned. Something hot and fierce.

Jude had admired her from afar, but now that he was close... he was enchanted.

But his goal was to pique her interest, not to follow her about like a lovesick pup. She had enough of that kind of attention. So much that she didn't see it. There were at least two young men vying for her eye at the York estate, but she saw them as dance partners and nothing more.

Marissa was bored and restless and spoiled, and she didn't even know it.

Jude slid the note free from the pages of the book and smiled at the curls of her signature. So deceptively delicate. She had everyone fooled. But not him.

He saw the meaning behind her simple words. A story of admirable emotion, it read. And she certainly was.

The book was part of her puzzle, so he forced himself to focus on it, and before long he was swept up in the rush of dialogue and drama. Soon enough, the sun's shadow had crept far down his legs when Jude looked up to see a woman in the garden. Marissa. She hadn't noticed him yet, and he didn't dare disturb her solitude.

Instead, he watched her. She moved quickly through the grassy walks of the garden, snapping off dried heads. It was unnecessary, he knew. The rose bushes would be pruned soon in preparation for winter, so a few dead blooms meant nothing, but the exercise must relax her, pointless as it was. Her face looked peaceful and younger.

She must be frightened about her future, but she had yet to let it show. He'd seen her angry and happy and disapproving and joyful. And now peaceful. But never scared.

His mother would like her, and he had no doubt the two women would meet someday. Marissa was not the kind of lady who would pass up the chance to meet a true-life courtesan. The meeting would likely be kept secret from the rest of society, but Marissa wouldn't be able to resist. Jude wasn't sure he could've said that of any other woman of the ton.

She looked up then, and her body froze when their eyes met. Jude raised the book high enough so she could see it, and her shoulders relaxed. Much to Jude's surprise, she walked toward him with a smile.

"Good morning, Marissa."

Her cheeks were pink from the sun, and her smile uncharacteristically soft as she sank down to the grass beside him. The skirts of her yellow dress belled out around her before she patted them down. "You're not riding."

"I had a book to read."

"And what do you think?"

"It's admirably emotional. And enjoyably overwrought."

"Cheeky."

He laid the book on the grass near her foot. Her bare toes curled quickly beneath the yellow fabric. Jude stared for a moment, wishing he'd noticed her naked feet sooner. "I think Wendell is a bully and Chloe a bit soft in the head. But Danielle makes the story worthwhile."

Her eyes lit. "Truly?"

"What did you think of it?"

"Well." She tugged a piece of grass from the lawn and twirled it. "My fingers itched to slap Chloe into some sense, and I yearned for Danielle to give Wendell a good set-down. But it gets much more lively when the handsome gentleman moves in next door."

"Oh, my. A handsome gentleman. I'll have to keep reading then."

She plucked another blade of grass. "I have news. One of the guests heard talk about me, but I think Edward convinced her that Mr. White and I only argued."

"And what of Mr. White? Will he spread tales when he realizes your feelings haven't changed?"

"I don't know. I hope not. It cannot flatter him either."

"I'm sure he'll leave his own name out of it."

Marissa shook her head, and one tendril of her hair escaped the braid to caress her face. "I'm hopeful he isn't so spiteful. And I'm certain there will be no other ... consequences. And if there aren't.. . what will you do?"

"Me? I suppose I will simply go back to being a bachelor."

"I would not have hard feelings between us."

When she dropped the second blade of grass, Jude reached idly for her hand, aware of her surprise when her fingers twitched against his. But she didn't pull away. "There will be no hard feelings on my part. I accept you on your own terms, Marissa."

"That's odd. For a man."

"Perhaps." He stroked his thumb along her palm, and her fingers curled as if to keep him close.

"It is very strange that you know such an intimate embarrassment about me. I'm at a disadvantage."

"Ask me anything then. I'll answer truthfully."

Her sharp glance made clear that she'd been hoping he would make that offer. When he slid his fingers in between hers, she responded by holding tight.

"So... your mother is a companion."

"Yes."

"That must mean... the household must have been unusual. Did you live there?"

"In my early childhood, yes. And then I sometimes

spent summers with her later. It wasn't so strange, really."

"Oh."

She stared down at their hands, her cheeks delightfully pink.

"Is that what you wished to ask me?"

"I just..." Her words came quickly, as if she were afraid to breathe. "I just thought you must have associated with them. The women."

"I see. Shall I tell you the story of how I lost my innocence, then?"

"Yes! That's what... yes, it only seems fair!"

"I agree. Well, I was far younger than you. Only sixteen. As you suspected, she was a friend of my mother's."

Marissa's green eyes widened, and her hand tightened around his thumb as she leaned toward him. "A courtesan?" she breathed.

"Yes. I'd been in love with her for two miserable years. She was the most beautiful, ethereal woman I'd ever seen. I wrote her poetry and made calf eyes at her. I was insufferable, I'm sure. But she finally decided I was old enough. She granted mercy and took me to her bed. By Clod, I thought I would never stop loving her after that."

She laughed. "But you did?"

"A young boy's fancy is nothing if not convenient. I was in love with the neighbor's new kitchen maid not three weeks later."

"Ah, so you fall in love often?"

He slowly raised their clasped hands to his mouth and pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. Marissa watched his mouth closely, as if she were waiting for

more. "I have since learned the difference between lust and love. Men are easily distracted by lust."

"But not women?" She kept the words light, but he heard the edge of worry in them.

"Some women as well. It is nothing to be ashamed of, Marissa."

"I am not beset by lust! It's only that I like to dance."

"Of course."

She yanked her hand away. "It's true!"

"I'm sure that's why you evaluate your partners' legs so carefully. To be sure they will step lightly."

Her eyes went so wide he could see the white all around. "I enjoy fashion! And beautiful fabric!"

"Come, Marissa. Tell the truth. What you enjoy is ogling men's limbs."

Color rushed to her face so quickly that Jude worried she might grow dizzy and lip over. He put a hand under her elbow to steady her.

"There's no need to lie," he said softly. "Not to me."

She drew in a slow breath. Then she set her shoulders back and nodded. "Yes, I like to look at them."

"There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"I don't understand how I can be the only one! They walk around with their legs just... out. They wear trousers so snug, and everyone pretends that we're not supposed to look as they strut about like peacocks, and—" She cut off her own rant and drooped as if her strings had been cut.

Jude raised an eyebrow. "I'm rather disappointed not to be included in your diatribe. You haven't snuck a peek at my legs yet, Miss York?" He crossed his ankles and watched her eyes slide down his body. He wore riding breeches and boots, and he knew she would look.

"I have. You are very... strong."

Despite her disapproving tone, Jude fell a coil of satisfaction warm his chest.

"They look very hard."

His thighs tightened at the shock of her words. "Are men's legs not supposed to be hard?" When she shrugged, her gaze skittering back to his legs, Jude's heart beat faster. "All that looking and no touching?"

"Hardly any at all," she sighed miserably.

Jude's nerves sang with awareness, but he kept his expression calm. "Ah, but you are betrothed now. In theory."

She finally looked up al him, brows tightening even as her mouth curved up. 'Jude Bertrand, are you inviting me to explore your limbs?"

"Would a gentleman encourage that sort of thing?" He stretched his arms high, then folded them behind his head and closed his eyes. "But if I were to take a nap, I suppose I'd be at your mercy."

"Jude," she whispered. "I can't. What if someone sees?"

"Shush. We're in the shade, and I'm asleep." But he wasn't asleep. He was tense with painful anticipation. Would she dare? He was mad to even suggest such a thing, and yet he could never stop himself from goading her.

When he realized he was holding his breath, Jude made himself breathe.

"Of the two of us," Marissa murmured, "I'm not sure who is the more scandalous." And then her hand touched his thigh.

It was all innocent touch, if such a thing could be. A gentle laying of a hand just above his knee. And yet a faint tremor shook his bones. The touch stayed tentative and light for a very long time. When he offered no response, she shaped her fingers to his leg.

"You're very solid." Her hand inched up, a shocking slide of faint pressure.

He'd be a damn sight more solid in a few minutes if he let this continue.

She squeezed him lightly, testing his give. "I prefer you in breeches, I think."

"Mm."

The supple buckskin warmed beneath her hand. When she slid her touch toward the inside of his leg, Jude felt his cock thicken. Christ.

He tried counting to ten. He tried thinking of hunting. He tried to recount the names of all his childhood tutors. But when she made a little humming sound and slid her hand slowly higher, Jude dragged his foot up and propped himself up on his elbows. She jerked her arm back.

"Thought I heard something," he said, and the words set her head turning back and forth to try to locate the nonexistent intruder. On another day, in another place, he'd let Marissa explore his thighs as much as she liked. But not here in the garden. Not when the very thought made him throb.

Goading Marissa York could prove a very dangerous exercise indeed.

Chapter 7

Marissa hurried down the stairs, surprised by her eagerness to see Jude again. After luncheon, he'd asked if she'd like to ride to the old church, and Marissa had happily accepted. Her mother was busy gathering up players for the next stage drama, and Marissa was not in the mood for bad acting.

But her leaf-green habit lightened the weight on her heart, and the thought of a ride through the warm autumn with Jude ... it sounded almost as lovely as dancing.

Lovelier perhaps, because when Mr. Dunwoody stepped into the hall, stopping her rush, Marissa felt nothing but regret. "Oh, Mr. Dunwoody. Good afternoon." He wore riding breeches just as Jude did, as the men all rode during the day. But Mr. Dunwoody looked very different in his. Elegant, of course. Or just. . . ornamental? She shook the thought from her head as Dunwoody offered a friendly bow. "I'm off for a ride," she explained with an awkward wave toward the corridor.

"Oh, of course. Forgive me for keeping you. I only wished to ask if I might escort you into dinner tonight."

For a moment, her brain told her to say yes, to cultivate a relationship with anyone but Jude. But she'd made a decision today, and she'd honor it.

"I'm flattered, Mr. Dunwoody, but I fear I've already committed myself."

"Ah. I see. A new suitor, perhaps?" he leased. His words pricked her with both excitement and guilt.

"I..." Her blush worked to the advantage of the story they were wearing, but it was entirely genuine, all the same.

Mr. Dunwoody smiled wider. "I'm relieved to see you looking more yourself. And, uh ... no word from the Samuel family as of yet?"

That erased her awkwardness, and Marissa matched his grin. "They must arrive today."

Marissa was still smiling when she swept out the front door to find the groom waiting with her horse. Her smile didn't falter until she saw Jude, mounted and waiting as well.

It wasn't the sight of Jude that stopped her though. It was his horse.

The horse—if such a beast could be graced with that name—was huge, and just as sturdy and inelegant as Jude himself. In fact, the mount was downright ugly. A gray gelding that was fading to white in splotches and stripes, the poor thing now looked like an old carthorse dingy with grime.

Marissa look her time mounting and arranging skirts, giving herself a moment to recover. But when she looked toward him again, she couldn't help but wince.

"He looks as if he will be put out to pasture soon," she ventured as they walked their horses toward the road. "Perhaps you should find another mount."

He glanced down and patted the beast's neck. "He's only ten, and his gait is perfect." "Oh."

Jude spared a look for her mount. "If I braid his mane, will you like him better?"

Her mare, a sweet, feisty girl named Cleopatra, tossed her head as if she knew she was the focus of attention. "It's only one braid!"

"She's lovely."

Marissa felt he was making some annoying point about her vanity, but she was distracted from her frown by the appearance of Harry and Aidan riding in. The men waved and nodded, as if they both agreed that Marissa and Jude were doing a good job of keeping up appearances.

Aidan's face looked younger in the warm sunlight, as it often did after a good ride. In London he never seemed happy.

"My brother," she murmured to Jude. "I'm happy you're a friend to him."

"What do you mean?"

"For a long while there, he only spent time with Harry, and that was begrudging."

"Ah. I suppose I have seen too much tragedy wrought from love. I did not find his story romantic, so he likes me."

Marissa nodded. The whole of the ton seemed to think Aidan nothing more than a dramatic figure to be used as a centerpiece at dinner parties. A young, handsome bachelor with a story that made the ladies swoon with sighed delight. The love of his life had been snatched from his arms by the cruel hand of death, and he mourned her to this day. What gentle heart could resist that story?

Aidan hated them all.

"You've been a good friend to him, I understand."

"Well, we have common interests. Between his ships and my father's investments, we often travel in the same circles."

"Really? Do you work for your father? I had no idea."

"I do. He enjoys dabbling in his own investments on occasion, and I enjoy having some industrious way to occupy my time. Idle hands make for the devil's work, you know." His gaze slid to her. "Perhaps you need more than stitching to keep you busy."

"Oh, aren't you clever?" She tried to leave it at that, but she found her body actually leaning toward his, curious to know more about this man. Marissa readjusted her posture and tried to look less fascinated. "Where do you travel then?"

"Well, France quite often, for obvious reasons. And all over Europe. Italy, Spain, Portugal. Constantinople was fascinating, of course."

"Constantinople? You've been there?" Well, there was no disguising her eagerness. She didn't even try. She could not imagine such an exotic place.

"I have." His eyes studied her, glinting with pleased assessment. "If we marry, I'd welcome your company when I travel. I'd be pleased to visit the Ottoman again."

She blinked several times, shocked and happy with his words. "Truly? I've... I've never considered.... Would I like it, do you think?"

His smile curved to a wicked angle. "You would love it."

She flushed at his words. The lone of them bespoke admiration and pride and a sure knowledge of her very nature. How could those simple words leave her flustered and overly warm? Marissa clutched her reins too tightly and shifted in the saddle. Cleopatra stepped nervously before relaxing into an easy gait again.

Marissa swallowed and urged her to a trot. She wanted to run, but the mare wasn't warm enough yet, even if Marissa was. She'd never been flustered by talk of travel before. Everything about Jude Bertrand was so very different. So unexpectedly intriguing. How did he make her need things from him that she didn't even want?

For instance, right now, she was staring hard toward the horizon, counting the seconds until she could push her marc to a full, hard run. The old church was only miles ahead, and she and Jude would be alone there. When they arrived they would dismount to explore the ruins. They'd disappear behind crumbling walls and overgrown orchards. Even a passing traveler would not be able to spot them.

Surely, he would kiss her, finally.

Finally.

Marissa reminded herself that she'd only known him for two days. And then she urged her horse to a gallop.

Chapter 8

Nothing.

He'd done nothing at all. Not a kiss. Not a stolen touch of her hip. Not a winking suggestion that she resume her exploration of his legs while they were away from the manor.

Jude had been a complete gentleman during the ride, and now the horses were happily walking the last few yards toward home.

Marissa's thoughts, however, had been less than ladylike. She still didn't think he was an attractive man, but she'd revised her opinion of his thighs.

Yesterday in the garden, his muscles had been just as hard as she'd expected when she'd touched him. Like stone, but stone that was warm and flexing and contoured into fascinating curves. Every shift of his body had felt like the pull and push of a mountain beneath her hand. And on his horse ... my Cod, on his horse, his thighs had bulged and tightened and pressed with fantastic indecency against his breeches. Marissa had found her breath coming quick and shallow by the time they'd reached the ruins.

Yet, they'd done nothing but stroll. He'd been perfectly respectable, and Marissa was close to snarling with impatience. They were playing at betrothal. She'd earned a kiss!

The packed earth of the stable yard thumped beneath the horses' hooves as boys approached to take the reins. Jude dismounted with a grace that defied his large size... and the large size of his horse.

He reached to help her down, and his hands finally curved around her body, but they didn't linger. He let her go, and Marissa barely managed to not stomp her foot.

Frustrated, she only raised her chin higher. "Thank you for the ride, Mr. Bertrand. I had a wonderful time."

Hands behind his back, he walked with her along the side of the stable. "Why so cross then?"

"I am not cross."

"Really? I was about to start quoting from The Taming of the Shrew."'

"And now you've called me a shrew. Lovely."

"You say that as if it were my last offense among many."

"Mm."

Jude took her arm and swung her gently around to face him. "What is it, mon coeur?"

"Why do you call me that? Your heart seems quite content to keep its distance."

"Docs it?" He touched her temple, sweeping a strand of hair back. His lingers brushed the edge of her little riding hat, and she worried it had lost its jaunty angle. Did he not think her pretty enough? Did he not desire a kiss at all?

His eyes told her nothing as he watched her. "I had no idea you wanted it near," he murmured.

And he was right, of course. She wanted nothing to do with his heart, and she was suddenly afraid of the challenge she'd nearly issued.

"We'll be late for luncheon," she whispered, stepping back from the trap of his gaze.

He studied her a moment longer, his dark eyes keeping his thoughts secret, and Marissa let out a sigh of relief when he simply offered his arm. A kiss was one thing, but talk of his heart had been foolish on her part. She did not know enough about her own heart to have that conversation.

He led her into the manor without another word, and at the bottom of the stairs, he bid his farewell and bent over her hand. Marissa was holding her breath, anticipating the brush of his mouth against her skin, when someone called her name.

She looked up in surprise at the eager female voice and spotted her best friend rushing across the entry.

"Beth!" Marissa squealed over the top of Jude's bent head. "You're here!"

He released her hand, and Marissa stepped forward into her friend's embrace.

Beth's mother had been ill for nearly a year, so Marissa hadn't seen her at all during the past Season in London. She'd missed Beth so much that she felt tears prick her eyes.

In that moment, Marissa realized why she'd gone with Peter White. It hadn't just been wickedness or lust. She'd been lonely.

Beth's tight embrace said that she'd been lonely too.

Marissa breathed in the familiar clean scent of Beth's dark hair. Their housekeeper made the soap herself, and it smelled like nothing else but Beth.

"Who is this?" Beth whispered in her ear.

Marissa let her go and turned to look at Jude.

"Oh, allow me to introduce Mr. Bertrand. Mr. Bertrand, this is Miss Elizabeth Samuel."

"Miss Samuel," he said. "It's an honor to meet you."

"Mr. Bertrand," she murmured, her voice quiet with shock.

"If you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two to your visit."

They both watched him walk away until Beth finally shook her head. "Good gracious, that man is quite frightening."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose he is."

"Did you go riding with him?"

"Yes." She felt the weight of Beth's curious gaze, but it was her own guilt that compelled her to blurt out, "He's very nice."

Beth just tugged her toward the stairs. "Come. Let's go to your room. You haven't written in a week. I want to know everything you've done."

Marissa thought that a singularly bad idea, but she pretended to agree.

"How many more proposals have you received?"

Marissa laughed too loudly and then peppered Beth with questions about her mother's health in order to keep her talking. Marissa didn't wish to speak of the past week. But mostly she didn't wish to speak of Jude. Beth wouldn't understand.

Marissa didn't understand it herself.

Dinner had been so lovely with Beth there to chatter with. And Jude as well, near enough to share an occasional smile if not a conversation.

After dinner, Marissa took Beth's arm and strode happily toward the music room, anticipating that the evening would only get better. She was wrong.

Beth's cousin had been far enough away from them at dinner that Marissa had been able to ignore her, but there was no ignoring her now. Nanette held court from her perch on a chair set close to the door.

"My darling Marissa!" she cooed. "I'm so happy to spend time with you again. This year has been so awfully dull, locked away from society."

Marissa gritted her teeth and offered a patently false smile. Nanette had lived with Beth's family for the past four years, and the two women should've been as close as sisters, as they'd come out the same year. But despite that the Samuels had taken Nanette in upon her father's death, she considered herself far above them. Her mother had been the sister of an earl, after all, and she herself was an heiress.

"I've made Aunt Samuel promise to get better. We simply cannot miss another Season! And we were so worried, of course."

"Of course."

Nanette leaned forward conspiratorially. "Did I tell you that Viscount Farington sent me lilies when he realized I would not be in London for the Season?"

"Mm," Marissa hummed, unwilling to say more. She knew that Viscount Farington had sent the flowers to both Beth and Nanette, but there was no point in clarifying it. Nanette would just wink and say that, of course, Viscount Farington had not wanted to be rude.

Beth sat tensely next to her cousin, not saying a word.

"Well," Marissa said, "You were both missed in London this year. Beth, did I mention that Mr. Dunwoody asked after you just yesterday?"

"He did?"

"Do you remember him? He says you met only once."

"Of course I remember. We danced once. Such a graceful gentleman."

"So he is. My favorite partner of late."

Nanette trilled a laugh. "I wonder if he will spare me a dance as well! I shall decide if he's as lovely as you say."

Marissa frowned, but managed to refrain from rolling her eyes. Barely.

Still, she knew she wouldn't be able to hold back her irritation for long, so the sound of the men walking down the corridor was a great relief. Nanette would be too busy flirting to bother with the women much longer.

Marissa bent to whisper quickly in Beth's ear. "I hope you are ready to dance while you're here. Mr. Dunwoody was quite interested in your arrival."

Her friend's checks flared pink. A good thing, as her face had been quite pale. Now she looked less like a girl who'd spent a year at her mother's bedside and more like a youthful maiden.

Marissa waited impatiently for Mr. Dunwoody to appear, but she soon forgot that she was waiting for him and began watching for Jude instead. Would he be a gentleman tonight or a rogue? Would he smile mysteriously from the corner, or would he steal her away and kiss her?

Both, hopefully.

The night suddenly felt so uncertain. Her pulse leapt in uneven surges.

"Miss York," a man said. She knew the voice was too tentative to be Jude, but she still hoped it was him as she turned. The sinking of her heart seemed melodramatic in the face of such mild disappointment, but she smiled when she thought of what Jude would say to that.

"Mr. Dunwoody! Here is Miss Samuel, just as I promised! Did you get a chance to speak with her before dinner?"

"I did not." He bowed low over Beth's hand. "Miss Samuel, it is such a pleasure to see you again. I hope your appearance means your mother has improved?"

"She is much better, sir. Thank you." They smiled at each other for a long, awkward moment before Nanette nudged her cousin's elbow.

"Oh," Beth breathed, her expression melting into a combination of embarrassment and dread. "This is Mr. Dunwoody. Mr. Dunwoody, this is my cousin Miss Nanette Samuel."

"A pleasure," she purred with a graceful inclination of her head.

Mr. Dunwoody laughed nervously as he bowed, and when he rose, his eyes stayed on Nanette. "I meant to... oh!" He turned halfway back toward Beth. "I meant to request the privilege of a dance with you this evening, Miss Samuel. And with your lovely cousin as well, if she would deign to dance with a stranger."

Nanette tittered and touched his arm, and Mr. Dunwoody's smile widened to a grin.

Marissa gritted her teeth, but she told herself it didn't matter. Mr. Dunwoody liked Beth, and though Nanette always did her best to draw attention from her cousin, she wouldn't succeed this time, surely. When he walked away, Nanette observed how handsome he was and asked after his prospects. Then she proceeded to tell Beth that a gentleman without a title might be a fine catch for someone like her, but Nanette intended to be Lady Something other when she married. "Still," she laughed, "Mr. Dunwoody certainly seems a fine prospect for a dance partner in the meantime."

Marissa interrupted with a pointed look at Beth. "Beth, I believe my mother wanted to speak with you about designing a headdress for tomorrow's play. You're so amazingly creative! You will excuse us, won't you, Nanette?"

She pulled her friend up and led her toward the far side of the room. "I don't know how you live with that woman," she whispered to Beth. "She's intolerable."

"She's not so bad. At least when I sit next to her, the gentlemen flock around."

"Mr. Dunwoody did not need her presence to entice him. And, as always, you sell yourself too cheaply. Why, Malcolm James was very close to making an offer during your first season."

"But he didn't." She shot Marissa a mischievous look. "It's all right. Nanette says I can be her companion if I never get an offer."

"She did not!"

"She did," Beth laughed.

Marissa stopped her for a quick hug. Beth was sweet and loyal, and if she didn't have the beauty of her cousin, she was very pretty at least. If only they did not have the exact same coloring . . .

Beth cleared her throat. "That Mr. Bertrand certainly seems fond of you. He watched you all through dinner."

"Did he?" She followed Beth's gaze to another corner of the room. She expected to find Jude watching her still, but he was looking down at the woman talking to him. Patience Wellingsly, the same woman who'd watched him so closely at dinner the night before.

"Doesn't he make you nervous? He looks like a ruffian."

Mrs. Wellingsly leaned into his arm, using the excuse of laughter to press herself close.

"Have you danced with him? I can't imagine he would recommend himself as a partner."

Marissa glared at the woman's hand wrapped so possessively around Jude's bicep. "What do you know about Mrs. Wellingsly?"

Beth looked surprised. "Her? Not much, I suppose. I know she's been widowed for a few years. And I believe she's very keen for whist." And big men who looked like ruffians, it seemed.

Marissa watched carefully, wondering why the gorgeous widow seemed so interested in Jude. Could they possibly be lovers? They hardly looked compatible. Mrs. Wellingsly, all pale beauty and delicate grace, looked like spun sugar next to him.

But she was obviously flirting, and Jude hadn't looked up once to see if Marissa was nearby.

"Hmph," she muttered, and Belli sent her a puzzled look. "Come, let's find some wine. I'm sure my mother will start the dancing soon."

She managed to get through two glasses of wine and three dances without seeing Jude again, and while she told herself she was purposefully avoiding him, her irritation fell suspiciously like hurt.

Ridiculous. He meant nothing to her.

But when she spotted Mrs. Wellingsly in a half-shouted conversation with Aunt Ophelia, Marissa fell as if a tight hand had just been released from around her chest. Wherever Jude was, he hadn't snuck off with that woman.

She spun around to see if she could find another dance partner, but found herself nearly colliding with Edward instead.

"Might I speak with you in my study?"

Frowning at his dark tone, Marissa followed her brother from the room. "What is wrong?" she whispered. "I haven 't received another letter, if that's what you think."

"No," he muttered, "but I have."

"What letter?" she asked as he closed the door of his study behind her. Jude was there, and Aidan as well.

Not good.

"Cousin May wrote to warn she'd heard a rumor about you and Peter White having a private argument. It's dangerous to let it go on longer."

"But—"

"I will announce the engagement."

"But you promised me time!"

Edward folded his arms. "Engagements can be broken. But if this story spreads, there will be nothing I can do for you, Marissa. A betrothal to Jude

Bertrand will cause a stir and either smother the story or give it a less sinister turn. If you and Mr. White argued, it must only be over your growing affection for Jude."

Her brain tried to muster an objection, but in truth, it made perfect sense. Marissa looked toward Jude and met his serious eyes. He stepped forward, but she shook her head. She did not need his reassurance or influence. She would make this decision as an adult. "When shall we announce it then?"

"As soon as possible," Edward answered. "Tonight. I'll interrupt that harpist mother hired. That should he dramatic."

"Yes. All right."

Jude cleared his throat. "If I might have a moment alone with Marissa?"

Her brothers both left, though Aidan stopped before her to place a hand on her arm. His eyes were dark, but she nodded his worry away. When he left, the door closed with a careful thump.

"This won't change anything for you." Jude said. "I'll still honor your plan."

"Thank you."

"But know that I honor mine as well. Scandal or not, I mean to marry you if you'll have me. And only if you'll have me."

"All this based on admiration for my overwrought nature?"

"Something like that."

He moved closer, and Marissa fell the room grow smaller, the air less cool. He stopped before her, and his hand touched her jaw as it had before. The last time, she'd thought he would kiss her, but now she had no idea what he meant by it.

"Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand, Marissa York?"

"I..." By God, everything he did was a mystery. "You understand that—"

"I do."

"All right. Then, yes, I suppose I do as well."

His mouth lifted in that already-familiar crooked smile. "I'm not sure you're a romantic at all," he said. Then he tipped her face up and lowered his head, and my God, he was finally going to kiss her.

He moved so slowly that she could feel her own breath rush between them. She kept her eyes open, worried he'd draw away if she didn't watch. But finally, finally, his mouth touched hers, and she sighed with stark relief.

His lips brushed over hers, a soft rasp that set her nerves tingling. He smelled good so close to her. That same spice she caught a hint of on rare occasions. He smelled like something she wanted to taste.

So she did, pressing her mouth more firmly to his. Jude rewarded her by parting his lips just enough to catch her bottom lip between his. Now there was a hint of wetness when she moved. Now it felt wicked and less than safe.

The tingling in her nerves spread out, chasing down her body with happy speed.

Marissa had been kissed before, and she knew how it was done, so she angled her head and licked his plump bottom lip, and then she had to do nothing but let him kiss her.

And kiss her he did, with tongue and mouth and nibbling teeth. Marissa found herself clutching his lapels in an attempt to keep him near. At any moment

he could lift his head, and then when would he kiss her again? She'd waited so long already. . . .

His tongue rubbed a slow caress against hers, and Marissa moaned and strained toward him. His chest was so hard, and she could feel a faint roughness to his chin, but his mouth was nothing but warmth and sweet need. The kiss went on for long minutes, and soon enough she was thinking of couches and things that could be done on them. She was thinking of his thigh and what it might feel like under his trousers. Men had crisp hair on their thighs, she knew. And hot skin. And other interesting things in the vicinity.

So when he finally lifted his head, Marissa let him go, anticipating that something even better might happen. But nothing better did.

"That's as official as it gets, I'd say." His voice was deeper than normal, and much more rumbly.

Marissa fell back on her heels when she realized she was still poised on tiptoe. "Pardon?"

"Our betrothal. Shall we go share our joyful news?"

"I rather thought we'd stay here a moment and find ourselves even happier."

"Marissa! What kind of gentleman would I be if I tried to sway things in my favor by increasing your odds of. . . increasing?"

Her eyes slid toward the very comfortable looking couch on the far side of the room. It was far larger than the sewing-room settee. "You said there were other ways. ..."

"Oh, Christ," Jude said to the ceiling. His neck stretched up when he raised his chin, and the shadowed darkness of his nascent beard caught her eye. Another thing that made him so much rougher

than other gentlemen. Even when he was closely shaven, she could see the dark threat of whiskers beneath his skin.

Yes, he was altogether too rough. Yet he kissed like some sort of wicked angel.

"I'll never be fit for public presentation if you say things like that to me, Marissa."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," he muttered.

"Might we kiss more?"

Jude closed his eyes and shook his head. "Edward will come looking for us shortly, I'm sure. Anyway, it won't be good for my nerves."

Marissa felt like pouting, but she wasn't about to let Jude know. So she sniffed, "You make the oddest jokes," and pretended to straighten her skirts. "Are you ready, then?"

"I think I'm past offending, yes."

"Did you muss my hair?"

He made a show of tilting his head this way and that, then walked slowly around her, sending her body into tight awareness of his gaze. When he reached her front again, Jude stole a very quick kiss. "You look perfect." That easy kiss felt so natural that it startled her. And when she took his arm, she felt the same strangeness. Three days ago, she hadn't known him. Two days before, he'd been an unattractive acquaintance. Now he felt like a friend.

Like everything else to do with Jude, it made no sense, but there was no point poking at it with a stick. She should just be happy he was tolerable.

No one seemed to notice them when they entered the room. Even Beth didn't look up, absorbed as she was with watching Mr. Dunwoody dance with Nanette.

But Edward had been watching, and when Marissa gave him a small nod, he walked toward the musicians, his mouth set in too grim a line.

He held up his hands, and the music faded to a stop, the harp trailing out as if the song did not wish to end.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have wonderful news tonight, and I'm thrilled you are all here to share in our family's joy. Mr. Jude Bertrand, an honorable and good friend of the York family, has asked for my sister's hand in marriage, and I was only too happy to give them my blessing." A murmur of shock trembled through the room. "Please join me in sharing congratulations with the happy couple." He gestured toward them, and the whole room turned as one. "We are all very... happy... with the arrangement."

No one seemed to notice her brother's awkward ending. They probably hadn't heard past their gasps and whispers. Every single face was etched in some measure of disbelief.

Smiling, clutching Jude's arm, Marissa looked around and caught Mr. Dunwoody's gaze. His face looked slightly crooked, torn between disbelief and horror.

In fact, several of the faces looking back at her could conservatively be described as horrified. Marissa tried to smile more widely, but embarrassment made her lips stiff. Embarrassment for herself, if she was being honest, but also for Jude. Nobody clapped. Nobody made noises of encouragement. Not one person could believe that

Marissa York would marry this man. And of course, under any normal circumstances, she wouldn't, and that knowledge was a rough stone lodged in her stomach.

But when she glanced up to Jude, he looked not the least bit discomfited.

"I'm honored," he said loudly, "that Miss York would even turn a smile in my direction, and I'm humbled that she has accepted my offer."

"Here, here!" Edward called, and the room had no choice but to follow suit. Aidan began to applaud, and the rest echoed him. Finally, the music started again, and Marissa felt faint with relief. It was done. And there was no doubt that talk of their engagement would overshadow any other talk drifting about.

Jude offered her a wink as a few brave souls approached, and his good humor helped to steady her nerves. Any other man she knew would be red-faced and fuming at this point. But Jude was steady as ever. In that moment, his brutish size seemed the least important thing about him. His strength was something entirely more than muscles and bones.

They accepted strained congratulations for a few moments before Cousin Harry clapped Jude on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. He was in on the plan, of course, but his acting had always been impeccable. Dear Harry was the star in every one of her mother's productions, and he played this role with aplomb as well. His hug was warm and genuine. His congratulations hearty but still surprised. The tension in the room eased, and Marissa found herself relaxing as she laughed and hung on Jude's arm.

For a moment it almost felt real. She was happy, and she'd he married, and she would love this man. And then Marissa caught sight of Beth's face, frozen with shock, and she remembered that this was all a terrible mistake.

Chapter 9

Marissa pushed the horse hard through the chilled dawn air, clouds of steam billowing from its nose to slide past her boots and disappear into the gray light. She didn't enjoy the hunt, she didn't like jumping, but this she loved. Speed. A horse running so fast that Marissa felt she might fly.

She wished she could fly.

There'd been no dancing after Edward's announcement had been made. There'd been a drama to rehearse and friendly gambling and charades, but no dancing. Marissa had used that as an excuse to retire early. Really, she'd been trying to escape the subtle questions and sly looks of forty people trying to puzzle out her relationship with Jude.

Beth had looked more than puzzled. She'd seemed downright frightened, and when Marissa had heard a soft knock on her door close to midnight, she'd pretended to be asleep. She couldn't tell Beth the truth. If Marissa was with child, she'd be sure that no one but her immediate family knew the truth.

She would not dishonor Jude in that way, nor the child.

The thought slackened her grip, and the mare began to slow. There was the faintest fog this morning, and while Marissa could see clearly twenty yards ahead, the world began to recede at that point, as if the earth ceased to exist once it got too far from her. That was a blessing today, so she let Cleopatra trot for a distance before slowing her to a walk and turning back. Today, her loneliness was welcome.

She wasn't with child. She was so sure of that, but no one believed her. She felt exactly the same as she had before that night, not even changed in the way that she should be. What did that say about her? Was she cold or callous? Was she missing some essential femininity that made one a woman? She'd always felt different, though not one person around her had seemed to notice. Not her brothers. Not her parents. No one... until Jude had come along. He saw her, truly, but she didn't know if she wanted to be seen.

It felt like a violation, sometimes, not being able to control what he knew of her. He didn't know her secrets because she'd told them. He saw them written on her in gilt script.

But out here in the fog, she was safe and alone, and her future was as fuzzy as the line of trees to the west. Even her cold skin was a relief from the hot blushes that had taken it so often of late.

Still, she could not stay lost forever, and the men were likely gone now on their morning hunt. If she could only find a way to avoid Beth as well . . .

Hallway back to the manor, hoofbeats approached.

For some reason, she knew it must he Jude, and she braced herself for his all-seeing eyes. He would likely ride up and take one look at her and ask why she was hiding in the fog and feeling sorry for herself .

Cheeky wretch.

She was ready for him when the horse finally materialized on the lane ahead. So ready that she felt a flash of disappointment when she saw the dark muzzle and pale white star on the horse's nose. It wasn't Jude's great ugly beast, so it couldn't be Jude on his back.

The figure raised a hand, and Marissa stifled a sigh. She knew that elegantly slim arm.

Mr. Dunwoody. Damnation.

She offered a somber greeting as he drew near.

"Miss York, I was hoping to find you on your ride this morning. The stable boy said you'd gone this way."

"Don't let me keep you, sir. I'm already returning as I can hardly feel my nose."

"Ah." His smile flashed for only a moment. "Please, if I might escort you back ..." He turned his horse, and the gelding's elegant legs pranced in impatience. It was a beautiful horse, its lines as perfect as the seams of Mr. Dunwoody's coat. Marissa swept a wistful gaze over the gelding. She did so love beautiful things.

"Your betrothal came as quite a surprise."

"Mr. Bertrand has been a friend of the family for years now."

"Yes, well ... I guess I did not notice him among your many admirers."

"Come, there were not so many."

"It seemed an intimidating horde to me." His

smile tried for self-deprecation but only looked worried. "Are you quite certain all is well, Miss York? After the argument with Mr. White and now this sudden betrothal, I can't help but worry."

"Worry about what, exactly?"

Now his familiar blush returned, and Mr. Dunwoody shook his head. "I apologize. It's none of my concern."

She should have corrected him, if only to be polite, but she couldn't. It was none of his concern.

The rigidity left his spine in tiny increments. Finally, he turned toward her with his normal smile. "All that aside .. ."

She smiled hack, and wondered if she might ever have approached Mr. Dunwoody with her predicament. She couldn't imagine it. He looked so very... young. Almost certainly, he would've reacted to her story with horror and shock. He would've been disgusted or outraged. Under no circumstances could she imagine Mr. Dunwoody matter-of-factly asking if she'd bled yet.

Wincing at the thought, she faced the outline of the manor beginning to reveal itself through the white.

Beautiful or not, Jude Bertrand was a man who could see her through this haze. Her doubts about him had floated far away.

"Well then," Dunwoody finally continued. "May I ask what you think of Miss Samuel?"

Marissa's heart leapt. "Oh, Beth is wonderful. She's my dearest friend. She's kind and loyal, and I'm sure you noticed that she's an excellent dancer. So graceful."

"Of course. She's lovely and soft-spoken. Very nice."

"Yes."

"What of Miss-Nanette Samuel? You must he close to her as well."

Her leaping heart landed in a heap atop her stomach. "Nanette? Um, yes, I have spent time with her as well."

"She's beautiful and so lively, wouldn't you say?"

"Mm." Her mind scrambled. If she spoke her true feelings, Mr. Dunwoody would likely discount them as the bitter words of a rival. But if she complimented Nanette, he would believe that too well. She took a deep breath. "Nanette is beautiful," she said, swallowing back her warnings. If he was smart, he'd be able to take her simple compliment for what it was. And if he were worthy of Beth, he would be able to see the truth himself.

"Yes," he murmured. "She is that."

Marissa gripped her reins tighter and hoped she'd done the right thing. But now she had another secret to keep from Beth.

Strangely enough, she found herself yearning to get Jude alone and tell him her troubles. A very odd feeling to have about a man, wanting to talk with him. Very odd indeed.

Chapter 10

Marissa hadn't come down to luncheon, and Jude was growing worried. The woman loved to eat, though she took such ladylike bites, people didn't notice that her last bite was often from a third serving. How she managed to stay so thin was beyond Jude's understanding.

He frowned down at the carpet as he paced along the hallway.

He'd sent Aidan to find out what the matter was, and her brother had come back to report she was taking a nap. Aidan had gone on his happy way, but Jude couldn't stop worrying.

Was she sick? Or was she regretting the betrothal? He didn't care to see the woman tortured. He truly believed they were compatible or he'd never have volunteered. Did she understand that?

Impatient with his maudlin mood, Jude decided to simply ask her the question himself and headed toward the second floor and Marissa's chambers.

She didn't answer the first soft knock, so he tried again, then wondered if waking her from a nap was counterintuitive to his goal. He had the feeling that Marissa York would not trip lightly from sleep.

"What is it?" she called just as he was turning away.

He tensed in surprise. "It's Jude."

Silence.

"I wanted to check on you."

She murmured something.

Leaning close to the door, Jude thought he caught the word "men," but he couldn't make out much more.

"Just a moment," she said more loudly.

And so Jude found himself standing in the corridor like a child awaiting punishment. A few eternal minutes later, Marissa opened the door and pulled him into her room.

And Jude gawked like a naughty boy.

She looked beautiful. Her normally styled-to-perfection hair was still braided, but the strawberry-blond braid hung down to curve over her shoulder. Her checks and lips were rosy as if she'd been curled beneath warm covers. Her eyes were heavy lidded with sleep. He'd see her like this every morning if they married.

"Would you care for tea?" she asked.

"You're beautiful."

Her brow furrowed with skepticism as she touched the end of her braid with a snort. "You're either mad or a liar. I've been napping."

"Are you ill?"

Her hand went to her stomach, drawing his eve to the soft white peignoir she wore. "No. I only had trouble sleeping last night."

"The announcement?"

Gaze falling to his shoes, she shook her head.

"Not really. I can't tell Beth the truth. I don't want to avoid her, but I don't know what to say."

"Tell her that I kissed you and you couldn't refuse me. Those things are true, after all, if not in that order."

She snuck a tiny smile at that. "You want me to convince her that I love you?"

"Would she believe you?"

"I don't think so. I wrote to her a week ago, after all, and somehow forgot to mention you."

"A tragic oversight." Unable to resist the lovely picture she presented, he stroked the backs of his fingers over her rosy cheek. "Then why don't you tell her that I make you feel things you've never felt before. Would she believe that?" Her cheek grew warmer against his knuckles, and he was sure she leaned her face more fully into his touch.

Her gaze rose to meet his, eyes flashing green heat. "She might."

He couldn't kiss her. Not now. Not in her chambers when she wore that flowing white gown and nothing else. She'd be soft right now if he touched her. Soft and.... He dropped his hand and stepped back.

"I finished your book. You were right. The handsome gentleman did save the day."

Her eyes narrowed with irritation. "Mm. Who is that woman to you?"

"What woman?" He wondered if his face looked as dumbfounded as he felt.

"Patience Wellingsly. Is she your lover?"

"What?" His mind spun with the change of topic. "No. Of course not."

"Then why does she look at you as if she wants to he devoured?"

He shook his head. "Perhaps because I've refused to take a bite?"

She crossed her arms and glared at him. "I don't believe you."

"Marissa." His brain finally caught up to the topic, and Jude registered a shocking fact. Marissa York was jealous. Over him. "I have never so much as kissed Patience Wellingsly."

"Well then, that puts me a full minute ahead of her in your distribution of intimacy. A comforting lead."

He didn't point out that she was jealous. She'd only deny it. But there was one thing she might not deny. "Are you complaining about a lack of kisses, Miss York?"

"Well, what is the point of being betrothed if one can't even enjoy kisses? I was kissed more often before!"

"Were you? By whom?"

Her chin inched up. "Men."

"Are you sure?"

"Why do you keep saying that? What is this great divide in your mind that sets men apart from boys?"

This time when he stepped toward her, Marissa stepped away. Then she seemed to realize what she'd done and stood her ground, shoulders back and chin high. And when he kissed her, she leaned into him, lingers spreading open on his chest.

He didn't lease her this time, but kissed her fully. She tasted of sweet, hot tea, and she was soft. Very soft. The layers of thin fabric did nothing to conceal the feel of her curves when his hands touched her hips. She wore no corset. She wore practically nothing at all.

When she sighed into his mouth and pressed her entire body more firmly against his, Jude groaned and told himself to set her away. Instead he shifted her toward her bed. A natural instinct. An awful idea. But he was all instinct now, as her tongue stroked his in eager hunger.

Her passion had stolen his willpower away. Her hands eased beneath his coat and snuck over his chest. Her knee rubbed restless between his. Her soft noises seemed to wind around him and squeeze till he couldn't breathe.

He eased her toward the bed until her legs touched the mattress, then laid her slowly onto the goose down. "If I were a boy, I'd probably slide my hand beneath your neckline right now."

Her eyes popped open. "Oh!"

"I'd caress your breasts until I felt enough time had passed, and then I'd pull your dress up in bunches until you were sufficiently exposed. Does that sound familiar?"

She stared, wide-eyed, at him, her breath rushing past her lips.

"Then I'd rub your sex until it was slick enough for penetration. No more than that, mind you, because if I were a boy, my only goal would be mounting you."

"I see," she whispered.

"But I'm a man, Marissa, so I'll do this instead. ..." Lying on his side, Jude made sure to keep his weight off her body as he kissed her again. Naturally passionate as she was—or perhaps just naturally impatient—Marissa slid her hands behind his neck and pulled him closer. He smiled against her mouth and murmured his pleasure, but he did not touch her. He only kissed, exploring her mouth, discovering what she liked and what she didn't, memorizing the texture of her tongue against his.

When she shifted restlessly beneath him, Jude finally broke the kiss and dragged his mouth down her neck. He sucked at her neck and nibbled her shoulder and kissed his way down her breastbone, his cock aching more with every taste. Her encouraging whimpers drove him wild. He wanted her making those sounds while she took him inside her. Wanted her begging him to give her more.

Jude took a deep breath and made himself calm. He wouldn't take her. Not until they were married. But he meant to show her, at least, that there was more to a man than dancing and tight trousers.

So he drew gently at the skin just above the ruffled neckline of her gown. Her belly sucked in, and her breasts pushed up. The delicate fabric showed the clear outline of her pebbled nipples, pushing against the silk. Jude stifled a groan.

She was a slim woman and her breasts were small, but by god, they were finely made.

His hands clenched the bedspread. He would not enact the very scenario he'd described.

"Jude," she whispered.

He ignored her plea and kissed his way along the line of the fabric. Her hands tightened in his hair and pleasure pulsed into his veins. She wanted this. She wanted him.

Jude eased one hand beneath her robe and curled it over her shoulder so that he could feather his thumb across the very top of her breast. She shivered and arched into his body.

This was a more difficult exercise in control than he'd imagined. And Marissa was showing no restraint at all.

Jude closed his eyes and counted to twenty; then, telling himself he could stop when he needed too, he finally pressed his lips to the thin fabric that covered her breast. He closed his mouth over her nipple, and Marissa gasped in a high, sweet voice.

Christ, yes. that was the sound he wanted. Those gasping, keening sighs. He suhecked her nipple and coaxed more lovely notes, then scraped his teeth over her to hear even more.

He wanted so badly to tug her gown down and see the miracle of her naked body. He wanted to strip her bare and taste every inch of her skin. Then he wanted to bury himself deep within her for hours.

But more than anything, he wanted Marissa to think she couldn't live without him, as he was beginning to think he couldn't live without her.

He kissed her other breast as well, sucking at her nipple through the fabric until she was panting with lust.

Hands shaking with the effort of restraint, Jude lifted his head and kissed her mouth once more. Then he rolled to his back with a wince and closed his eyes. "That is the difference between a boy and man," he rasped.

"What? Why did you stop?" Unwilling to lie there passively, Marissa popped up on her elbow. "You haven't left me satisfied, if that's what you think!"

"Ha! Give me some credit. Half the joy of making love is the pleasure of anticipation. I bet none of your dancing boys have ever taught you that lesson."

"But... but I do not need to be taught lessons! You are not my tutor!"

"No, I am only the man you paid no attention to until three days ago. I am no boy, Marissa, and I am no fool either."

She was silent so long that Jude finally forced his eyes open to look at her. She frowned down at him like a troubled nymph, her lips pink and swollen from a recent tryst in the forest. I do not need you to tempt me, Jude. I like you well enough."

He cocked an eyebrow. "Well enough for what?"

Her lips curved into a smile. "Well enough that I did not want you to stop."

"We've discovered that at least."

She studied him for a long moment. "May I see your chest?"

"Pardon?"

"I'd like to see your chest."

"I'm not sure you'd like it. There's hair on it, you know."

"I know that!"

"What is it that you wish to see then?"

She narrowed her eyes in irritation. "Oh, I think I understand. You've seen women's breasts before, so why would you care to see more?"

There was no arguing with that nonsense, so Jude simply reached for his cravat. He pulled the ends free and unbuttoned his shirt down to the placard. She seemed satisfied with that and slipped her hand beneath the linen to touch his bare skin.

Jude stifled a deep groan. Her hand stroked a tentative path over his chest and twisted knives into his soul.

"You are hairy," she breathed.

I will not pull her over me.

"But not frighteningly so. It feels rather nice."

And I will not slide myself atop her.

She explored up to his shoulders and down to the bottom of his rib cage. "You are so very wide compared to me."

Her palm slid over his nipple, and Jude clenched his teeth. And when her hand skipped down to the sensitive skin of his stomach, he sucked in a gulp of air.

"Sorry, does that tickle?"

"Yes." Yes, it tickled, but the jump in his heartbeat made his cock pound harder until his arousal felt more like pain.

"This is nice," Marissa murmured. "I like this."

Pain or not, he liked it too, and when Marissa laid her head on his shoulder and rested her hand over his heart, something more powerful than lust swelled inside him, and he closed his eyes and curved his hand over her head to keep her close.

"Mm," she murmured sleepily. "I finally see what you mean about not embarrassing yourself."

"Pardon?"

"Your trousers are quite out of sorts."

She sounded so ridiculously prim that Jude couldn't believe her words. Then he burst into deep, honest laughter. Marissa York was like no other woman he'd ever met. It was no wonder he was falling in love with her.

Chapter 11

Marissa hated Nanette, and she was beginning to hate Mr. Dunwoody as well. And, she decided with a petulant scowl, if she was going to hate people, she may as well add Patience Wcllingsly to the list. The woman had no right to sit out in the sunlight on an autumn day and simply... glow.

Marissa had first thought her mother's suggestion of a grand picnic exciting. It was a beautiful, warm day, and a romantic picnic would add to the story of love at first sight that she and Jude were attempting to weave. Well, Jude was claiming he'd loved her at first sight. Marissa was smiling shyly and pretending to accept it all as her due.

"More punch, my darling?" he asked loudly as he rose to his feet. Patience Wcllingsly watched from her blanket as he stood straight and dusted off his trousers. The woman's eyes showed a deep appreciation for such large thighs, and Marissa had to fight the urge to put a hand to his leg and lay claim to them.

"She is so beautiful," Beth sighed.

"I know. It's sickening."

"Do you think Mr. Dunwoody is in love with her?"

"Why would... ? Oh." She swung her eyes back toward the Samuel blanket, where Mr. Dunwoody sat straight and proper. "You should move over there. Talk to him. I daresay he'd be relieved to change subjects. One can only speak of Nanette for so long."

"Marissa!" Beth laughed, but her face soon turned miserable again. "No, I cannot move there now. It would be obvious I was only begging attention."

"Perhaps, but Nanette would do it and not feel the least amount of shame."

"Yes, but I am not Nanette. Unfortunately." She wilted down to the blanket to lie back and stare up at the sky, so Marissa joined her.

"Thank God you are not Nanette. I'd not like you at all. It is so much more important that you be interesting and intelligent."

"Is that what you like about Mr. Bertrand?" Beth asked quietly.

Marissa's heart froze for several long seconds.

"It's only that I am so surprised! And please don't take this the wrong way, Marissa, but he hardly seems the kind of man you'd love. You never even mentioned him in your letters!"

"I... yes, I know. It happened quickly. And you're right, of course, he's not the kind of man to catch my eye. He's terribly brutal looking, isn't he?"

Beth's hand found hers and held it. "I fear there's something amiss. You told me just yesterday that you'd never even danced with him."

"There are more important things than dancing."

"Like what?"

"He ..." There were so many things she could say. He was kind and funny and strong, but Marissa knew she was not the kind of girl to jump into a quick marriage based on kindness. Better to take Jude's advice. "He kissed me," she whispered.

"And so have many others, by your account."

"Yes, but he kissed me and I thought ..." She closed her eyes and imagined him leaning toward her. "I thought I might die with the pleasure of it."

Beth squeezed her hand. "Truly?"

"Yes. And he touches me like I'm priceless and ... and base all at once."

Beth turned her head to look at Marissa. "I don't know what you mean."

"It's hard to explain."

"Harder still to understand. I've never been kissed. Not really."

"Perhaps if your morals were a bit looser?"

They both laughed and the tension was broken, and Marissa sighed with relief. Beth seemed satisfied with the answer, and Marissa felt. . . well, she felt strangely satisfied with the answer too. She didn't love him, and she didn't wish to marry him, but at least there were the kisses to look forward too. And the limbs.

"Do you know that men have hair on their chests?" she asked Beth.

Even from the corner of her eye she could see Beth's eyes go wide. "You mean laborers?"

"No, I mean all men. Beth ... do you like Mr. Dunwoody?"

"I do. He's very handsome. And gentle. I think I need a gentle husband. So many men are intimidating, aren't they?"

"Before dinner tonight, I'll come and help you pick out a dress, and then we'll get ready together. I'll have my maid style your hair, and we'll add a little rouge to your checks."

"My mother won't—"

"She won't even know. Nanette's cheeks don't get so pink from high spirits, do they?"

"No," Beth murmured.

"Then come to my room. You can be as shy as you like as long as you are prettier than Nanette."

"There's nothing to be done for that."

"She's only trying harder, and you are too kind to compete. But I am not kind at all," Marissa said with a grin, "so leave it to me. Will you?"

"I suppose," Beth murmured, but she sounded more loyal than certain. As if she suspected Marissa was up to no good.

Ridiculous, of course, but when Jude loomed over her with a glass of punch, Marissa knew she was caught. He took one look at her expression and grinned.

Yes, Jude had named her well. She was naughty indeed.

"Here," Marissa muttered, reaching a hand down the bodice of Beth's dress.

"Marissa!" her friend gasped as she tried to duck away.

"Elizabeth Samuel, men like bosoms, and yours are sheer perfection, if only you'd let them out." Once she'd plumped Beth's décolletage to her liking,

she stood back. "Do you know what I'd give for bosoms like that? Mine make no kind of shape at all, no matter how tight my laces."

"Well, if they're so important, why have you had five offers and I've had none?"

"We each have our blessings. I have a swanlike neck, and you have wonderful bosoms. I show off my blessings, and you do not."

"Marissa!" She started to tug her bodice up, and Marissa slapped her hand.

"Don't you dare. Even if Mr. Dunwoody is blind, there are at least three other likely gentlemen here. I'll be surprised if they don't all ask you to dance. I've already spoken to Mother. She promises to have dancing after the play. Now hold still."

Marissa surveyed her work with a critical eye. Though Beth hadn't had any jewel-tone dresses, she'd brought this sky blue one from her last Season. She hadn't worn it more than once, because she'd felt too self-conscious, but Marissa had thought she'd looked beautiful. She did.

Marissa's maid had spent nearly an hour ironing Beth's curls into loose waves, and a touch of kohl at her lash line turned her plain brown eyes mysterious.

Marissa's own hair was pulled into a simple chignon as a result of all the time spent on Beth, but she didn't mind. She had her hands full of troublesome men already.

"Are you ready?" Marissa asked.

"No," Beth muttered as a faint knock sounded on the door. A maid entered, a note in her hand. Marissa's heart sank as she took it.

"Is it from Jude?"

Marissa lied as she opened it. She knew it wasn't from Jude, but she couldn't let Belli know that. Instead she look the note to a corner chair and read it.

Mr. White wasn't giving up. He wanted to meet her one last time, to try to convince her of his good intentions. A meeting behind the stables at 10 pm, as if she were that foolish. He'd kidnap her or cause another scene. But what would he do if she didn't show up at all?

Damn that man. She felt helpless now, incapable of making a good decision and vulnerable to the whims of an untrustworthy man.

She folded the note and slipped it into a drawer of her dressing table. She'd have to consider it carefully. But right now she wanted Beth to emerge from this year of exile and enjoy herself.

"Come," she said with a forcibly bright smile. "Let us find you a gentleman. But remember what I said about kisses. A nice kiss is well and good, but keep trying until you find a kiss magnifique

"You're scandalous, Marissa!" Beth whispered, but she was still smiling a few minutes later when they entered the drawing room.

A freckled young man named Kenworth looked toward them, and his eye definitely settled on Beth, but she didn't seem to notice. Her focus fell on Mr. Dunwoody, who didn't look up from his conversation with Nanette.

Marissa's eyes locked onto Nanette too. "Oh, blast her," she said when she saw her dress.

Nanette had been in the room when they'd picked out Beth's dress, and she'd clearly meant to outdo her. Nanette was dressed in bright blue, with a bodice that came very close to immodesty.

"It's all right," Beth murmured. "It was a flawed plan. I can't compete with Nanette. I'm better off waiting for her to marry before I set my cap for a husband."

Marissa disagreed. She wanted to shout that it wasn't true and Beth could marry whomever she liked. That they could both marry whomever they liked.

But there was no point flailing, so she only took Beth's arm and led her to another seat. "Next Season will be grand. You'll see." Except there was a good chance next Season wouldn't be grand at all, at least not for Marissa.

The play was so ghastly that Jude found himself enjoying it immensely. A vignette of Of hello, with much shouting and wailing and gnashing of teeth. The death scene transcended awfulness and became sublime. Cousin Harry roared with perfect anguish, and the lady playing his wife died with many a tortured sigh.

Jude's mother would love these people, and he had a feeling that Lady York just might be persuaded to invite his mother for a visit. A secret visit, of course, but a friendly one, nonetheless.

"Bravo!" Jude shouted as the crowd burst into applause. He was about to rise to his feet when a feminine hand settled on the back of his neck. Expecting to find Mrs. Wellingsly standing behind him, Jude cringed as he turned. But when he saw that the fingers dragging over his neck belonged to Marissa, his body spread with instant heat.

She leaned down to speak into his ear, and her neckline caught his focus and held it, rendering him unable to concentrate on what she was saying. He'd opened his mouth against that skin earlier. He'd teased his lips over her collarbone. And he'd suckled her until she'd moaned with need. His earlier restraint now seemed an awful thing. If he'd only done what she'd wanted, he'd know what her breasts looked like, naked and Hushed with lust.

Marissa started to stand again, and he shook his head. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear a word you said."

"I asked if you'd care to stroll about the garden before the dancing begins."

"God, yes."

Her polite smile spread into a smirk. "Were you staring at my bosom, Mr. Bertrand?"

"Surely not."

"You may stare as much as you like if it leaves you so starry-eyed and flustered."

"I live to please." He finally remembered he should stand in the presence of a lady and thanked God he hadn't stared at her much longer. Even her most casual movements seemed designed to enflame him.

"You're damned beautiful," he whispered as he rose to offer his arm.

"Why do you always say that?"

"Because I'm overwhelmed with it every time."

"Did you learn charm during your years in France?"

"Yes, but I'm not being charming."

"I'm too thin and only passably attractive, so it's definitely charm."

"My word, you're in a strange mood this evening. I didn't wish to interrupt you and Miss Samuel to find out, but are things still awkward with her?"

"No," Marissa sighed as he opened the terrace door and led her out. "No, I've convinced her that

your kisses turned my head and overwhelmed my tender feelings."

"Ah, I can see why that has you out of sorts."

"That's not it either. It's just that Mr. Dunwoody fancied Beth until he saw her cousin, and now he can't see beyond Nanette's beauty. Beth is nicer and kinder and smarter, and now it's as if she doesn't exist. I want to strangle him!"

Jude stared at her for a moment, wondering if she was joking. But no, he could see the outrage in her wrinkled brow. "Marissa, are you complaining that Mr. Dunwoody enjoys flirting with pretty girls?"

"Beth is pretty," she muttered.

"I agree. But are you truly passing judgment on a man for being attracted to... fashion and fabric?"

She turned to him to glare. "He favored Beth until he met her cousin! It's not the same!"

"If you say so." He touched a careful hand to her hair. "I like your hair like this, mon coeur. It looks as though I could free it with a twist of my hand."

She touched her neck self-consciously, the anger leaving her face, and Jude bent to kiss her. He was slow this time, and careful, and Marissa seemed peaceful as well. They kissed for a long, quiet minute, but when he raised his head, Marissa laid her brow against his jacket as if she was weary.

"That's not all that's troubling me, Jude."

His stomach dropped. He put a hand beneath her chin. "What's wrong?"

"I received another note from Peter White."

"What's he done?"

"Nothing. He wants to meet tonight. At the stables."

"That scurrilous bastard. What time?" When Marissa put a hand on his arm, Jude realized that he'd clenched both his lists in anticipation of pounding Peter White's face in.

"Jude, I want to talk to him. But I want you to come along."

He took a deep breath, trying to cool his own surprising temper. "What is there to say? If you like, I can go on my own. Convince him to leave you alone."

"With your charm?"

"Of course."

"You don't look very charming right now."

He shrugged one shoulder and tried to look less violent.

"No, I want to speak with him. It's too soon to be sure. ... I didn't plan to say anything yet, but I'm ... my stomach feels quite... achy."

"Morning sickness?" he asked, as half the blood seemed to rush from his head.

"No. Not that."

"Oh," Jude said. "I see."

"I'll know for certain in a day or two, but I thought if I told him, he might finally give up."

"Ah, yes. That's clever. He'll leave you alone if he knows there's no hope." Jude wondered if he was talking about himself or Peter White. But that was ridiculous. Jude hadn't given up hope yet. Babe or no babe, Marissa had started opening up to him. "I'll come with you. It's nearly ten now."

"Thank you." Instead of taking his arm, Marissa reached for his hand, and they walked like that through the quiet dark, each keeping their thoughts close.

Hallway to the stables, she finally broke the silence.

"What was it like when you lived in your mother's home?"

"Well, I knew nothing different at First. It was a home like any other, full of servants and visitors and parties. A happy place, though sometimes not ideal for a child. My mother would send me away to the country with my nurse sometimes, and I was dreadfully lonely without her. She's warm and full of wit and laughter."

"It sounds strangely ideal."

"Oh, there was the occasional fight with a neighbor child who called her names, but ..." He shrugged those darker memories away. "But I was happy and loved."

He caught the glint of her eyes when she looked toward him. Her hand squeezed his. "When were you sent to live with your father? You were raised in his household, weren't you?"

"Yes." The heartbreak felt old as time now, and yet it still ached if touched.

"Jude—"

"It's neither tragic nor very dramatic. He married when I was three, and by the time I was eight, his family was established and he sent for me. My mother could hardly say no. He'd acknowledged me from the start, and she reminded me every day that I should be grateful for that generosity. And if he wanted to give me the life of a duke's son ..."

"But the duchess?"

"Oh, she was as understanding as she could be, under the circumstances. Not loving, but not cruel either. It helped that I had been born before they met, I'm sure. And my half brothers treated me as an older cousin. We were close enough. I would've been overjoyed with the arrangement if I hadn't been so homesick."

Marissa stopped and turned toward him. Her hand touched his face, shaping to fit his cheek. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine being sent away."

"Most boys are sent to school at that age, you know. Earlier even."

"And I'm sure they all suffer from it. And your poor mother ... I missed my brothers horribly when they were at school. She must have been devastated."

"We are close as ever. The story has a happy ending."

"I'm glad," she breathed, and Jude couldn't help but kiss her.

Their mouths met in desperation. A wildness unlike any kiss they'd yet shared. A threat hung over them. This charade might soon come to an end, and then they'd have no excuse to touch each other. No excuse to kiss.

But the charade shouldn't matter. He'd determined to convince her to love him and, pregnancy or not, he still could. She felt it too, after all, the threat of an ending. Her hands clutched him tight, and she kissed him as if she wanted to devour him before it was too late.

If it weren't for Peter White's imminent arrival, Jude would take her hair down. He'd run his fingers through the heavy red-blond locks and see her as no other man had. He'd carry her into the stables and lay her down and show her that she could not dismiss him.

He could overwhelm her with pleasure. He knew he could. A woman like Marissa would bloom under a wicked tutelage. But lust was a crumbling foundation on which to build a future. Lust would not support a year together, much less a life.

In that moment, he saw that he wanted everything, not just her lust.

So instead of sweeping her up into his arms, Jude set her back. "We'd best get this over with and return before we're missed."

"Yes," she said, though her voice was soft enough to get lost in the rustle of the trees around them.

She turned and trudged on without taking his hand.

"Marissa!" a voice hissed just as she drew even with the stable. "Is that you?"

"It's Miss York," she snapped back.

"Yes, of course. I meant no offense."

"What did you wish to speak with me about, Mr. White?"

"I feel as if we left things in an unfortunate state the last time we met. I desperately wish to rectify that, Miss York. I know you must have some feelings for me, else you wouldn't have—who in the world is that?" Peter White took a few frantic steps back.

Jude smiled.

"It's Mr. Bertrand," Marissa answered, her tone a bit too dismissive for Jude's taste.

"Well, what's he doing here?"

"He's here to be sure you don't cause offense, Mr. White."

"I would never seek to cause you harm, Marissa. You must believe me!" He threw his hands high in a dramatic gesture, and Jude tensed. He'd hung back to give them a semblance of privacy, but he was within two seconds of knocking Peter White to the ground the man raised a hand in her direction.

"Be that as it may," Marissa continued in a cool tone, "I only met you here to insist you cease writing to me."

"I can't give up—"

"You must give up. You attempted to trick me into marriage alter I'd twice refused your offer. You meant to take that choice from me, and I'll never forgive you for that."

"But you're ruined!" Amazingly, the man actually sounded sincerely concerned for her future.

"If you're implying that no man will want me, I'm forced to tell you that you're quite wrong. Mr. Bertrand has offered for my hand, and I've accepted."

"That's... that's not possible!" White's head turned toward Jude. "What kind of a man would take another man's leavings?"

Jude had been lounging against the side of the stable, but he stood straight at those words. "Pardon me?" he drawled as violence crept into his blood.

"Urn ..." White backed up again, stumbling a bit over a clump of grass. "Please understand. She may be carrying my child!"

Jude felt Marissa's touch and looked down to see her hand on his fist. "It is my opinion," he growled, "that only the lowest cur takes advantage of a woman and then abuses her for participating. Is that what you are, sir? A dog in need of putting down?"

"Because if you think I will not beat you within an inch of your life, then you are stupid as well as immoral!"

When Marissa wrapped her hands around his

arm, Jude realized he'd stalked two steps closer to White. Almost within striking distance now. His hands shook with fury.

"Mr. White," she said quietly. "I am not carrying your child, so the matter is finished."

The man's eyes jerked nervously between Jude and Marissa. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. So please consider me a stranger. I do not wish to see you again."

"And," Jude added, "I promise you that if you breathe one foul word about her, I will hear of it, and I will kill you. Do you hear me?"

White seemed to sense that the immediate danger had passed, as he pulled his shoulders hack and primly straightened his cuffs. "I do. Good-bye, Miss York. I only regret that my intentions have been misunderstood. I wish you the best in your fortuitous marriage."

Though Jude ached with the need to pounce, he let the man turn around and walk off into the night.

Marissa let out her breath in a long sigh. "My word, Jude. You are terrifying when you're angry."

"I cannot stand men like him."

She raised a knowing eyebrow.

"And not only because of my mother," he muttered.

"Were men cruel to her?"

"No, my mother is a good judge of character, but many of her friends were ill-used. Often it's how they came to be in that profession. Seduced by a gentleman, then cast aside like rubbish." He let Marissa turn him back toward the house.

After a few steps, she asked a very quiet question. "Is that what my brother does?"

"Who? Aidan?"

Not meeting his eyes, she nodded.

"No, I wouldn't call him a friend if he did. Aidan might be cold, but he's unfailingly honest. He does not love them and makes that clear."

"But they love him?"

"Only the very foolish ones, Marissa."

"He is just so cold now. And the stories I hear... I worry."

He was finally calm enough to feel that her hand trembled against his arm, and Jude pulled her to a sudden stop. "You're shaking. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm just feeling a bit... drained. I wasn't expecting to believe anything Peter White said."

"Did you?"

"Yes! And that's what so frightening. That he may have truly cared for me when he tried to force me into a future I did not want."

Jude made a sound of agreement as he wrapped her in his arms, but pain bloomed in his chest at her words. Is that what she thought of him, as well?

"Jude," she sighed. "You've been so good to me."

Closing his eyes, Jude breathed in the flowered scent of her hair, his whole body tightening with arousal as he drew her in. But he only held her, hoping he could calm her even as his mind raced. If he had to let her go, he'd do so with grace. Or at least pretend to.

"You're warm," she whispered, unbuttoning his coat to slide her hands against his shirt. For a moment it seemed an innocent quest for comfort, but she kept touching him in wide, slow strokes, and then she pressed her lips against his heart.

"Marissa," he said, meaning to remind her that someone would surely notice their absence soon, but then she whispered "Kiss me. Please?" and the warning died in his throat.

He kissed her, just as she'd asked, aware of her body melting into his as she met his sigh with one of her own. But Marissa was no longer content with just being kissed, and he could feel the racing emotion like another pulse beneath her skin. She kissed him hard and slid her hands along his waist, tugging at the fabric ... and he suddenly felt the electric shock of her hands on his bare skin.

Stop, his brain said, but his body was still primed with aggression from the confrontation with White. His mouth refused to free itself. His throat refused to form a sound of warning. Instead he growled encouragement as she pushed his shirt higher and spread her hands wide.

Yes, this was what he wanted from her. Her arms holding him, nails digging into his skin to urge him closer. He wanted closer. He wanted in.

They were just past the small gazebo, a private little bower where they wouldn't be disturbed, the perfect place for a seduction, though he had no idea who was being seduced. Him or her or both of them.

Jude picked her up, just as he'd yearned to before, and he carried her into the gazebo as she kissed his neck, her mouth impossibly hot against his skin. The edge of his cravat kept her from exploring further, and he wanted to tear it off, throw down his coat and shirt, and let her explore as she wished. She was right, after all; he wasn't her tutor. He wasn't her master. He was her equal, and in that moment he regretted the control he'd exercised over his own lust. Who the hell was he to protect her from herself?

So he did it. Jude set her on a cushioned bench and shrugged out of his coat. He pulled at the knot of his cravat, and tugged his shirt over his head.

Moonlight slanted through the latticed wood, throwing ribbons of light across her face. It was just enough to make out her hungry eyes as he sat down and pulled her onto his lap.

'Jude," she breathed, pressing kisses to his shoulder. Her hands ran eager paths down his arms and back up, then around to his back before touching his chest again. "My God ..."

He held her by the waist and let her do what she wanted. Anything she wanted. She licked his neck and kissed his nipples and nuzzled her cheek against the hair on his chest. She whispered how large he was, and hot, and how much she'd wanted to do this. Her innocence was a starving thing, and in that moment, he was shocked she hadn't lost her maidenhead long ago. Passion seemed to have replaced the very blood in her veins.

"I want to see all of you," she whispered, the words a strange combination of lust and embarrassment. He would've said no if she demanded it, but she sounded so tentative.

Cursing himself, Jude reached for the buttons of his trousers, and Marissa slid back to give him room.

In that moment, the moon lit her whole face, and Jude froze. He wanted more than this lust, more than this night.

"Damn it," he growled. "I can't."

"Jude, please. We can—"

"I can't."

Her face fell, so he reached for her again. "Come here." He lifted her high enough to straddle him, then nearly moaned at the feel of her legs gripping his hips. Her bottom rested so close to his cock.

"I can't," he whispered against her neck. "I'm sorry." But when he sucked at her neck, she sobbed with need, and Jude couldn't leave her like that, no matter his intentions.

He gathered her skirts higher, and slid both hands beneath her chemise.

"Jude," she moaned as his palms settled against the hot skin of her buttocks. Good Christ, she was soft and sweet and warm.

He could free himself from his trousers and guide her onto his cock. And she would ride him, innocent or not. She'd ride him as his hands clenched the round cheeks of her bottom, and it would be the best moment of his life.

Sweat trickled down his temple as Marissa's hips moved restlessly against his hold. He urged her up, her knees pressing into the cushions of the bench, and Jude slid one hand along the seam of her body. The tips of his fingers slid along slick heat, and Marissa jerked hard against him, setting his heart into a gallop.

He circled his fingers over her, and she jerked again, her nails digging into his shoulders. His mouth watered at the feel of her wet flesh, at the way his fingers slipped along her. He couldn't resist pressing one finger in, just to feel what it would be like. The soft heat and squeezing tightness.

"Jude," she moaned. "Oh, Jude."

A shudder took her, or him. She pressed so tightly to his chest that he could not tell. All he knew was the feel of her and her thighs shaking as he stroked her, careful to concentrate his motions on that tight pearl of nerves.

She repeated his name like a desperate prayer, her hips rising and falling in a rhythm that left him clenching his jaw so hard that his teeth ached. His cock throbbed in time with her small movements. She wanted him. Wanted it. Wanted to be stretched and filled with his cock.

Now, he thought, meaning to unfasten his trousers and plunge inside her, but then Marissa's body drew tight, her breath gathering in, and she climaxed, sobbing and shaking in his arms, her thighs trembling and her sex pulsing around his fingers.

"Oh, Jude. Oh, God," she cried, her mouth pressed to his neck, the words echoing through his flesh.

Then she was still and limp, and Jude fell one awful step away from madness. Her breath shuddered over his jaw. "Jude?"

"Marissa" he rasped. "Do you finally feel better?"

Her gasp of laughter eased him back from his ravenous lust.

"That was ... I've waited so long for that. Thank you." She pressed chaste kisses to his cheek and jaw. "Thank you. You're a miracle."

"I'd say the miracle is you."

"You'd be wrong. I've tried it myself and... um ..."

He could not ponder that now. He could not tell himself what that meant and what Miss Marissa York had been doing in her bed at night. Not now. Later though.

He didn't dare mess her hair, so he stroked her back instead, and when his body had inched from madness to mere pain, he eased her back. "We've been gone a long while. We'd better—"

"Marissa!" a voice hissed from somewhere across the lawn.

Blast and damn.

"Oh, no!" Her eyes went wide with panic.

"Get up. Here, let me." He patted her skirts down and set her back a foot. "You look perfect." And she did, aside from the slight sway of her body as she fought for strength. "I, on the other hand .. ."

He snatched his shirt and tugged it on, stuffing it into his waistband as quickly as he could. As he fastened the buttons, Marissa found his coat and brought it to him as well.

"Shit," he muttered as he wound the damned cravat around and tried to tie it. The knot seemed to take forever to create. "How does it look?"

"I can't see. Let me—"

"There's no time. I suppose as long as I am not half-nude we must call it a victory. Come." He looked carefully back and forth, and saw no one, but once they'd both tiptoed down to the grass, the voice called again, louder this time.

"Marissa! Where are you? If you don't answer, I'm going to call for torches and guns!"

"Oh, blast!" she whispered.

"There's no hope for it." Jude gave her one last glance, and found that she looked entirely normal. He'd have to feel outraged about that later. Right now he had a furious brother to face.

"Edward," he called, tugging Marissa along. "We're here."

"What the hell?" her brother cursed. "I was worried sick!"

Jude was taking a breath, prepared to accept full responsibility, when he noticed that Edward was waving a letter about.

"When I couldn't find you, I went to your room," he said as he advanced on Marissa. "And I found this!"

"How dare you look through my things!"

"I thought he'd taken you, damn it! You weren't idiot enough to steal out here and meet him, were you?

Jude pulled her to his side. "She asked me to escort her so that she wouldn't be in any danger."

Edward rounded on him. "How could you do this without my support? You had no right!"

"There was no time. We met with him, and that was that. I can assure you he'll think twice about approaching her again."

"You shouldn't have let him go. I warned him not to set foot here again."

"I think his intentions were sincere, for whatever that's worth."

"Hm." Her brother's eyes swept down Jude's body. "There was a scuffle, I take it?"

Jude suppressed the urge to check his buttons. "Er . .. yes, but nothing too violent."

"Well, young lady," Edward continued, clearly-dismissing Jude's mussed clothing as meaningless, "I suggest you retire to your chambers and think about what you've done."

Her cheeks darkened a bit, and Jude could imagine how pink they must be. "I am a grown woman. You can't order me about."

Edward's frown twisted into outrage, but Marissa waved a hand before he could shout. "Oh, bother. I'll go. I feel quite spent as it is."

That cheeky minx. She ambled off toward the house while Edward and Jude both stared after her.

"That girl will be the death of me," Edward muttered, but Jude was quite sure he was going to be the one praying for mercy before the month was out.

Chapter 12

She'd managed to avoid Jude for a whole day without ever admitting to herself that she was hiding. She wasn't. She just felt. . . awkward.

Not quite anxious, and yet her heart would start pounding during quiet moments, and then she'd suddenly remember. What she'd done. What he'd done.

Perched tensely on the edge of her bed, Marissa put her lingers to her lips as if she could hold in the emotions that pressed at her throat. Excitement and fear and joy and regret. .. an intense combination. In that moment, she felt almost as though she were being chased. And as if she wanted to be caught.

But that made no sense, so she had no idea what to say to him or even how to look at him. It was simpler just to stay busy with Beth or her mother, or any of the other women doing singularly feminine things throughout the day.

But then that strange anxious yearning would rise. That niggling feeling that sonic knowledge lurked just past her notice. And then she would remember again.

Jude.

She'd known that men could bring intense pleasure. She'd discovered that quite accidentally two years before, though she'd been aware of pleasantness before then. But it was still so surprising that it could be Jude. Jude, whom she'd never so much as looked at.

If it had been some other man, she supposed she'd have simply simpered at him at their next meeting. Offered a blushing smile and a flutter of her lashes as well as a few healed looks. But she'd never so much as flirted with Jude, and how ridiculous she'd feel glancing through her lashes and giggling like a silly miss.

No, she had no idea how to face him now, and yet she had no choice.

A half hour before, she'd finally got her proof. There would be no child, and she had to tell him. It wasn't fair to drag this out longer. Assuming Mr. White did not spread tales, there'd be no need for a hasty marriage. No need for a marriage at all. After a few weeks, her family would quietly put it about that the betrothal had been called off. No one would be surprised. Her family name would remain unsullied, if more associated with melodrama than ever, and everything would return to normal. She might be damaged goods, but a secretly imperfect wife was a far cry from a fiancée already pregnant with another man's child.

So why was she sitting on her bed with her hands clenched in dread? Why wasn't she racing down to tell Jude the good news?

When her door opened, Marissa took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh that sounded suspiciously maudlin.

Her mother didn't notice however. "You wanted to see me, dear?"

"Yes, Mother. I'm now certain there will be no child, so you needn't worry any longer on that score. I understand that there may yet be consequences to my reputation, but if there are not. . . there'll be no reason for this betrothal to move forward."

"Oh, Marissa!" her mother yelped. "Oh, my sweet girl, this is wonderful news! Simply wonderful! I had not even dared to picture your wedding day to that man. His presence is so overpowering, is it not? And he's really not precisely respectable, despite the duke."

"Mm."

"Well, this is stupendous news. We'll wait a decent amount of time before calling off, of course, and there must be a reasonably interesting story, though I suppose we cannot cast Mr. Bertrand in a foul light after the kindness he's done us. Yes, we will have to tread carefully here, but reasonableness is so dreadfully boring!" She paused to take a deep breath, then swooped down to hug Marissa. "Oh, my darling, I'm so happy for you. You must be so relieved! I'll go tell the baron this very moment."

She always called Edward "the baron," unless, of course, calling him "my son!" evoked more drama. "I would prefer to tell Jude first, Mother. It's only decent. Would you wait a bit?"

"Yes, yes, you must tell him first. I'll tell the baron just before we go in to dinner. How's that?"

Nodding, she met her mother's thrilled smile with one of her own, though her heart felt heavy as lead in her chest and the smile only made it worse.

But as her mother breezed from the room, trailing a happy hum in her wake, Marissa forced herself to her feet and blamed her sick feeling on the circumstances. Of course she fell grouchy and out of sorts. 'Twas only expected.

She walked slowly down the stairs, each step marking four beats of her heart. She knew this because she found herself counting them, marking the time, slowing her pace to get it just right.

There was a small possibility she was stalling. But whatever her stalling techniques, the marble approached, and she was soon standing on it, and trying to decide which way to go. Her brother's study seemed a good bet, but Marissa found it empty. The library and drawing rooms were empty as well. Everyone was dressing for dinner, it seemed.

Marissa snuck a look up the stairs she'd just descended. It wouldn't be proper to go to Jude's room, but then nothing about their relationship was proper. He'd come to her rooms once already. And certainly making love with him last night in the gazebo hadn't been proper. Or whatever it was that they'd done the night before. Was there another name for that hot, tangled embrace? "Kissing" and "touching" were not up to the description.

For a moment, she was lost in that memory. It enveloped her and pulled her back into Jude Bertrand's arms. Her body seemed to rearrange its functions, until parts that normally lay quiet roused themselves to demanding life. And parts of her that normally worked with seamless skill, her- knees, her-lungs, her beating heart... they each seemed determined to ruin themselves.

She shouldn't sneak up to his room. It wouldn't be wise. But even after she took a deep breath and steadied her heart, she still felt compelled.

If she waited, she'd feel back to normal again, back to her anxiety and cowardice. So Marissa set her foot on the first step and started up. Only two heartbeats per stair this time, as she rushed toward something she should not do. This seemed a pattern for her, but there was no time to ponder that now.

She turned toward the south wing of the manor, and spotted a maid ducking out of a room.

"Mr. Bertrand is needed in the study immediately. Which room is he in?"

"The green room, miss."

Marissa hurried on. Down the hall. Around the corner. There.

She would have hesitated. Would have stood there and agonized for a few more moments, but what if she was seen?

Marissa tapped her knuckles frantically on his door. He must have been very close. She heard him say, "Yes?" even as the doorknob began to turn.

Certain someone else would peck from their room at any moment, Marissa slid through the opening while he was still swinging the door open.

'Jude," she whispered, pushing the door closed behind her. He was so close that she had to tilt her head back to see his face, and the scent of his skin wrapped around her as she pressed her back against the door.

But no, she wasn't pressing. It was Jude, hands on her shoulders, pinning her gently to the door as he ducked down to kiss her.

His mouth was far more effective kindling than her memories of his kiss. As she opened her mouth to him, her blood swelled within her, putting pressure on her most sensitive parts. He tasted divine, and the thrust of his tongue made her legs shake with the memory of his fingers pushing inside her.

It had been so ... naughty. As wild as she'd ever felt. As wicked as he'd named her.

Now she wanted to do it again. She wanted to stretch her arms above her head and let him touch her everywhere. Let him strip her dress from her body and see her nakedness. But she was in no condition for that, she suddenly remembered. And that was why she'd come.

Shaking with the strain of it, Marissa put her hand to his chest and turned her face away. Jude's mouth didn't give up its quest to distract her. He ducked his head and sucked at her throat, sending sparks of fire trailing down to her fingertips. "Wait," she panted. "Jude ..."

When he lifted his head, his eyes were dark and drowning in want. For a moment, she was caught in their depths, sinking in----

"You were hiding today," he murmured. "From me."

That sobered her, and her body suddenly felt real again and weighed down by the truth. "No. I only ... I didn't know what to say. ..."

"Nothing," he murmured. "Nothing at all." He kissed her again, and, sweet Lord, she wanted so badly to lose herself in it. Give up her body to that gorgeous weakness again.

But she pulled away. "Jude. We need to talk."

He straightened with slow deliberation, and his eyes lost their wild darkness by small degrees. "Ah. I see. Of course."

She felt too cool now, pressed to the wood with the distance between them measurable in lonely inches. They were two separate people suddenly, and now they always would be, and she hadn't realized... that kiss had been the very last. She shouldn't have turned away.

"I'm sorry," she said, and Jude frowned and stepped another few inches away.

"I'm not with child."

"You've bled?"

Her face Hashed to a prickly burn. "Yes."

"A typical amount?"

"Good God, why do you insist on mortifying me?"

"I eavesdropped on my mother and her friends constantly as a child. This conversation is not new to me."

"It's new to me! I've never discussed this with anyone."

He shrugged. "Well? Is it normal?"

"Yes!"

"Then congratulations. You avoided disaster."

"As did you."

He inclined his head, his face giving no hint to his feelings.

"I do so appreciate what you've done for me. I don't know another man who would have offered the same."

"I am exceptional." Surely that was a hint of sharpness in those words?

Marissa curled her fingers against the wood, wishing she had something to hold on to. "You are exceptional. An exceptional friend."

"Of course."

"And I'm sure you're relieved not to have to sacrifice yourself on my behalf."

"Oh, quite."

She would've thought he was angry if she hadn't witnessed his fury the night before. His face wasn't twisted with rage, it was simply a bit more stiff than normal. But there was no sign of a smile, crooked or otherwise.

Perhaps he was only... serious? Concerned? Marissa stared up at him, more confused than ever. "You'll probably want to leave soon?"

Now he frowned. "Why would I want to leave?"

"Because most of the guests are departing tomorrow. I assume you'd only planned to stay because you... might have been needed."

He watched her for a long moment, and his gaze dipped down her body so briefly that she wasn't sure she'd seen it.

"No," he finally said. "I hadn't planned on leaving soon."

She didn't like the way her pulse sped at those words. "But why?"

"Aidan invited me to stay as long as I like. I like it here. In fact, I'm considering renting a cottage."

"A cottage!"

"Yes, my only home is in London, and I enjoy this part of the country."

Her pulse tripped and stumbled now, panicking at his innocuous words. "Here? I see. Of course." She squeezed her fists harder, until the nails dug into her palms. "Well, I do thank you. Sincerely. And I enjoyed our time together."

One of his dark eyebrows rose to mock her.

"That is ... I... well, I will see you at dinner, Mr. Bertrand."

His jaw jumped at that, and Marissa fumbled for the door knob. Why did she feel she was doing something wrong? Why did she feel ashamed now, when she hadn't felt it before?

"Marissa."

She froze at the soft strength in his voice.

"We are still betrothed."

"I-I suppose we are. Until everything settles, at least."

"Agreed."

She was so flustered that she forgot any idea of stealth, and simply slipped from the room as quickly as she could. Only when she found herself standing in the corridor did she realize her mistake. Luck saved her from stumbling into another guest, but she didn't pause to savor it. Marissa sprinted around the corner, only able to force herself to slow when she could no longer see Jude's door.

This nightmare of hers was almost over, and as she walked sedately toward her room, chin held high, Marissa convinced herself that the sick feeling in her stomach was relief.

What else could it possibly be?

Chapter 13

"I just don't understand what he's still doing here," Marissa hissed as they ascended the steps of the Framershams' front entrance.

Aidan glanced down at her with an arch look. "He's my guest, and I am still here, so I gather that's why. The question, darling sister, is why his presence is causing you so much bother. Jude means nothing to you, or so you say."

It had been a week. A week of guilt and uncertainty.

Turning her head, she caught sight of Jude twenty feet behind her, gallantly escorting Aunt Ophelia up the steps. Cousin Harry followed with Beth and Nanette, and Edward had already swept Mother inside and out of the cold.

"He reminds me of something I should never have done. That's all."

"Well, I'm pleased you're capable of feeling regret, Marissa," Aidan drawled. "I wasn't sure you could. And I tell you, if I were your eldest brother, I would have turned you over my knee and paddled your backside for what you did."

She set her jaw and thought, Hypocrite, but she wasn't rash enough to say it aloud. Aidan's temper could crack like lightning, and she didn't care to face that storm in a public place. Once again, she felt the sharp loss for the brother he'd once been. "Of course I feel regret. I never meant it to affect any of you. I just want this incident to be over, and Jude reminds me that it is not."

"Good, because it isn't. It's not yet clear that the talk has died down, and we still have no idea what Peter White will say. If you're not feeling relieved, I'd say that's a sign of intelligence."

"Pardon me if I don't simper with gratitude at your assessment."

His bark of laughter was loud and harsh, but it was laughter, at least, and when he laid his hand over hers and squeezed, Marissa found that his eyes had softened. "You were born into this family, so you were bound to suffer a scandal or two. Let's hope this is the worst of them."

She longed to turn and hug him, but they were entering the hall now, so Marissa only smiled. "Will you dance with me tonight, Aidan?"

"I am here," he sighed. "I suppose I may as well dance."

"So gallant."

"As ever," he agreed, turning her for a kiss on the check before he walked away. She knew from experience that he was off to fortify himself for the evening with a few glasses of brandy. But Marissa was going to fortify herself with dancing.

A quarter hour later, and she'd already greeted the hostess and danced with two gentlemen she'd never met. The Framersham country ball was one of her favorites, for they always invited too many people and sent their footmen out in force with glasses of champagne punch.

In the mayhem, it was easy to lose sight of Jude and the reminder of the past two weeks of tension. Here, she was back to her old self, and when a beautiful young man approached her for the next dance, Marissa didn't have to fake her fluttering response. She'd met him twice in London, and his sky blue eyes and smooth cheeks had inspired several fantasies of kissing and more. So her enthusiasm was quite real when Mr. Erikson led her out into the center of the dancers. Her body tingled quite recklessly at the touch of his gloved hand on her back and the thought of him wrapping his arms around her. Oh, my.

When the dance called for separation, she took the opportunity to ogle his lean, graceful legs. But then something went wrong. The cut of his trousers was splendid, revealing the line of his thighs perfectly. But the line struck her as a bit. . . underwhelming. His coat was divinely constructed, but even with the expert padding in the shoulders... well, she certainly couldn't imagine Mr. Erickson picking her up and carrying her into a secret bower to make love.

Marissa forced herself to smile wider when he tossed her a flirtatious wink. It wasn't the carrying that mattered, after all. It was the kissing and the stroking, and surely none of that would be affected by the anemic color of his skin. That was only proof that he was always careful to wear a hat while riding.

His mouth looked made for kissing, after all, so rosy and lull. Yes, Mr. Erickson would give lovely, gentle, skilled kisses, she was sure of it.

But somehow as she slid past him and took the next dancer's hand, Marissa's thoughts of warm, skilled kisses twisted. Now she was thinking of being devoured. Of a mouth demanding that she open and yield. Of hands that lifted her into place and held her there for anything the gentleman might wish to do to her.

And when she swung back around toward her partner, he filled a disappointingly small area of her vision. But he was pretty. There was no doubt of that, and she could happily stare into his blue eyes for hours.

So that was what she focused on during the last steps of the dance. His eyes and the way the smiled at her, crinkling with delight at her attention.

By the time he escorted her off the dance floor, he seemed perfectly nice again. Not inadequate. Not disappointing.

Until she turned and found herself face to face with Jude Bertrand.

Her eyes traveled up and up until she met his dark gaze.

"Miss York," he rumbled.

"Mr. Bertrand."

"Are you enjoying the dancing?"

"I am. And you, sir?"

"Well, Miss York, I would en joy this evening more if you would grant me the honor of a dance."

"I... pardon?" The dazzling width of his shoulders must've turned her head. "A dance?"

"Yes, a dance. With your beloved. Surely that can't be too much to ask?"

"Of course not. No."

"May I claim the first waltz then?"

Could he dance? She felt ungenerous when she thought of her toes, but more than anything, she was concerned for her poor heart, which beat a mad rhythm at the prospect of his hands touching her.

The first waltz. When would that be? A few moments from now? An hour? Marissa stared up at him, caught by his eyes. Finally, Jude offered that crooked half smile, and she realized that she'd missed it, missed that feeling of a secret joke that only they shared.

A throat cleared beside her. Marissa blinked and spun to face a gentleman who was offering a sheepish bow. "Pardon the interruption, but I believe this is my dance?"

"Oh, Mr. Jessup, of course." She took his arm with only a glance back toward Jude as she left, and did not let herself notice the delicate feel of the man's bones beneath her hand.

Jude Bertrand might be a friend, but he was not the type of man she intended to marry. Strong bones were nothing to recommend a husband. Nothing at all.

"You watch her," a soft voice said from behind him. Jude turned to see Patience Wellingsly smiling softly. She'd decamped a week ago, but she'd only-moved to a cousin's estate a few miles away, so he wasn't surprised to see her.

"Pardon?" he asked.

"Your fiancée. You watch her. As if there were no one else in the room."

He inclined his head.

"I wish someone would look at me that way," she sighed.

"Come now, Mrs. Wcllingsly. You're beautiful. Lovely. Don't tell me that men haven't looked at you that way."

"Not the right ones."

She looked so lonely in that moment, so lost, that Jude sighed and offered his arm to lead her to a pair of chairs against the wall.

"If you'll allow me to speak plainly . .. ?"

She looked surprised. "Of course."

"You've no business entertaining Aidan York if you want a man who'll cherish you. You're clever enough to realize that."

He watched her eyes slide toward Aidan. The man leaned against a wide column, looking bored and faintly disgusted.

"I know," she whispered. "It's only that I'm lonely. I've been lonely a long time." When she looked back to him, her face softened to tender sorrow. "Can't you understand that, Mr. Bertrand?" Her hand touched his, and she tried to hold it, but Jude eased his away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

Jude saw the circles under her eves and the paleness of her skin, and he wasn't as angry as he might've been. "If you want a man to look at you that way, you want love, Patience, not the comfort of someone in your bed."

"Of course." Her elegant neck bowed.

"Tell me you're not in love with Aidan."

"No. Not him."

The hair at his nape prickled in warning. "You're not saying—"

"Do you love her?"' she interrupted. "Miss York? She seems very young."

"She's an exceptional woman, and she'll be my wife. And that is all I intend to say to you about her."

"I understand. I apologize. Truly, I do. You're a good man."

He stood when she rose, and she walked calmly away, despite the tears swimming in her eyes. Christ. Did she believe herself in love with him? It seemed impossible. Yes, she'd pursued him in London, but he'd never even spent a moment alone with her.

Still troubled by the miserable solitude in her eyes, Jude watched her make her way across the room to the door beyond. From a distance she looked as cool and regal as ever. Up close she'd never looked so sad.

He knew that most of the ton wouldn't believe a woman as beautiful as Patience Wcllingsly could be lonely. But Jude wasn't fooled. His mother's profession was made up almost entirely of incomparable beauties who had never truly been loved.

In fact, in a different time, with a different family, Marissa could easily have been on of those women, betrayed by her own lovely wildness.

The song that Filled the room began to draw to a close, and Jude glanced toward the dancers to find that Marissa was leaving the floor on the arm of yet one more adorable pup.

She smiled up at the boy, both her hands wrapped around one of his arms. But when she looked in Jude's direction, her smile became a vicious glare.

Marissa was angry, and there was only one reason for that. She'd seen him talking with Patience.

Good. If he had to watch her dance and flirt with a thousand young gentlemen, she could face the truth that he was hardly undesirable himself.

Over the past weeks, he hadn't felt jealous. Not when she danced, not even when she stared at men's legs as if they were ham hocks laid out for her feasting. He hadn't felt jealous, because he'd known that, given time, he could turn Marissa's head in ways she wouldn't expect. He'd meant to tease her to the point of madness, draw out her natural lusts until she thought of no one but him. He'd meant to show her that looking at pretty boys was good fun, but the serious business of lovemaking was best left to men.

But now ... now he was out of time. He'd rushed his seduction. Marissa had dismissed him. And he had no idea how to proceed.

Hell and damnation. He was stuck with dancing.

He watched Marissa stroll stiff-necked through the crowd of fashionable folk and knew he had no choice on the dancing. Any interaction would now be on her terms, not his. And he refused to give up on whatever small chance he might have of turning this false betrothal into a genuine marriage.

Marissa approached her brother and stole the glass of brandy from his hand. Her eyes cut toward Jude before sliding away.

Oh, yes. She was angry, and that cheered Jude immensely, but not so much that he forgot his mission. When he spotted her best friend hurrying by, he stepped into her path and offered a bow. "Miss Samuel."

"Oh! Mr. Bertrand!"

Her lashes fluttered nervously, and she blushed as she did each time he spoke to her. Miss Samuel was shy and soft-spoken, and he was beginning to understand Marissa's worry that she would not find a husband. She was pretty enough, but between her brazen cousin and the vivacious Miss York, Miss Samuel faded into the woodwork.

"Might I trouble you for a dance later?"

She stammered out an answer that seemed to be a yes, and Jude stepped out of her way to give her the chance to escape. Then he approached Marissa.

"I believe the waltz is next," he murmured. She stiffened and said nothing, and Aidan offered him a taunting smile.

"Lover's quarrel?"

"I'm not sure. Have I offended you, mon coeur?”

"Of course not," she snapped. "I'm only thirsty. Would you play the gallant and find me a glass of lemonade?"

"I assume 'lemonade' is code for wine?"

She was still drawing in an outraged breath when he retreated to find her a glass of wine. He found a lemonade too, just in case she'd been honest about that. But when he returned to her, she look the wine and left him with the warm and watery lemonade. She said nothing, and Aidan watched them both as if he were waiting for a play to begin.

Jude offered a quick glare, warning his friend to stay out of it, but he was Marissa's brother, after all, and he couldn't be dissuaded.

"So, have we picked a wedding date yet?" He smiled at the two sets of eyes burning a hole through him. "Everyone is aflutter about the match. I think we might charge for entrance to the nuptials, if we wanted. People are curious."

Marissa casually turned to look behind her, and she saw the same thing that Jude did. If the watching eyes were any indication, people really were curious. Marissa look the warning and smiled widely, but her words belied the grin. "Do you think they'd enjoy it if I boxed your ears?"

Aidan tweaked one of the curls that cascaded from the crown of her head and murmured something about what a fine lady she'd grown into.

Marissa maintained her smile even as she finished her wine. Quite an amazing feat. Jude was still pondering that skill when she popped the glass into Aidan's hand and turned toward Jude. "Shall we do this?"

He'd been so focused on her that he hadn't heard the strings singing out the announcement of the waltz. "Without a doubt," he said, with a little bow before he thrust the lemonade at Aidan and offered Marissa his arm. She kept her pace slow as they walked toward the dancing. He'd noticed that she tended to become deliberately proper when under stress.

"What has you so upset?" he asked softly.

"I am not upset. Not at all."

"I got the distinct impression that you were glaring at me earlier."

"Nonsense."

"Marissa—"

"If you want that woman," she began in a forceful whisper, "I can't fault you. She's beautiful. But I would ask that yon at least wait until our betrothal has been broken!"

"I assume you're speaking of Mrs. Wellingsly?"

"You know exactly whom I speak of." They were nearing the couples poised to dance, and Marissa pulled him to an even slower stroll. "You two were cuddled together in the corner as if you were—"

"We were hardly cuddling. And I can't imagine what it matters to you, regardless."

"People will talk!"

"All, so you'd like me to be discreet in my affairs, while you openly flirt with every adolescent boy who dances a jig past your line of vision?"

"I've done no such thing!"

Her voice rang in his ears, and she blinked in shock before daring a glance around them. Everyone within a twenty-foot radius was staring. Even the conductor cleared his voice before he rushed the orchestra into the first notes of the waltz. Marissa and Jude stood at the edge of the dancers, facing each other. Her eyes got wider with each second.

Finally, Jude simply took her hand and placed it on his shoulder. It would only be more of a scene if she stormed off. She seemed to realize this as well and clasped his hand when he offered. They both wore gloves, and Marissa's back was protected from his touch by the shell of her corset. Not to mention the fact that they were both angry. But somehow all these prohibitions only heightened the sensations of holding her.

Her breath came too fast due to anger, and the rise of her breasts strained against her bodice. Her cheeks and lips seemed rubbed with rouge, they were so red, and her eyes glinted passion. Marissa York looked aroused, and Jude wanted to growl his lust right into the pretty shell of her ear. He hadn't been able to see her clearly in the gazebo, but this is how he would picture her now, furious and demanding and Hushed. . . .

"Patience Wellingsly isn't my lover and she never will be."

"She looks at you like you're a candied treat." Her eyes swept down to his chest for a bare second. "Which is entirely ridiculous at your size."

Jude considered offering a quip about being a mouthful, but reminded himself that wicked as she was, she was not one of his mother's friends.

"I would not dishonor you that way, Marissa. I asked you to pretend we were truly betrothed, and I'll keep my side of the bargain at least."

Her face lost a bit of its stiffness as he spun her in a circle, just managing to avoid another couple. It was a slow waltz, thankfully, as he could not concentrate on their surroundings.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"It means that I seem to have assumed the role of stranger in the past week."

She watched a spot over his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"I volunteered to be used for your purposes. I understood what that meant. But I was foolish enough to think we'd become friends."

Now she looked at him. "I... we did. You're very kind. And funny. But you make me feel ..."

His heart burned at what she might say. "What?"

"You make me feel..."

His blood seemed to strain toward her.

"... ashamed."

The gravity she'd exerted over him was abruptly cut off, and everything inside him dropped into the pit of his stomach. "Ashamed."

"Only because I don't know how to treat you. I don't know what you are to me. Are we friends?"

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again.

"I see. Well, if I inspire shame, I suppose I should do the gentlemanly thing and end my stay with your family."

"Jude, don't. It's my fault. I'm only being overwrought, as you've said of me. We are friends. Or I hoped we were. And... and I've missed our conversations."

He didn't know whether to accept her words.

"I've made a mess of everything this past month," Marissa said.

"You have."

Her shoulders dropped, and in her defeat her lower lip stuck out in a seductive pout. She looked at him with shiny green eyes that widened with a deep breath. And Jude knew that if they did marry, he was going to be in very big trouble. He couldn't resist this.

"Will you forgive me, Jude?"

The softness of his name put a hitch in his breath. He concentrated on the waltzing for a moment, as if he were really considering his answer. Finally he offered a smile. "I suppose I will. I'd be more sure of it if you'd stop by my chambers tonight and ask me again."

"Oh, hush!" she scolded as her pout turned into a reluctant smile.

"On my honor, I won't tell a soul. We'll only talk."

For a moment, a certain tilt to her chin made it seem as if she'd consider it, but then she shook her head with a laugh. "You're an awful influence on me, Mr. Bertrand."

"I do what I can."

"If you really wished to talk, perhaps we might share a bite of supper later? Mrs. Framersham always lays out some lovely choices."

"I'd be honored, Miss York. Truly."

By the time he escorted her from the dance floor, Marissa was laughing and teasing that he was a passable dancer after all, and Jude's plans were back in full force.

He was going to marry Marissa York, and she had no idea at all, poor thing.

Chapter 14

"He was a lovely dancer!" Beth said for the third time that morning. "I could hardly believe it."

Marissa nodded, though she couldn't honestly remember much of his dancing. Mostly she remembered the wide wall of his chest and the strength of his arms as he held her. They'd danced, she knew that. And there must have been other people dancing as well, but they hadn't been visible past his shoulders.

"Really," Beth continued, "he was quite charming. By the end of the dance, I'd forgotten how intimidating he is."

"Yes. He's really very civilized."

Beth gasped. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I admit I was shocked when your brother announced—"

"No, it's fine. I thought the same things when I met him, I admit."

"But now I can understand your affection, and I'm so relieved that I see it now. He's very clever, and his eyes are quite lovely."

His eyes. Yes, they were lovely enough, despite their forbidding darkness. She glanced out the window to the small group of men waiting on their horses. Jude stood out. He was taller. His shoulders wider. His jaw cut from steel, while the other men seemed molded of clay.

He looked toward the house as if he sensed her gaze. Marissa's body thrilled at the thought, and she shifted on her chair. He'd asked her to come to his room last night. He'd been teasing, but still. . . she could have. If she'd dared. He wouldn't have turned her away.

Marissa finished the last bite of eggs, and her eyes drifted toward the window again. Edward finally approached the group, only he wasn't on his mount. He stalked across the lawn like an animal.

"Miss York." The footman spoke quietly at her side. "The baron has requested your presence in his study. He asks that you come as soon as possible."

She met Beth's startled eyes, and Marissa's chest swelled with dread. "Of course," she murmured. As she laid her serviette carefully on the table, movement in the window caught her eye again. Aidan and Jude had dismounted and now followed Edward back toward the house. Her pulse leapt into racing panic, and she could hardly feel her legs as she pushed to her feet.

Possible horrors spun through her head. She dismissed the idea that her mother could have fallen ill. That hadn't been worry on Edward's face, or even grief. It had been fury.

So what could it be? It had to be her and her awful behavior. Had Peter White called their bluff and spread tales about her?

"Marissa?" Beth breathed.

Marissa forced a smile. "I'm sure it's nothing."

"I'll ask my mother to hold the carriage for a few—"

"Nonsense. Your mother is beginning to look tired. She should get home. Please don't delay your departure for me. Anyway, I'll see you in a few days at the next fete."

Beth gave her a long hug, and then Marissa made herself walk slowly through the entry hall and into the corridor that led to Edward's study. A brief swell of male voices rumbled over her, then ended abruptly with the sound of a door slamming. She turned the corner and faced the last few yards between her and the awful unknown. For a moment, her legs were too heavy to move. Her feet stuck to the carpet, holding her in place.

Something terrible had happened, and it was her fault.

This time she would not pout, whatever the solution might be. Marriage. A trip to the Continent. The nunnery. Marissa forced herself to take one step and then another, and she even managed to turn the knob before her courage gave out again. Every head in the room turned toward her. Her mother, her brothers, her cousin, and Jude. Five sets of eyes waiting for her to close the door. Again.

"It's as we feared," Edward said.

She slipped inside and shut the door as softly as she could.

"He's done it."

"Who?" she breathed.

"Peter White." His hand whipped up, waving a piece of paper. "He's sent his threat."

"Marriage? He still wants marriage?"

Edward's hand tightened on the note. "No. What he wants is five-thousand pounds."

Marissa and her mother gasped. Somehow, asking for money seemed even more crude than trying to force her into marriage. Marissa crossed the room and dropped onto the sofa to clasp her mother's hand.

"That's outrageous," Cousin Harry harked.

Jude clasped his hands behind his back. "Five-thousand pounds or he'll do what?"

They all looked to Edward, whose hand slowly fell to his side. He pressed his lips together and didn't answer.

"What will he do?" Marissa demanded.

Edward cleared his throat.

"Oh, just read the note, Edward!" she cried, unable to take the suspense a moment longer.

"Yes, do," her mother chimed in. Obviously, it would be impossible to gauge the appropriately dramatic action if one didn't know the details.

He cleared his throat loudly again, then snapped the paper out in front of him. "It has come to my attention that the honorable Miss Marissa York was recently discovered in a scandalous embrace. If you care to protect Miss York's precious reputation, you will surrender five-thousand pounds at the location and time specified below."

"I presume," Jude drawled, "that the letter isn't signed?"

"It's not."

"Then how can you know it's from White?"

Edward's face turned red. His jaw clenched and jumped.

Aidan propped his back against the wall and crossed his arms. "That could be from anyone."

"He offers proof," Edward finally ground out.

"Oh, Baron!" their mother cried. "Just read the letter!"

His ears turned red as he looked down to the paper, and though Marissa had no idea what he might say, she started to raise a hand to stop him. She was too late.

"If," Edward ground out, "you do not provide the money as directed, I will reveal to society that Miss York has been compromised. As proof, I'll offer a description of a heart-shaped birthmark very high on Miss York's thigh."

A rush of sound seemed to enter the room with his words. Oh, part of it was certainly the gasps of those around her. Her mother, in particular, was letting out a distinctly warbling kind of wail. But there also seemed to be an ocean tide washing in and out of her hearing.

"Does he think we won't kill him?" she heard Aidan snarl.

"I made that quite clear," Jude responded with his usual calm.

Cousin Harry asked the most pertinent question, "Does anyone know where he's gone?"

The roaring waves swept in and out of her hearing until she finally identified the sound as rushing blood.

"He's close, I don't doubt." Edward's voice was hard as stone. "I assumed he'd gone to stay with the Brashcars. His sister's family. They're only an hour or so away."

"Well, then, "Aidan drawled. "Let's go pay him a visit, shall we? Apparently he needs a demonstration of just how much more valuable his life is than a measly five-thousand pounds."

She heard the rustle and the mutter of men forming a mob, and Marissa realized she'd closed her eyes. She forced them open even though she wanted to hide forever. If she could only disappear from this moment, she wouldn't have to face the next.

Tucking her hands into her lap to stop the shaking, she spoke. "It might not be him."

Her words had no effect on the group. The preparations for murder and mayhem continued.

Beside her, Marissa's mother muttered a continual stream of sound, the emphasis falling on words like blackmail and scandal and rapscallion. She sounded equal parts horrified and enthralled, but Marissa was sure she also detected a soupcon of joy.

"It might not be him," she said more loudly.

One by one, the men ceased their violent planning and turned toward her.

"Pardon?" Edward said.

"Peter White. He might not be the one who wrote the letter."

Aidan rolled his eyes, as if she were a silly miss whose brain moved at a snail's pace. "Marissa, it's obviously him. Or an associate of his, at least."

Every face held varying degrees of confusion as they awaited her explanation. Every face except Jude's. He raised an eyebrow, and his eyes glittered with amused curiosity.

"There's a small possibility ..." Her dry throat formed the words roughly, so she coughed into her fist and tried again. "There's a small possibility that someone else could've written that letter."

Realization took hold of Aidan's face first, then Edward's. Jude's eyes fairly glittered with laughter.

"Marissa," Edward growled.

"I would not like to see Mr. White unjustly murdered."

Aidan snatched the letter from Edward's hand and held it out toward Marissa. "He says he's seen your thighs, Marissa. So how could it be anyone but him?"

"Yes, well..." What in heaven's name was she to say to that?

Aidan's hand crumpled the letter, and the sound of it made her wince. "Is the description accurate?"

"Is it accurate?" he shouted.

Strangely enough, his anger stoked her courage. She sat straighter, raised her chin, and met Aidan's furious green gaze with her own. "Yes, it's accurate. So before you string Mr. White up from the nearest tree, you may want to speak with Fitzwilliam Hess as well."

"Fitz... William ..." Aidan stammered, his face growing alarmingly red.

Edward put a hand on his brother's arm. "Marissa, you're not saying ... you said you were a virgin."

"I was." She didn't dare meet Jude's gaze. "Fitzwilliam and I only engaged in kissing. And such."

"And such!" Aidan yelled.

"Yes."

Their eyes were like flames against her skin, and Marissa felt a tickle of perspiration on her hairline. But it was nearly over. Nearly.

Edward dropped his head, hands fisting on his hips. "Is Hess even in the country? The last I'd heard he was on the Continent."

More voices joined in, debating the whereabouts of Mr. Hess. She glanced over her shoulder to note that her mother had fallen into a faint, her head hanging perilously over the side of the couch. Possibly, she was truly unconscious this time.

It was now or never. Marissa chose a particularly faded rose on the study rug to focus on. "Also she said just loudly enough to stop the conversation. "There's a small possibility of a third gentleman."

At first, she thought the strangled huff was a male sob, and the sound startled her so much that her gaze lost its hold on the rose and flew up.

Jude stood, crimson-faced, hand covering his mouth. Was he... crying? He sobbed again, and despite the shock of her last statement, everyone in the study now looked at him.

Marissa's head swam with the idea that she might have broken his heart, and she was holding out her hand when he muttered "Pardon me," from behind his fingers and rushed for the study door. His eyes glinted with moisture. His neck burned red. She watched open-mouthed and horrified as he flew into the corridor and slammed the door behind him.

"What in God's name—" Edward started, but he was cut off by a roar of laughter trembling through the wood. Even from the study, one could clearly make out the echo of it bouncing down the passageway. Jude Bertrand was laughing his head off. At her.

"Why, I never!" her mother gasped, miraculously revived from her faint.

Marissa just stared at the door, stupefied. Jude's choked guffaws continued to sneak into the room.

Edward was the first to recover, and he wasn't showing even a hint of amusement when he aimed his glare at her. "Christ almighty, Marissa, this had damn well better be a joke."

She wished it was. If only everyone in the room found it as amusing as Jude did. "It was years ago, Edward."

His mouth opened, and his throat worked, but no words came out. She suddenly wished he were yelling. Aidan took care of that for him.

"Well, it's a damned good thing you have a fiancé, Marissa York, because it's clear you'll have to marry! With that many men under your skirts, it's a wonder you haven't been revealed before now!"

Her throat tightened at the disgust in his words. "Charles and I were in love. You should be able to understand that, Aidan."

Her brother's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, but he managed to hold on to his temper for once. "Charles. Charles LeMont?"

She dipped her chin in a faint nod.

"Didn't he marry three years ago?"

"It was arranged by his family. He didn't want the match."

"So," Aidan growled, "you told yourself it was all right to have an affair with a married man?"

"Aidan York!" she yelped, jumping to her feet. "I never would. Charles and I were in love before his betrothal, and we... we... it's possible we got a touch carried away when we were saying good-bye. And who are you to toss around such judgment, anyway?"

Edward said her name as a warning, but she shook it off.

"Oh, let's all stop treating him as if he were made of glass. He hates that anyway, or so he claims."

Her mother gave a little wail and collapsed hack onto the couch.

"Oh, Mother," Marissa sighed, though she was beginning to think she might try fainting herself. Because right now, she was standing in the center of an awkward mob, and they were all looking at her as if she were a monster.

Marissa slumped. "I'm—"

But Aidan cut off her apology. "Oh, for god's sake, she's right. Somebody else had better step in here, because I haven't got a moral leg to stand on."

Cousin Harry coughed uncomfortably, and everyone else shifted.

"Regardless," she finally continued, "I'm sure it's not Charles. He's never been anything but kind to me."

"Kind," Edward muttered, but Aidan was the one to hold up his hand.

"And FitzWilliam Hess?"

"I don't know. I can't imagine it, considering his reputation."

"That's true," Harry volunteered. "He's quite the tomcat."

Marissa was sure she should've felt insulted, but all she could think was that it was no wonder he was popular with the ladies of the ton, with his skills. Still, Jude was more impressive.

As if drawn by her immodest thoughts, Jude reentered the study with a sheepish raise of his brow. "Apologies," he murmured. "Something caught in my throat." He glanced beyond Marissa's shoulder. "Is your mother well?"

"Yes," she answered without looking. Her mother-moaned pitifully.

"So," he said brightly. "What's been decided?"

Edward dropped into his chair. "Your betrothal is no longer a charade." "Ah. Lovely."

"Beyond that," Edward sighed, "things have gotten a bit complicated."

The silence that took the room felt like a physical weight, and Marissa sighed with relief when Edward waved a dismissive hand. "I need to think. Come back in an hour, all of you."

Marissa swept toward the door, not bother ing to help rouse her mother first. Her mother could handle herself Marissa, on the other hand, felt beset and bewildered, and she meant to escape while she had the chance.

She moved quickly enough to slip past Harry and steal from the room first, but Jude was there to open the door and offer a quick bow. By God, if he cracked a smile, she thought she might slap him. But Jude had controlled his amusement, and his face was serious when he rose.

"Would you have a few moments to spare, Miss York?"

"Oh, for God's sake! Yes, fine."

She followed him into the library, and rounded on him as soon as he closed the door. "How could you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You... you laughed! As if my utter humiliation were a farce."

"Marissa," his pleading tone didn't match the grin

starting to spread over his face. When she growled, he only smiled wider. "How could I not laugh?"

"It wasn't funny."

"Oh, mon con: It was the funniest thing I've ever heard."

"Jude!" she cried, stomping her foot before she realized she'd done it.

"I'd kiss you now if I wasn't sure that you'd bite me."

She would. She'd nip that obnoxious smile right off his face.

"Now I know why you're so good at it. Kissing. You've had loads of practice."

She was going to scream. She was going to stomp her feet and throw a tantrum and maybe toss a few books while she was at it.

"Do it," Jude said.

"Do what?"

"Whatever it is that's got your eyes blazing. You're throwing off sparks, cherie."

"You shouldn't encourage me," she scolded, but once again, his encouragement had freed her. Her frustration fell away, as if she had kicked and screamed. She slowly lowered herself to the chair behind her.

Jude poured a glass of sherry and curled her fingers around the glass.

"Thank you. I can't believe this is happening. Again."

He dropped into the matching chair and crossed his legs, as relaxed as ever. "Care to explain what did happen?"

"With the men?"

"Yes," he said with a smile. "With the men."

She shook her head, but she so wanted to speak of

it. She'd never told anyone, and it had been torture to hold it in. "Won't you be... jealous?"

"Do I seem the jealous type?"

"No, you don't, and that's another thing I don't understand about you."

"I endeavor to intrigue. So... the men."

The men. That sounded so sordid. Or wicked. Or at least naughty. How did Jude manage to see so many unfortunate things about her? She sighed in surrender and gave up her resistance. She wanted to talk about it, and so she would.

"Charles knew he had to marry someone else."

"Charles?"

She shot him an irritated glance. "Yes, Charles LeMont. You missed that part while you were recovering yourself."

"Ah. Carry on."

"His family... they insisted he cultivate a political connection. But we fancied ourselves in love, and it was all very tragic and romantic."

"So you soothed your heartache in one another's arms?"

"Something like that. But it was all quite innocent, if such a thing could be. We were young, and we only wanted a few stolen moments. It was... lovely."

"Kisses and such?"

She blushed. "Yes. And then he married, and that was that. He's never so much as flirted with me since his wedding. So I can't imagine he'd send such a note."

"And then there's Fitzwilliam Hess. I needn't ask how you found yourself alone with him."

"He's quite charming."

"So I've heard. So has everyone. He's infamous."

"Justifiably so," she said before she thought better of it.

"Ah, maybe I am jealous. You know that as a proper young miss, you're supposed to avoid infamous men, right?"

She thought of the way Fitzwilliam had touched her, and her face burned, but that didn't keep her quiet. "He could have ruined me, and he didn't. He just... he made me feel good. And wicked. And I would've done it again, if I'd had the chance."

She held her breath after that, waiting for a response. She had liked what she'd done with Fitzwilliam. For the first time in her life, flirting with a man had felt dangerous. Risky. When he'd flirted back, there'd been more than admiration in his eyes; there had been calculation, as if she were a code he'd wanted to crack.

She'd pretended not to notice it, just as she'd pretended not to know that he'd walked her far too deeply into the gardens at the Windsor Ball.

Still, even with her sturdy powers of self-deception, she'd understood that stealing into the greenhouse with a known rake could not have a decent ending. And yet it had. Decent enough, at any rate. Fitzwilliam's self-preservation had protected her. He had no intention of being forced into marriage.

He'd explained that to her as he'd placed shivery kisses along her neck. "Don't worry," he'd whispered. "I won't ruin you."

And yet he had. The things he'd done to her in the dark. The secret places he'd put his mouth. The touches he'd demanded in return. . ..

Despite his promises, Marissa had been ruined, because she’d only wanted more after that. More pleasure. More knowledge. But she'd been good. She hadn't snuck away with any more gentlemen, despite the wild curiosity for more embraces. She hadn't even shared more than a dance with Fitzwilliam Hess when she'd met him again.

No, she'd held her secret desires close and hidden... until that fateful evening with Peter White.

My God, what a waste that had been. Not pleasantly enjoyable like her night with Charles. Not unexpectedly amazing as it had been with Fitzwilliam. And nothing at all like the wild pleasure Jude Bertrand had shown her.

She glanced toward Jude and realized she'd pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips in memory. His gaze was focused just there.

"Yes, I'm quite sure I'm jealous, after all," he murmured.

She snapped her hand down to her lap, and nearly blurted out that she'd been thinking of him, not Fitzwilliam. But how would that be better?

"I did not know you then," she snapped.

"Ah, but you wouldn't know me now if you could help it."

What could she say to that? Hadn't she dismissed him as soon as the danger had passed?

He leaned forward. "Don't feel bad. Over the years, I've enjoyed some kissing myself. And such."

Marissa nodded and rose to leave, but somehow his words didn't make her feel better. In fact, she felt much, much worse.

Chapter 15

Jude Bertrand was in a foul mood. Bad enough that he was facing Peter White again. But he was also facing an uncomfortable truth.

He'd been perfectly confident in his seduction of Marissa York two weeks before. Yes, she was wild and wicked, but he'd been foolish enough to think he could turn her head with pleasure. He'd thought to show her exactly what that wickedness could lead to.

What an arrogant fool he'd been. Apparently she knew quite well that wickedness could be grand fun.

Jude suddenly found that her affection for untried boys was no longer amusing. He'd seen Fitzwilliam Hess a time or two. In addition to being an experienced lover, the man was exactly the type who caught Marissa's eye. Lean and pretty and polished to a goddamned glow. And this Charles fellow... Jude wanted to get a look at him as well, though there was no good reason to meet him, aside from torturing himself.

When Peter White finally slipped into the Brashearses' drawing room, Jude bared his teeth in a

predatory smile. His smile widened when he saw that the cad's eye was still discolored and he was twisting his hands together in nervousness. Jude was just thinking about punching him in the nose when Aidan interfered by grabbing White's cravat and lifting him off the ground.

"What. . . ?" he croaked, grabbing for Aidan's wrist.

"Are you having trouble keeping your mouth shut?" Aidan growled.

"No! I... please ..." When his face turned purple, Aidan set him down and gave him a shove for good measure. White stumbled back and caught himself on the wall.

"You'd better start explaining," Aidan said over White's coughing. "If I'm satisfied with your honesty, perhaps you'll escape this room with your life."

"I ... I came to see her, I admit it. We met, but nothing happened! " His bulging eyes slid to Jude. "He was there!"

Aidan's voice offered no quarter. "The letter."

"W-which letter? I sent them. I did, but I was only trying to talk her into marriage. It was an entirely honorable communication, I swear on my life."

Jude finally spoke. "What of the last one?"

"What of it? She met me, and I had my say. I'm done with her. She's a faithless—" His gaze slid around the room, and Peter White closed his mouth with a snap.

The other men exchanged glances. Edward stepped forward to stand intimidating close to White. "Who else did you tell?"

"No one! Christ, do you think I'm mad? Even if I left my name out of it, everyone would know I was part of the story. I'd be struck from half the guest lists of the ton."

"But you threatened her." Edward leaned closer. "That night. You threatened to tell tales, and to and behold ..."

"I didn't do it! Please. I admit to seducing her, but I wasn't out to ruin her. I loved her, and I thought she was only being high-spirited. This wasn't my plan!" He jerked his hand to indicate the room and the men and the situation.

"I warned you that if I heard one word, I'd hold you responsible."

"I promise, if someone is talking it isn't me."

"What of your hosts?"

"I didn't say anything."

When Edward glanced over his shoulder, Jude jerked his head toward the far corner of the room and then joined Edward there.

"I think he's telling the truth," Jude muttered.

"He's the obvious suspect."

"He was sincere the night he spoke of his feelings for Marissa, and he's terrified enough to tell the truth now." They looked over to see Aidan looming over the crouched man. Peter White covered his head. "He's not a man brave enough to carry out a bribery scheme that would put him up against this family and the law."

White sobbed, and Edward rolled his eyes before he stalked back across the room. "The truth, Mr. White, is that regardless of who you did or didn't tell, my sister would not be in this situation if you hadn't behaved so dishonorably."

He peeked past his hands. "I know. I'm sorry.

This wasn't what I had in mind. I expected we'd he happily engaged by now."

"Get out of this district and don't return."

A flush crept over his face, but he nodded, and Edward turned and walked out.

As soon as they were free of the house, Aidan grabbed his brother's arm. "How can you be certain it wasn't him?"

Edward shook him off. "Jude is sure it's not him." "Why?"

"He doesn't have the bullocks."

"Out of the three men we suspect, he's the one who ruined her. I should go back in there and strangle him now. He has no character. Hell, she's not even the first woman he's debauched!"

"His character is weak," Jude agreed, "but men have different weaknesses, do they not? He wanted her like a child wants a toy. He wasn't greedy for money. And at this point, his reputation is hanging by a thread. If that story gets out, he will be named. I don't doubt it."

Edward nodded. "Jude's right. White has nothing to gain and plenty to lose. And now, considering we have a whole legion of other possibilities ..."

Aidan cursed and stalked toward the horses, leaving Jude and Edward to watch his retreating back.

"Well," Jude muttered. "He's handling this well."

"Marissa is right. We've coddled him since she died. Regardless ..." He turned a dark eye on Jude. "We're off to visit the LeMont estate. I'd like you to return to the manor."

Jude stiffened. He wanted to see this Charles LeMont for himself. "Wouldn't you like another set of eyes? I'm good at reading people."

"I don't want to leave her alone, in case the threat becomes more malevolent. At any rate, it can't hurt for you two to spend more time together. It looks fairly certain you'll marry."

Jude stared into the distance. Wrest, toward the York manor. An hour's ride and he'd be back with Marissa. And he wanted to see her a damn sight more than he wanted to set his eyes on Charles LeMont. What, exactly, did he expect to glimpse in the man, anyway? A resemblance to Jude that would give him hope?

Ridiculous. And pitiful.

So he nodded his agreement and set off for the lonely ride back. It seemed that he was about to get what he wanted—Marissa York as a wife—but he'd lost his certainty that he could turn this scandal into a happy ending.

The cold had finally set in, and the lire crackled and whooshed in the quiet drawing room. She and Jude were alone after a long, tense dinner with her mother and Aunt Ophelia and Cousin Harry.

Her mother had joined them in the drawing room, but she'd left a few minutes ago after several loud declarations of how weary she was.

"No, no! You two must stay," she'd protested, though neither Marissa nor Jude had offered objection. Finally, she'd yawned extravagantly and swept from the room, closing the door behind her.

Marissa knew what she was up to. Her mother had said earlier in the day that a marriage was irritable, and Marissa would be wise to ensure that Jude didn't change his mind. "You know what to do," she'd whispered, poking Marissa in the thigh. "Clearly."

Her mother was arranging a seduction.

Too bad Jude didn't seem in the mood to be seduced. Marissa snuck a look at him, and found him in the same position he'd held five minutes before. One ankle crossed over a knee. His thumb under his chin and lingers poised thoughtfully beneath his bottom lip. His eves stared into the fire as if it had transported him to another place. He held a brandy snifter, and that was different at least. Five minutes ago it had been full. Now it was empty.

Whatever her mother's expectations, Marissa had no powers of seduction. She'd only ever been seduced. All her experience lay in acquiescing.

So she sat, staring into the fire and trying to imagine her future. But the future seemed impossible to predict when the present fell so thoroughly muddled.

After the past week, she had no idea if Jude wanted to marry her any more than she wanted to marry him. Did she want to marry him?

The thought wound like a tightening snake around the muscles of her body, and Marissa leapt up to try to stave off the creeping sensation. "More brandy?" she asked, striding over to the table to grab it up.

"Yes, thank you."

The half smile Hashed for the briefest moment as she bent to pour the brandy; then the smile was gone, replaced with this new, brooding expression that shut her out. Marissa looked at the blunt fingers holding the snifter, and her heart squeezed.

Jude wasn't even looking at her, so how in the world would she get him to touch ?

"Did you see any suitable properties this week?" She hurried back to the table and poured herself a glass as well. "I mean, when you were looking for a house to let?"

"Perhaps. There's a likely place about three-quarters of an hour from here. Closer to Grantham?"

"That's a lovely area. Very green."

"Yes."

And here they were, awkward again, each sipping their brandy and looking toward the flames.

He'd come to regret his offer of marriage. She was sure of it.

Marissa wandered around the room, sipping her brandy and touching various objects, trying to look at ease. But her heart was fluttering with uncertainty. Her life was in suspension, stuck somewhere between her past and her future, and she wasn't sure she was even tethered to the ground. Her body felt too light and her mind far away.

"What's the matter, mon coeur?”

Marissa finished the last of her brandy and set the glass carefully down before she met his eyes. For once, she was too tired to be witty. "I think I'm supposed to seduce you, but you don't seem in the mood for it."

That got his attention. Jude's brow rose, and he dropped his foot to the floor. Perhaps he really did like her when she was outrageous. "I'm sure I'm always in the mood to be seduced," he said. "Who suggested it? I'll offer him a toast."

"My mother."

"Ah. Perhaps I won't mention it then. But I should endeavor to keep my future mother-in-law happy. How did she think you should go about it, exactly?"

"Oh, hush. Did you not notice all the obvious efforts to leave us alone? She fears you regret your proposal." Marissa kept her voice light.

"Does she? And she believes you should seduce me into complacency?"

"More like satisfaction, I believe."

Now his eyes darkened, and she was gifted with a full, wide smile. Marissa's heart ceased to flutter and began to pound. Power singed through her. Maybe she could play the seducer.

"Satisfaction?" he purred.

"Perhaps."

His smile grew wider. "Come." He patted his knee, and though Marissa felt a spark of trepidation, she steeled her spine and approached. Only to stop at his shoulder.

"Impossible to seduce me from there, Marissa."

She wasn't sure that was true. Jude seemed able to seduce her from across the room. Then again, his knee beckoned, and it was attached to such a welcoming thigh. It would certainly be easier to seduce him from there.

Before she could lose her nerve, she scooted around him and perched on his knee. She didn't know how it fell to him, but the daring of the act sent wicked thrills shivering up her spine. She was silting on a man's lap. In the hopes of arousing him.

Tapping her toes, she closed her lists and rested them on her legs. Now she was back to not knowing what to do. But her worries were baseless. Jude slid one hand under her hip and wrapped the other over her knee to pull her closer.

She grabbed him to balance herself, and Jude put his arms around her and pulled her down to his chest. Strangely, it didn't feel seductive. Her cheek was pressed to his shoulder, and he held her too tightly for her to wiggle up for a kiss.

"Shush," he murmured. "You don't need to seduce me."

Marissa lay stiffly against him, frowning at his throat. What did he mean, she didn't need to seduce him? Because he liked her or because he didn't care for her anymore?

'Jude ..." When she placed her hand flat on his chest, the strength of his body made her heart ache. She wanted... something from. him. But she no longer had any idea what it was.

"It's all right, mon coeur." He stroked her back, and she finally relaxed into him a bit. His heart beat against her ear. "Are you reading a new novel?"

Frowning in confusion, she nodded.

"Tell me the story."

"What has that to do with anything?"

"It has nothing to do with anything, but I want to hear it."

After a few puzzled moments, Marissa shrugged and started the story. As she spoke, Jude stroked her back, then her arm; then his hand curved around the nape of her neck and rubbed small circles into her muscles. He laughed at the parts she'd thought were funny, and clucked over the drama of the six couples and their intrigues. And he touched her, always.

Marissa didn't want him to stop, so when she came to the last part of the story she'd read, she continued on, wearing her own tale. She felt safe in his arms. Cared for. And knoxim. It was so strange to consider a man a friend, and yet he was a friend. That was what she didn't want to lose.

She finally let the story drift away, but Jude's hand kept up its small caresses. In that moment, she wished they were married, just so they could climb beneath the covers of the bed and lie like this, with no stiff fabrics or stays between them. She wanted to press her hand to his bare chest again, and feel his skin against her cheek.

"I've been thinking . .." he said, and her heart gave a small cry of pain. This was it. He was calling off. She held her breath and wailed for the awful words.

"Is there any possibility your cousin could be behind this bribery?"

Her mind tumbled for a moment, tossed about by the strange topic. "What? Which cousin?"

"Harry."

"Harry!" She pushed up from his chest for a moment. "That's absurd."

Jude raised an eyebrow. "Is it? He knows all about your escapades."

"That's only because he's always here. He's like a brother, really."

"And yet he's not."

"He spent every summer with us. We are his family."

Jude eased her back down, and she went willingly, comforted by his warmth despite that he was the one saying such discomfiting things.

He put his hand to her neck and stroked his

thumb against her nape. "So he is almost like a brother, but not quite. Welcome in the family home, though it will never be his—"

"Yes. And?"

"Have you never considered that it could be painful? I have some experience with this, you know," Jude said, and Marissa felt suddenly chastened. Yes, of course he did.

"But you are not saying you resented them?"

"No, but I could have. And so could Harry."

"That's impossible. He's not that type of man. He loves us."

"All right. I only just thought of it. I haven't spent any time trying to feel him out."

Marissa frowned at the fire, troubled by his words. It was such a simple thought, that one could belong to a family and yet not belong. But it would never have occurred to her to have sympathy for Harry. Did he resent them? Surely not.

"It can't he him!" she blurted out. "What about the birthmark?"

"Ah. Yes, there's that. I suppose that settles it then."

"Yes. Good. It can't be him."

"I didn't mean to upset you. Harry seems a likeable fellow."

"He is."

"I was only grasping at straws."

They lapsed back into silence, and eventually, his easy touches soothed her trouble. Jude always did that for her, and her thoughts inevitably turned back to thoughts of marriage and this complex betrothal.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, and her heart felt very strange in that moment. "Why wouldn't you let me seduce you?" she whispered.

"I don't need to be seduced."

"And I do?"

"Well, you need something, ma belle

My god, that was true, and Marissa couldn't do more than turn her face into his chest and laugh. If she shed a few tears in the process, no one ever knew. Not even Jude.

Chapter 16

Jude's mood of self-doubt had vanished by the next day. Oh, he wasn't more certain of Marissa's feelings for him. She'd cuddled quite sweetly into his lap, but the cuddling had started out as an attempt to secure his continued cooperation.

His only consolation was that Marissa was apparently having just as much trouble deciphering Jude's feelings, if she really thought he needed to be reminded how much he liked her. Seduction implied some resistance, after all, and he wanted nothing more than to take the woman to his bed and keep her there.

So, no, he was no more confident this morning, but he was already tired of his own brooding about. She'd love him or she wouldn't. There was no reason to get maudlin over it.

And jealousy.. .Jude had never understood jealousy and had looked on its victims as greedy, stupid men. But now he had a better understanding, not that he liked it any more. He wasn't jealous of Marissa's body, exactly. He just wanted to hoard all her pleasure for himself, even the pleasure she'd fell in the past.

"Fool," he hit out as he shrugged on his coat and stalked from his room. Hadn't he spent countless hours being pleased by other women? How had any of that affected what he felt for Marissa?

Despite the fact that he was done with his brooding, Jude wouldn't name his mood pleasant as he strode down the hallway toward the library. Aidan and Edward were supposed to have returned the night before, but it was now nine in the morning and there was no word. Had they discovered the culprit? Had they given him the thrashing he deserved?

By God, he wished he'd gone with them. Except then he wouldn't have spent that hour with the weight of Marissa's sweet body against him.

Jude reached the library and found it blessedly empty. After tasking a servant with bringing him coffee and breakfast, Jude positioned himself in the window nook and watched the stables. The breakfast room had a view of only the leading edge of the stable yard. From the library, Jude would see any sign of someone approaching.

But the first person he saw wasn't approaching the house, but leaving it. Harry hurried from the rear of the house with a packet tucked tight beneath his arm. He disappeared into the stables, and when he emerged a few minutes later without the paper-wrapped bundle, he looked around with a decided air of nervousness.

Jude frowned as he watched a young groom walk from the stables to mount an old gelding. The boy strapped the package behind the saddle and set off.

Something was going on.

Oh, there was nothing damning in a man sending a post, of course. Jude had sent a letter himself only two days before. But Harry had looked decidedly... furtive. And what did light-hearted Harry have to look furtive about?

Jude was still worrying over the scene a quarter hour later when the York brothers finally rode into view. He headed straight for the study and paced the length of it, waiting for the men to appear.

"What news?" he snapped as soon as Edward crossed the threshold. The man shook his head, and Jude cursed.

"Charles LeMont appears to have been away these past three weeks. He'll return tomorrow."

"Can you be sure?"

Edward pushed a hand through his disheveled hair and collapsed into the chair behind his desk. "We spoke to his wife. His sister took ill in Bath, and he went to visit.

Jude frowned. "And his wife didn't accompany him? That's suspicious."

Aidan walked in and tossed his coat onto a chair. "She's with child. Four or five months gone, I think. Handsome woman. She seemed eager to help."

Edward nodded. "I believed her. I don't think it's him."

"What story did you tell?" Jude asked as he resumed his pacing.

"Said we had a dying horse. Same illness that had taken one of the LeMont mares ten years ago and we couldn't remember his old stable master's treatment."

Aidan poured them all a serving of brandy before slouching onto the couch. Jude couldn't sit still to save his life. "Where the hell were you two?" he asked as he stalked over to glare out the window.

"We headed hack," Edward grumbled, "but had to find an inn when it started to rain. Remind me never to share a room with Aidan again. He snores."

"That was you, old man." Aidan tossed back his drink, then tilted his glass toward Jude. "What's got you so foul? Courtship not playing gently on your soul?"

Jude ignored him and addressed Edward. "Is it Fitzwilliam Hess then?"

"Everyone we asked agrees that he's been on the Continent since the start of the Season."

"Perhaps he needs money?"

Edward shrugged. "He'd have plenty of targets to choose from. Certainly families more wealthy than ours."

"Could it he possible this is the way he supports himself? He's a wastrel by all accounts."

"A rich wastrel," Aidan interrupted. "I've dealt with some of the firms that handle his investments. He has no need for blackmail. His lifestyle is fully financed. I'm telling you that it's White!"

"Everything in life is not so black and white," Jude answered. "I spent my life around men active in one kind of transgression or another. I daresay I'm more familiar with the vagaries of the world than you."

Edward looked up. "But perhaps Aidan and I have a better understanding of honor among gentlemen." He said the words so casually, as if he didn't mean them as an insult at all. So Jude let them float away unanswered. He was a bastard. There was no denying that.

The silence stretched on. For a brief moment, Jude considered mentioning his suspicion of Harry, but he bit back the words. There wasn't even a hint of proof, and Marissa was right. Harry seemed a good, uncomplicated man. Jude would hold his tongue, but he'd keep his eyes open.

"Aside from White, who does that leave then?" Jude pondered. "Someone one of the men told? A friend?"

Aidan cleared his throat as if he were relieved to change topics. "A more recent lover?"

"That would be strange pillow talk," Jude said.

"I've heard stranger."

Well, he had a point. Men talked with their mistresses. "Right," he murmured. "Not a wife, but a lover." He puzzled back over the men. Peter White had seemed genuinely chastened, not to mention terrified. And aside from the woman he'd ruined and scorned, Jude hadn't heard rumors of a recent lady friend. Perhaps Harry would know.

Jude knew nothing of Charles LeMont to say whether he kept a mistress or not. But Fitzwilliam Hess . . .

His head snapped up in alarm. "Christ. What about Mrs. Wellingsly?"

"What about her?" Aidan asked with a wary edge to the words.

"Didn't she and Hess have a flirtation last year?"

"Not that I noticed, but it seems likely enough. Still, I can't think why you'd suspect her. She inherited nearly half of her husband's estate. She doesn't need money, and I can't imagine she'd do something like this just to punish me."

Jude laced the window again. "No, but she might do it to punish me."

Despite the softness of Marissa's voice, it managed to fill the whole room. "Why would she want to punish you?"

Alarm flooded his body as he turned around. Marissa stood in the doorway, and her stiff face matched the even tone of her words perfectly. "You told me you'd never even spent a moment alone with her."

He held up a hand. "I—"

"You lied to me!"

"I didn't, Marissa, I swear. She ..." He glanced toward Aidan for help, but the man smiled and made no move to assist. Shit. Jude could hardly call the man to the carpet in front of his sister. But tears glistened in her eyes now. "Listen," Jude pled as she started to turn away.

She froze but didn't look at him.

"The other night Patience Wellingsly confessed to some... tender feelings for me—"

"The other night?" Marissa snapped.

Jude looked up to the ceiling, but it was as unhelpful as Aidan York. "She implied that she was in love with someone. Possibly me."

"I see. Was she overwhelmed by your kisses?" Marissa was nearly shouting, and Jude would've enjoyed the spectacle if he wasn't feeling quite so panicked. Still, he assured himself, her jealousy was a good thing, as long as it didn't take too strong a hold.

"I told you I've never kissed her."

"Then it makes no sense." She flung a hand in his direction. "Why would she love you then?"

He'd taken a step toward her, but those words stopped him in his tracks. "What?"

"If you haven't so much as touched her, why would she be falling in love with you?"

That was far more than a question. It was an insult wielded with all the subtlety of a medieval mace. "You can't believe a woman would love me for any other reason?"

"How would I know?" Her words hovered in the air.

"Marissa," Edward said quietly.

Her brow wrinkled in a brief moment of confusion before the anger took over again. "What I believe is that you told me there was nothing between you and that woman, and now I discover she may be in love with you."

He'd told himself there would be no brooding today, but it was hard not to brood when it felt as if his chest was an open wound. He turned away from the woman who'd wielded the weapon and looked at Edward York. "I'll go see her. It's a small chance, but if we can put this to rest, all the better."

He heard the soft sound of his name on Marissa's lips as he passed, and felt the even more tentative touch of her hand, but Jude kept walking. Let her worry over what he thought of her; he'd spent enough time doing the same for her.

She thought him not worthy of affection, and her brothers thought him too low to understand honor. He'd always loved the York home, but for now he wanted nothing more than to walk away from it for a few hours.

Chapter 17

Jude paced the receiving room of the Wellingsly house, still furious with Marissa for her casual words. To assess that he was good for naught but physical pleasure and then throw that in his face.

But what right had he to be angry? His entire plan had centered around seducing her into affection. Yes, he'd hoped they had some small friendship as well, but seduction... that had been the very soul of his plan. So why did he feel so wronged to have it named?

He could not reconcile his anger, and it didn't help that he'd almost convinced himself that Patience Wellingsly was behind this blackmail fiasco. Had he sent her some false signal? He'd thought it nothing more than a simple flirtation. But she fell in love easily, and perhaps he should’ve taken more care.

"Damn it," he breathed, running a hand through his hair. The ride over had been damp and had done little to relieve his dark mood.

"Mr. Bertrand," she said, walking into the room with a wide smile. "What a pleasure."

"Mrs. Wellingsly." He managed a polite bow, but there was no mistaking the roughness of his voice. She started to stretch out both hands, as if to take his or even embrace him, but when she met his eyes, her hands fell. So did her smile.

"Is something the matter?"

"I wished to speak with you about a delicate matter."

For a split second, her eyes brightened, turning up a bit at the corners as hope started to bloom on her face, but then she gave her head a little shake. "I see. A delicate, unpleasant matter?"

"You know why I'm here, then?"

"I've no idea," she responded before sinking gracefully to a chair. He'd never seen her do anything with less than perfect grace.

Jude took the scat that faced hers and cleared his throat. "The other night, I felt you were about to confess something to me. Were you?"

She swallowed and tried on a pleasant smile. "I can't imagine what that would have to do with anything."

How was he to tell what she was hiding? He hardly knew this woman at all. Deciding he had little to lose, Jude offered an edited version of the truth. "I received a disturbing letter. An anonymous letter. I wondered if you had sent it."

"Me?" she gasped. "What kind of letter?"

"It was ... the intent of it was to damage my relationship with Miss York."

"And you think I would want to do that?"

"At the ball, you implied some... tenderness for me, if I wasn't mistaken."

She stared at him, her face frozen, but her eyes bright as candles.

Jude flinched at the obvious pain in her gaze, but he did not temper his words. "Did you send the letter?"

"No." She didn't avert her eyes or shake with nervousness.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but he said nothing. As he'd expected, she couldn't tolerate the silence.

"I did mean ... at the ball, I did mean you. But it wasn't ..." Now she was nervous, swallowing hard, her hands fluttering for a moment before she pressed them to her knees. "I fancied myself falling in love with you."

Despite that he'd come here for an answer to that question, Jude still felt the shock of those words. It nearly rattled his bones. "Patience—"

"Don't," she interrupted. "After we talked, I realized I had assigned you an unwarranted affection. I'm lonely, Mr. Bertrand. And you are an attractive man. Something about you ..."

An unfortunate amount of heat warmed his skin. Jude knew he was blushing, and he could not stop it.

"Something about you fascinated me. I wanted you so badly that I even turned my eye toward Aidan York, wondering if I might make you jealous."

Jude felt his jaw fall at that, but she waved off his shock with a little laugh. "Not that he's an unappealing companion."

"I don't. . . I'm sorry. I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything. I'm a forty-year-old widow. I may still be as foolish as a girl, but I am at least mature enough to know when I'm being foolish. And you were right. If I really wish to find love, I must give up these childish affections. Surely there is someone for me. Perhaps a man who already has his children and will not mind a barren wife."

"Patience," he said. "You are as lovely a woman as I've met. Easy to love. And do you think I would love Marissa less if she could not have children?"

"Would you not?"

Jude didn't wish to probe his feelings for Marissa too deeply, but he knew the answer to this already. "Absolutely not. And if you hold yourself low because of such a thing, you dishonor your worth for no reason, madam."

"It's no matter," she said, but Jude handed her a handkerchief when tears spilled from her eyes. "I'm so sorry I put you in this awkward position, Mr. Bertrand. I promise that I wish you and Miss York only the best."

He believed her. Hell, maybe they were all fools in the face of these suspects, but Jude had no reason not to believe her. If she truly wanted to insert herself between Jude and Marissa, she would've at least confessed love.

If she had, what would Jude have said? Her admission that she was attracted to him had filled him with a twisted mix of appreciation and... discomfort? No, it fell like something more than that, and after he bid her farewell, he left the manor with a heavy step.

She wasn't the first woman to admit a strange attraction to him. Hell, Marissa herself had said nearly

the same thing. He'd taken advantage of that very phenomenon with her and other women. He was strangely appealing, and he'd never minded that. He'd accepted it as his due.

Ten steps from his horse, Jude stopped in his tracks.

His due. His place. The role he fit in this world of polite people and impolite realities.

Jude's stomach dropped with a sickening realization: He did not think himself equal to these people at all.

"I'm sure this will turn out well." Marissa looked up from her stitching to find   Harry sitting next to her. She hadn't noticed that he'd sat down. "Pardon?"

"Jude will return soon with good news, I'm sure."

"Are you?" Marissa sighed. She wasn't sure at all. In fact, she was quite certain that if Jude returned at all, it would be with awful news. First that Mrs. Wellingsly wasn't the blackmailer. And second, that he'd discovered it quite nice to be around a beautiful woman who truly loved him. The more Marissa thought of it, the more sure it became. What man wouldn't want that? What man would prefer a childish girl who hurled insults and used him for selfish purposes?

Marissa blinked back tears. "Thank you, Harry."

"You just... if you don't mind my saying so, cousin, you look awful." She didn't bother pretending insult. Harry wasn't as close as a brother, but he was certainly as close as a ... cousin. He'd gone to school with her brothers,

so his bond was stronger with them, but during the summers she'd learned to swim and ride and cheat at cards right along with him.

"You shouldn't worry so," he continued. "We'll watch out for you."

"Thank you, Harry." She studied him for a moment, trying to think what he was like as a man and not just as her cousin. But he was inscrutable to her, a true gentleman of the ton, never interested in more than horses and... well, he had a slight interest in sheep farming, but no head for politics.

She had never thought too much about him. He'd always simply been a fixture in her life. But Jude had begun teaching her to look beyond the surface of things, not that she was learning that lesson too well.

"Can I ask you something, Harry?"

"Of course."

"Was it ever... lonely for you? Spending so much time in our household?"

Harry frowned and shook his head. "What do you mean?"

"Well, between school and the time you spent here ..."

"God, no. It was a relief. My mother is so dour, I can hardly bear the time I spend in her house even now. And I don't remember my father, I was so young when he died. Your father was far more than an uncle to me. An excellent man."

He had been an excellent man. Quiet, but not dour like his sister. He'd been a happy audience for the mischief his wife and children had got up to.

"I'm glad. You are such a good actor, I wondered if you were only pretending to be happy with us."

"Nonsense. Your family has been the only true family I've ever known."

Marissa looked back to her little pillow, the very pillow she'd teased Jude about two weeks before. The stitching was going quite nicely. If circumstances were different, she would have told Jude that and they would laugh together. She would have talked to him about her father, dead for seven years now. But she'd thrown Jude's friendship in his face this morning, as surely as if she'd slapped him.

"Thank you," she finally said.

Harry cleared his throat. "So, I believe Mrs. Samuel is trying to talk me into marrying one of the Miss Samuels."

That stopped Marissa's wandering mind. "She is? Which one?"

"I'm not sure she cares. She feels they've both been on the scene too long."

Well, Mrs. Samuel was a practical woman if nothing else. Beth had told her that her mother's only goal was to see both girls marry so that if she took ill again, they would be looked after. "And ... do you favor one?"

"I hadn't much thought about it. Miss Nanette Samuel seems quite a handful. Not sure she'd make an ideal wife."

Marissa didn't know whether to feel hopeful for Beth or insulted that Harry was approaching this so heartlessly. But, she supposed, this was how most marriages were made. "Beth is my dearest friend, you know. She's a wonderful person." "She is rather nice, isn't she? I suppose I shall consider it. She's modest and attractive, and I think we might match well."

She nodded, still torn by the strangeness of it all. "Don't you mean to find love, Harry?"

"I'm sure we'd come to love each other. I know our family typically approaches these things with a bit more fire, but I'm not quite as passionate in nature, I suppose."

Marissa couldn't help but smile. "Odd, considering your acting skills. Too bad you were born so respectably, Harry, or you might have trod the boards in London."

His expression twitched for a moment before he set it rights again. "I would've liked that, I think. Sometimes I do admit to feeling a bit superfluous."

"How so?"

"Edward holds all the responsibilities of the title. Aidan has his import firm. And I ... I am merely pleasant entertainment. I've always enjoyed my time here, as I said, but I sometimes feel I should’ve made myself useful and entered the church."

"The church? Good God, I can't begin to imagine you as a parson."

He flashed a grin. "Mother was quite keen on the idea. I suppose I could've made a good show of it."

"Well, your sermons would've been lively. I can picture you illustrating all the parables with scenes from Shakespeare."

"You're right! Perhaps there's still time to take up the collar."

Marissa laughed, but then she took his hand between hers. "I do know what you mean, Harry. I've felt that same suspension myself. What have I to do but marry, after all? But you're a gentleman. You have your income. You can do what you like, you know."

"But what would I do?"

She shrugged. "Travel the world. Go to Africa. Visit the Orient. It's not as if you're some threadbare relation. You're not forced to stay here."   "No, I suppose I simply like it. Africa, eh?" He seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I like this family too much, I think, not to mention the comforts of England. And who would entertain your mother if I sailed away?"

"I daresay she can entertain herself."

They were chuckling over that when Jude walked   into the drawing room, his hair wild from the wind and his face stony as a demon's, Her smile fell as his gaze met hers and touched her with ice. She stood and felt the pillow drop to her feet.

! "It wasn't her," he said simply, before turning to leave.

That was all. It wasn't her. Nothing about whether Mrs. Wellingsly loved him, or how he knew she hadn't done it, or what had happened when the woman had finally got him alone.

The horrid images that had writhed through Marissa's mind today all came to the forefront. Jude would've spoken privately with Mrs. Wellingsly, of course. He would've been forceful with her. She would've swooned into him. And then what?

Marissa strode toward the door to force him to answer her questions, but Jude wasn't in the hall.

She glanced up just in time to see his shadow round the corner at the top of the stairs, and she S followed without another thought. S Patience Wellingsly was a delicate beauty with

polished manners and knowing eyes. She would never have called Jude ugly or insulted his appeal, not if she wanted him. No, she was the type of woman who knew how to stroke a man's ego. Marissa had never managed that skill, of making them feel important and masculine and needed. She could make a man feel lust, but what about love? That was a different thing entirely.

But Patience Wellingsly looked like a fairytale princess in need of rescue, and Jude had already proved himself capable of playing the valiant hero.

Marissa's gut burned with sick dread as she hurried up the stairs and into the south wing.

She rushed to his room, freed from having to worry about other guests. Only Jude and Harry had chambers here now, though a servant or two might talk. But Marissa was far beyond that kind of minor gossip now.

When she reached his door, she knocked, but couldn't wail for an answer and pushed his door wide.

Jude looked up from removing his cufflinks. His coat and cravat were already missing. Now he was just a man in his breeches and boots and shirtsleeves. He looked wicked, and Marissa couldn't help but stop her mad rush and look him over.

"You must be missing your other male guests if you're reduced to ogling me."

She stared a bit longer just to make her point, then stepped inside and closed the door. "I want to know what happened with Mrs. Wellingsly."

"I'll wager you do."

She raised her chin. "Did you see her?"

"Of course I did." He set the last cufflink on the dresser and tugged his shirttails from his breeches, momentarily distracting her. "Well? What did she say?" "She said she didn't do it."

Betrayal cut through her heart with a razor's edge. "You told her the truth?"

"No."

"Then how—"

Jude pulled his shirt over his head with such abruptness she felt the breeze of it across her face. His scent floated to her. That recognizable spice of some masculine soap, but tinged with sweat and horse now from his long ride. "I told her I'd received a disturbing letter, and I wanted to know if she'd sent it. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss York, I need a wash." Miss York. That felt surprisingly painful. She'd been dismissed. He turned to pour water from the ewer as if she weren't there. It must be icy cold, and yet he dipped a rag in the water and rubbed it against a ball of soap.

"I don't see why you believe her, just because she claims she didn't do it."

"Because we talked about more than that, and I believe she was telling the truth about it all."

The sick dread spiraled high at that, but it got wound up with excitement as she watched Jude swipe the soapy cloth over his neck and face, then down his chest and beneath his arms. Her sex tightened at the sight of the dripping water.

How very odd to watch this: Jude making the same movements she made as she washed. Such a pedestrian activity, but so fascinating to see him clean his strong chest and bulging arms. Milky water skimmed down his belly, tangling with the hair that trailed to his waistline.

She'd never observed him so naked before, and he looked very... different. Wide where she was not, narrow in places that her body had curves. His back formed a fascinating until it straightened at his hips.

Marissa could hear her own breath as it quickened. He dipped the rag in the basin and washed himself again with clearwater. Without looking at her, he reached for the buttons of his trousers. "Does she love you?" Marissa blurted out.

He glanced toward her and dropped his hands. She thought he was being modest, but then he sat in a chair and began to tug off his boots. Not modest then. He'd forgotten his boots.

"Probably not."

She clenched her hands to fists. "Why must you speak in maddening phrases? What does that even mean?"

And why are you being so cold to me she left unasked. She knew why. She only wanted to know if it was permanent. What a silly question that was. Do you think you'll be angry with me for very long?

Jude stared at her as he tugged off his second boot and slipped his stockings off. The sight of his feet startled her. They were very large. In perfect proportion to his body, she supposed, as she'd never noticed them before. But now, naked, they were wide and strong, and his toes had hair. She fought the impulse to slip off her shoe and place her fool next to his. He would dwarf her, she was sure.

She tore her eyes away and found that he was still looking straight at her. Holding her gaze, Jude stood and reached for the buttons again.

"Mrs. Wellingsly and I sat together." First button, "I asked what she'd meant by our previous conversation." Second button. "About love." Third button, He turned to the side to face the basin again, and then Jude Bertrand slid off his breeches. She couldn't stop her gasp. He must have heard it, as it echoed in her own ears, but he didn't glance at her. He just reached for the rag. As if he weren't naked, As if she weren't looking at her first nude man. He twisted a bit, and her wide-eyed gaze focused on his bottom. Pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle I any further sounds of shock, Marissa devoured him with her eyes. His buttocks were tight mounds of muscle, with slight indentations that hollowed out the sides when he moved. The skin was so smooth and pale compared to the rest of his body, and her lingers twitched with the urge to touch him. To run her fingers down his spine, all the way to his arse. And then farther, down to his thighs, which curved out with strength and roughened with hair.

Water dripped down those thighs before snaking around his calves and soaking into the carpet. The spice of the soap grew heavy in the air, and it twisted around her, making her dizzy.   He grabbed a towel, and stepped onto it to avoid dripping any more water on the floor. The distraction of the towel momentarily kept Marissa from realizing that he'd turned toward her, but when she saw his front side, she pressed her fingers so hard to her mouth that her lips went numb, Up to this point, she'd only had hurried glimpses of men in the dark. There'd been a basic understanding of shape and mechanics, but nothing more. But now she had a full view of Jude's manhood and all the ... accoutrement.

His staff hung thick and heavy, the skin of it ruddier than she'd imagined. His bullocks hung beneath, tight and rounded. He must have washed already, because the dark hair around his shaft was wet, and his flesh glistened with water. As she watched, the shaft thickened before her eyes. She drew in a deep breath to try to calm her trembling heart.

"When I spoke with Mrs. Wellingsly," he continued as if nothing had interrupted the conversation, "she admitted she'd been considering the idea of falling in love with me."

Those might have been the only words that could've drawn her eyes away from his manhood. She focused on his face and the brutal cold in his gaze. "She did?"

"Yes." He drew the rag in a slow swipe across his chest. "She admires me. She wants me."

Marissa's eyelids fluttered with shock. Her stomach turned.

"But she's realized that she doesn't love me. Not truly. She only loves the idea of me."

Relief crashed over her, but the flood stirred up more fear. He'd be thinking of Patience Wellingsly now. How could he not? A beautiful woman who had confessed her admiration and desire... he must be wondering what it would be like to accept what she offered. He must imagine it. . . .

While she tried to light the fear, Jude finished washing. He rinsed his whole body one last time, then reached for another sheet of linen.

"Mrs. Wellingsly sends her well wishes, by the way. She said she was happy for the match. I think she meant it."

His eyes never left her as he toweled off, but Marissa's gaze roamed over his nakedness, taking it all in, noticing the way his shaft grew even wider and rose up in eager arousal. Just as it had when she'd touched his chest. When she'd kissed him and straddled his hips.

He wanted her. Still. Even when he was angry. And she wanted the chance to have more of him.

"So yes," Jude said, "I believed her. And if you're wondering if I touched her, the answer is no."

"I..." She forced herself to meet his gaze, which had gone black and fathomless with emotion. "I only feared that—"

"But I will touch you, Marissa, right now, if you don't leave."

"What?" She took a deep breath as a hint of trepidation sizzled through her excited body.

"I'll have you now and end this ridiculous farce between us. And we will marry. Understand that. If I have you, there will be a wedding."

Her eyes skittered over him as the nervousness chased her arousal faster. He would have her. If she let him. He'd lay her on the bed and press all that nude flesh atop her, and then he'd slide between her legs and—

"Turn around," he growled. "Stop looking at me like you want it and leave. Because we both know you'll regret it in the morning when you're stuck with me for the rest of your life."

'Jude—"

"Leave!" His voice exploded through the room, shaking the very walls, it seemed. He snarled and stepped toward her, and Marissa knew she should be scared, but she wasn't.

Still, she didn't want him this way, lusting and hating all at once. She would regret that, at least, if nothing else.

So she stole one last look at Jude's proud body, and she turned and walked away, even as her heart threw a tantrum inside her chest. It wanted him, and it resented the tight control of her mind. Marissa was beginning to resent it as well.

Chapter 18

There were only seven of them left in the house. Seven people in this house, and yet she hadn't caught even a glimpse of Jude since the encounter in his room. During breakfast he'd been out riding. For luncheon, Marissa had eaten in her mother's chambers while the seamstress Finished the last-minute touches on the gowns her mother had sent for restyling. Then the afternoon had been spent sorting through old scraps that her mother insisted needed to go out to the village needy before the weather grew any colder.

But Marissa had been beset with nervous energy all day. The men had determined that there was nothing to be done but to pay the five-thousand pounds. They had no other suspects to interview. No leads to follow up. If Charles was at the ball tonight, he'd be pulled aside and quizzed as discreetly as possible. But the money would be left according to the instructions, and the men would take turns watching the hidey-hole for whoever came to retrieve it. This particular fete was popular, which was likely why it had been chosen. The suspect could hide among any dozens of neighbors or guests. There'd be no way to catch the blackmailer unless the trap worked perfectly.

And then what would happen?

Marissa paced across the drawing room as she worried. The warmth of the fire drew her in, then seemed to push her away on a tide of heat when she walked back toward the cold windows. Back and forth she went, forehead aching from the tightness of her frown.

She had no doubt the blackmailer would be caught, but the question was, could he be stopped? Could they convince him to set aside his plans and keep quiet?

There was no way to be sure, aside from murder, and her discarded virtue was no cause for killing.

And there was so much more to worry over, even beyond the blackmail. What was Jude thinking? What did he want? What would he do once this mess was over?

The drawing-room door snapped open, and Marissa spun around to greet Jude, but it was only her mother.

"Where is everyone?" Marissa complained.

Her mother tugged on gloves and went to sit in a chair pulled close to the flames. "It's so cold, I told the men to pile into the carriages first. We'll join them once the braziers have taken hold."

"Are they already outside then?"

"Most of them, yes."

Marissa craned her neck to peck into the corridor. "Jude?"

Her mother waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not sure. But I want you to ride with me. There is still so much planning to do for the Boxing Day gathering. I refuse to allow last year's choir to return. My Clod, they were entirely dreary, weren't they?"

"The choices were a bit spiritual, Mother, but—"

"Horrid! This year, I think we shall have mummers. Won't that be enchanting? And fireworks! Oh, Marissa, it shall be spectacular!"

"Have you spoken to Edward about your plans?"

Another dismissive wave. "Bah. These parties only raise his stature in society."

"And deplete his coffers as well."

Her mother tittered as if it had been a joke, but Marissa didn't worry too much. She knew Edward budgeted a certain set amount for their mother's frivolities every year. On occasion he stepped in to replace, say, the fantastically expensive French red roses with more economical English roses, but with instructions for the florist to call them by a French name. He was smart enough to handle the dowager baroness.

And Marissa could not worry over Edward's pockets; she was busy worrying over Jude's nude body and whether she'd ever see it again. He'd been so angry. She'd meant to sit beside him in the coach and poke and prod until he revealed what he was feeling, but now it looked as if she'd be stuck with her mother.

She set her jaw, and when the footman bowed into the room and allowed that the carriages were sufficiently warm, Marissa waved her mother ahead. "After you."

She followed her to the lead carriage and managed a glance inside while her mother was boosted up and settled. No Jude there, just Harry and Edward and Aunt Ophelia. Though Marissa set her foot to the step, she then stopped and looked around as if startled. "Oh, pardon me, mother. I just remembered that I need to speak with Aidan quite urgently!"

"But, Marissa!" her mother gasped as Marissa spun away and rushed for the second carriage. Before she readied it, she heard her mother sigh out "Well, Baron York, I suppose you shall have to help me decide."

Poor Edward.

But she'd managed to escape, so she couldn't summon much sympathy as she snapped open the carriage door and hoisted herself up. Her wrap trailed behind, so she hauled it in before dropping into the seat next to Aidan.

And across from Jude.

She pushed down her nervousness and met his eyes straight on. Her cheeks felt a little warm, but she thought she detected a hint of red high on his cheekbones as well, and that gave her the courage to raise one eyebrow. Jude glanced away and pretended to look out the window.

"Good evening, sister," Aidan drawled. She glanced over to see him sprawled against the seat with his eyes closed. He looked like an unrepentant rake, arms crossed and legs stretched out as if he were trying to catch a nap before the festivities.

"Late night?" she asked.

"I couldn't sleep," Aidan answered with a yawn.

"How did you sleep, Mr. Bertrand?"

"Well," Jude answered.

"Really? I found myself quite fitful. My mind would not stop racing."

"Sign of a guilty conscience?" he mumbled.

Aidan huffed a laugh. "That's generally my problem. Perhaps it's a family trait. Are you feeling guilty about this drama you've involved the whole county in, Marissa?"

"I did not involve them! And no, it wasn't guilt. 'Twas anger at Jude. Do you know that woman confessed that she had considered falling in love with him?"

Aidan squinted past one open eye. "Did she? That's a merciless snare, my friend. I'd tread softly."

"Aidan York!" Marissa snapped. "Jude is my fiancé!"

He closed his eyes again. "I thought you wanted free of him."

"I—" She looked from her brother to Jude, horrified that it had been put so bluntly. Jude's dark eyes narrowed at her hesitation. "It's not that. We both agreed that we would treat the betrothal respectfully."

Her brother grunted his disinterest.

Jude resumed his effort to ignore her, but Marissa couldn't leave it be. "I've only been trying to talk with you. Can you not spare me a few moments of your attention?"

"I'm no good for such niceties as talk," he growled.

"All right," Aidan said, pulling himself upright to bang on the ceiling of the carriage. The wheels slowed. "I can't spend forty-five minutes in here with you two. It's impossible to breathe in here with all the unspoken accusations clouding the air. I'll ride above. Behave yourselves."

He jumped out, and she was left alone with Jude, who sat glaring at the door Aidan had just slammed.

Electricity hovered between them, as if a great tempest were building above their heads. The carriage rocked and then began its journey again.

"Why are you being so cruel?" Marissa asked.

He didn't even look in her direction.

"I'm sorry if I wounded your feelings yesterday. It’s just that... I don't understand."

"You made that clear." "What?"

"That you don't understand Patience’s attraction to me."

Patience. Oh, God, the sound of that name on his lips stung like sparks had landed on her skin.

"It's not just her. I've seen the way other women look at you. They look at you like... like you are the catch of the Season. Rich and titled and ..."

"Handsome?" Bitterness burned in that one word.

Yes, she thought. They look at you like you are handsome, and you are not. But that was a truth she could not lay between them, despite that he'd already spoken it once. You think I'm ugly, he'd said. Her throat thickened with sorrow.

"You leave me so confused," she whispered.

He finally turned his eyes on her. She'd expected fire, but they were still ice cold. "I'll not list my worth to you, as if I were begging your approval. I offered you my name because I liked you, and I hoped to inspire the same admiration in you."

"I do like you! I've told you that."

"And yet you agonize over what other women might see in me. Do you really want to know?"

"I ... I see that you are a good man, Jude. I do understand that."

"That is not what they want from me," he growled. "They do not want my heart, sweet Marissa, they want the man. They want my body. They want the things I can do for them and the way I can make them feel. I'm big and base-born, and they know that my mother was a whore, and they understand that I will be an animal in their beds." He paused, as if challenging her to respond.

Marissa felt her mouth open. She told herself she should speak, but what words could she possibly offer him?

"I have had that sort of admiration for a long while. I understand it perfectly, whether you do or not. And it never bothered me. Never. Not until I realized that I wanted more than that from you. But that's all you see in me too, isn't it? A big, ugly brute who can please you in private, but should hardly be acknowledged otherwise?"

"No!" she gasped. "That's not true!"

"It is true, but I can understand if you don't want to admit your own shallowness to yourself."

The sharp breath she drew hurt as it entered her lungs, as if it were so cold that it froze her very blood. "But I told you ... I said you were my friend."

He jerked his hand aside as if he were flicking her words away.

"Jude, please. I know I said something awful yesterday, but it was only because I was ... I was hurt."

Now that he was so focused on her, Marissa half wished he would turn away again. Because even though he'd always seen things in her that others did not, he'd liked those things. He'd teased her and praised her and wanted to know more. But now she saw scorn in his eyes. And pain.

"Perhaps tomorrow," he said, "I will beg the same excuse for saying awful things. But tonight I wish to be left in peace."

Marissa held her tears back by sheer force of will. "I did not ask for any of this. I did not ask you to want me at all, much less offer to be my husband. You have no light to hold my feelings up and judge them. What you want or don't want from me is your burden, not mine."

For a moment, something broke through the ice of his gaze, something so raw that Marissa looked instinctively away, down to her clenched and shaking hands.

"You're right, of course," he murmured. "I apologize for trying to place on your back a burden you did not choose. How selfish of me."

His words did not relieve her pain. Instead, they drove it deeper, until the hurt pierced something hidden deep inside her.

She'd never been one for excessive introspection, but she did understand some things about herself. She'd never been quite the same as other ladies her own age. She didn't feel things as deeply as they seemed to feel. She'd claimed herself in love with Charles at some point, but in truth, it had only been attraction. And attraction was something she'd felt for many.

Likewise, she hadn't been stung too often by the words or opinions of others. But she could no longer deny the capacity to feel emotions as deep and true as anyone else, because Jude's pain had cut through her, and now the ache spread like a pool of blood through her chest.

Why? Because he truly was her friend? Or was it something more?

She'd claimed not to understand him or his appeal to other women, but perhaps she'd been naming it wrong the whole time. Perhaps what she couldn't understand were her own deepening feelings for him.

Jude had given up his scornful glare and now stared out the window at the passing night. Marissa watched him, unafraid that she might be caught looking. His face had struck her as unfortunate— and yes, ugly—when they'd first met. But watching him now, he only looked like Jude. His anger gave his jagged face a vicious cast, yet he wasn't frightening. His month was too wide, and yet it was the perfect width for kisses that devoured all her thoughts. His strong brows and dark eyes weren't the least bit gentle, but they seemed created for sending shivery thoughts down her spine.

He wasn't handsome, but something in him compelled her to want more than handsomeness. More than elegant legs and pretty flirtation.

And more from herself.

"Jude—"

"Leave me be, Marissa. Please."

"But after tonight. . . if we need to marry—"

He shook his head, and what did that mean?

Marissa let her next words fall away and disappear, like floating ash dissolving into water. He did not even want to speak with her. He wanted nothing, just when she wanted so much more.

She bowed her head and told herself that all would be well. And if she were ruined, and Jude refused to marry her ... it would be no more than she deserved. At least she had no sisters to pull down along behind her. At least it was just her, alone.

Chapter 19

The brightly colored crowd swirled before Jude like a flock of excited birds. He glared across the ballroom, unmoved by the lively sight.

He was too lost to appreciate the beauty of the scene. Lost in his unspoken worries that Harry could be behind this trouble. If it was Harry, the betrayal would break Marissa's heart.

But more than that, Jude was lost in his own past and the weight it pressed into his shoulders.

When he'd joined his father's ducal household, Jude had expected to feel like an outcast. Marginalized at the least, hated at worst. But he'd been pleasantly surprised by his welcome there. The duchess hadn't treated him like one of her own children, but she hadn't despised him either. As for his half brothers, he'd found two young boys who looked up to him as a large and foreign creature.

Much as the ladies of the ton did in his adulthood.

He could still remember that feeling of settling in at his father's home. He'd been homesick and heartbroken, but he'd also been relieved to have been so easily absorbed into the household.

He'd never lost that gratitude, he realized now. A courtesan's bastard was one thing, but a duke's bastard was another. Though he'd missed the warmth of his mother's home, and had luxuriated in it during the .summer months he'd spent with her, he'd appreciated the mantle of respect that had come with being his father's son.

That respect had afforded him the confidence that permeated every fiber of his being. The confidence that allowed him to move through the ton and feel equal.

Or so he'd always thought. But Marissa had exposed a secret knowledge that he was not quite equal. Perhaps not less than, but most definitely different. That was a secret he could expose to himself and eventually live with, but the knowledge that he still felt relieved to be accepted ... that was a bitter pill to swallow.

It was there in his attempt to seduce Marissa York into loving him. He saw now that seduction was simply a way to sneak beneath her defenses and trick her into feeling true affection. As if a lady would need to be fooled into taking him in.

He smiled bitterly and waited for her to circle around to his side of the dance floor again.

By God, she was a beauty. He told her so often, but he didn't think she realized that he wasn't speaking strictly of her looks. She was lively and smart and brave and passionate. And yes, a little shallow. But she'd been correct to tell him his pain wasn't her doing. That responsibility lay with him.

Sensing a presence at his side, Jude frowned to find Aidan there. "Is all in place?" Jude asked quietly.

"Yes. Edward has taken the first watch. I'm to meet him at the folly in an hour. Your turn will come next, then Edward again."

"We could be here all night."

"We could," Aidan agreed. Marissa appeared before them, her face slightly stiff as she danced a quadrille. "I'm getting the sense you've changed your mind about my sister. Will you call off?"

Jude shook his head.

"Well, you don't look like a man who's headed happily for the altar."

"Leave it. We argued. That's all."

"About Patience?"

"I said leave it!"

"For God's sake," Aidan muttered. "You're acting like a moon-eyed ass."

Jude gritted his teeth and glared so fiercely at the dancers that one gentleman shot him an alarmed look.

"In fact, you look almost as miserable as I was when I lost my... the woman I meant to marry."

Aidan never spoke of it, and the shock of hearing him talk of her swept some of Jude's mood away. "But she died," he said stupidly.

"Yes, but there was an argument. Before. We were estranged for a time... and then I never saw her again."

"Christ, I'm sorry."

Aidan rolled his shoulders as if loosening the memory from its hold. "Getting back to you—"

"I'd prefer not."

Aidan relented, finally, so they stood in companionably stony silence again, as good gentlemen of

the ton often did. After a time, Jude realized the dancers had changed partners, and he caught sight of the man on Marissa's arm. "Who's that?"

Aidan followed his gaze and his face went hard. "The infamous Charles LeMont."

"Bloody hell." Just as Jude had suspected, Marissa's first love was a slender reed of a man. His golden locks curled in a perfectly tousled mess. His face was pale and smooth as a girl's. What a damned joke. "He practically violated your sister. Are you just going to let him dance with her?"

"Are you?" Aidan drawled, and Jude could've sworn the gaslight in the room went red for a moment.

He breathed deeply and told himself that creating a scene in the ballroom would be even worse than whatever whispered rumors the blackmailer might spread.

"Edward pulled him aside as soon as we arrived. LeMont seemed appropriately clueless before his wife hurried over to ask after our ailing horse. And he certainly looks harmless."

He did, even to Jude's jaundiced eye. Pretty, he might be, but there was nothing rakish about him, and he touched Marissa only when the dance strictly called for it. Not that Jude ceased his scowling. She was dancing with her former lover, knowing Jude would see her, knowing he'd be jealous. In fact, at that very moment, Marissa's eyes met his across the room, and she stared hard at him, with not even a hint of an embarrassed blush on her cheeks.

And Charles LeMont had seen her thighs. That was more than Jude could claim.

Frustrated with himself, he turned and walked toward the hall without a word to Aidan. Jude had never believed jealousy an appropriate response to any situation. It was a useless exercise practiced by prideless men. Either a woman wanted you or she didn't. Either she'd be true or she wouldn't. No amount of worrying or raging would change that.

And yet, here he was, fretting over Marissa as if she were a toy he could possess.

He meant only to give himself some breathing room, perhaps have a glass of brandy to calm his nerves. But when he was only feet from escape, a woman stepped into his path, and Jude froze in shock.

"Hello, Jude," she said softly, her eyes crinkling in a smile.

"Corrine," he responded, as her name was the only thing making it through the churning shock of his mind.

"It's wonderful to see you."

"You've returned from Jamaica." Obviously.

"It was dreadfully hot there. I've no idea how my sister survives it." She sighed prettily.

A few heartbeats later and his mind was back in reasonable order. "Your sister and her family are well?"

She spoke a bit about the plantation she'd visited and what the island was like, while Jude tried to recover from the shock of seeing his former lover here, at a country ball in the middle of nowhere. Her black hair and brown eyes looked the same, but her skin had bronzed a bit on her journey, and she was thinner as well.

"I understand congratulations are in order," she finally said, her eyes falling to his chest as she shook her head. "I don't know why I'm surprised, but I am."

"Thank you. Have you not yet remarried? I was certain you'd meet a dashing ship's captain and sail the world with him."

She laughed with a familiar husky sound that had once been enough to swell his cock with anticipation. She was, objectively, an average-looking woman, but she lived life with such joy that she enchanted everyone she met.

Conine shook her head. "A ship's captain might make an ideal husband, actually, but I've yet to meet one who's dashing. I find them all rather grumpy and serious."

"Tragic."

"In the meantime, perhaps you will escort me for a dance. If your marriage is a happy one, this might be my last chance to insinuate myself into your arms. And I left so quickly for Jamaica that I already missed one last chance with you. I'd hate to miss this one as well."

There was a promise in those words, a hint that spoke of more than dancing. Jude offered a chagrined smile and began to excuse himself from the honor. He wasn't one to be led by his cock and didn't feel tempted, despite the current uncertainty of his and Marissa's future.

But he paused just before the words left his mouth. He remembered Marissa's steady look as she'd danced by in her former lover's arms.

"I'd be honored," he heard himself say as he bowed and offered his arm.

This was beneath him. Far beneath him. But as with his jealousy, he could taste the bitterness of it in his mouth, but he could not seem to spit it out.

He would dance with Conine, if only to tell himself that he hadn't lost this battle. But the war . . .

the war was another matter entirely. Either Marissa would carry on with her life, or they would marry and he'd have a wife who thought she'd married beneath her.

So knowing it would help nothing, Jude escorted Conine into the crowd just as a waltz began.

Breathless from the dancing, Marissa wound her way through the crowd to join Aidan and Jude. If she hadn't needed to speak with them, she might have avoided the men all night. Jude, at least, looked like an angry bull, anxious to gore at least a few of the guests before the evening was out. When she saw that Aidan stood alone, she wasn't surprised at the relief that loosened her muscles, but even then, she felt a pang of loss that she wouldn't be near Jude.

"Enjoying yourself, Marissa?" Aidan asked as he signaled a footman to bring a glass of champagne.

"I'm not sure how I could be. I only want this night to be over. Is Edward... ?"

"Yes. I'll be relieving him in half an hour or so."

"So there's been no word?"

"None."

The champagne arrived, but Marissa held it without taking a sip. "I danced with Charles."

"So I saw. Jude and I wondered if you were trying to tempt one of us to violence."

She rolled her eyes. "Charles is harmless. Which is what I wanted to tell you. The only topic he broached was his wife's pregnancy. He's elated. There was not even a hint of awkwardness between us. I'm sure it's not him."

"Perhaps he was hoping to wound you, speaking of the child he will have with another woman."

"No, I'm sure that wasn't it. He spoke of his wife with great affection. In the past, there was some tension between us, as if Charles was remembering our previous affection each time we met. But that's gone now. Or perhaps I am changed .... I don't know."

"Are you changed?" he asked.

She shook her head, unable to answer the question. Was she changed, or was she only cowed by all that had happened in the past month?

As she contemplated that question, Marissa caught sight of a familiar set of shoulders moving through the crowd. For a split second, she could not reconcile that they were Jude's shoulders, only because he was surrounded by dancers. But yes, Jude was dancing, and as he spun in time to the slow and sensual waltz, his partner came into view.

The woman was a stranger, which was another odd shock after the intimate confines of the hunting season. Her black hair was lovely and her brown eyes warm, but her face was unremarkable otherwise. At any other time in her life, Marissa would hardly have noticed her at all. Certainly, she would've sniffed at the idea of being threatened by her.

But this woman, plain or not, glowed with... knowledge. She moved with the rhythm of the music as if her body were a mystery only she understood. She knew the power of her large eyes and used them to full effect. And she knew Jude. Intimately. Marissa could see this with no effort at all. Patience Wellingsly had looked at Jude as if she wanted him.

But this woman looked as if she'd had him and knew she would have him again.

It was there in the secret tilt of her lips and the wicked quirk of one eyebrow. It was there in the curve of her fingers around his arm. Not tight and grasping, but easy and light. She laughed up at him, and Jude smiled.

That smile. That crooked half smile he saved for Marissa. He gave that stranger the smile that never ceased to make Marissa's heart skip a beat, and when the woman turned her head to the side, his eyes slid down her throat.

Everything inside Marissa's body went cold, even as her skin inched toward a burn.

Aidan said something, but she couldn't make out his words. "Pardon?''

"I asked if you wanted something else to drink."

"No, it's fine." To distract him, she sipped her drink as she watched Jude and his partner disappear into the crowd. She was left with watching the other dancers, just as she'd spent countless hours watching before. But tonight, the dancers seemed ... shifted. Different in a subtle way. A year ago, she would only have seen the handsome gentlemen who showed a fine leg as they bowed through the moves of the country dances. Or the occasional lady whose dress Marissa coveted. She'd see the charming smiles and elegant hands. She'd mark the most beautiful couples and count them the luckiest.

But tonight, she saw the underpinnings of it all, like the sketch marks left under a watercolor painting, not meant to be seen, but caught with a close look.

There, to the right, a handsome young man danced with perfect grace, but he looked over the head of his beaming partner, not interested in her round, Hushed face. A common enough scene, but made more tragic by the fact that they were newly married in a match necessitated by debts. The bride was happy. The groom made no bones about his dissatisfaction. He wanted everyone to know.

To the right, an elegant couple danced in matching misery. Their marriage had been heralded as the perfect match four years before, but he was now rumored to be frustrated with the lack of children. Apparently their beauty could not alleviate that disappointment. They were lovely, but they were not happy.

Farther away, toward the middle of the crowd, a man and woman who were both unfortunately short and boxy were engaged in a less elegant waltz, but their smiles radiated delight as he whispered things into her ear that made her blush and giggle. They'd been married nearly twenty years, Marissa knew, because their oldest daughter had just come out.

Ridiculous observations, easily visible even to a child, she suspected, but Marissa saw these truths for the very first time. Elegance did not make for a good husband any more than it made for a good bed partner. As a matter of fact, it was so inconsequential as to be meaningless in the face of a few years together.

Then again, couldn't she end up miserable with Jude as easily as she could with some handsome young buck?

Jude came into view again, and her heart pitched sharply down. He was an adequate dancer, not as fluid as some of the other gentleman, vet Marissa wanted to be in his arms. No one else's. She wanted to ogle his legs, knowing she would see them stripped of wool cloth later in the evening. She wanted to pet his chest again, and kiss it, and this time she would lick him, as well, to see if that made him purr like a pleased beast.

That woman, that stranger, she probably already knew the answer to that. Instead of fury, Marissa felt despair, because she suspected this realization had come too late.

Jude looked up, face happy over something the woman had said, but when he met Marissa's eyes, his smile fell away in a slow wash, as if the sight of her was pulling it down.

And in that sad moment, Marissa realized that she loved him.

Chapter 20

The nearby trees created a constant storm of dried and dying leaves rustling and scraping in the wind. Jude could hear no footsteps or breathing, but there was no missing the jet-black figure that slipped up to the artistically piled rocks of the Greek folly.

Jude was surprised by the surge of fury he felt at the sight. He wanted this done and behind him, and it was only the smallness of the figure that kept him from knocking it to the ground with a brutal blow. Instead of throwing his fist at the shadow, he slipped a hand over its mouth and snatched the specter off its feet. A quick squeal snuck past his hand before he cut it off, but Jude wasn't surprised by the high pitch, nor by the softness of the body as it pressed into his. He'd known it was a woman right away, despite the dark cloak and deep night, and he felt a stark relief that it wasn't Harry.

The sack of money fell and bounced off Jude's foot as the woman struggled in his hold. She was a tiny thing, though, and he had no trouble pinning

her arms clown and reaching for the bag. She twisted harder its he pulled her into the trees. "Quiet. You're caught, and there's nothing to be done for it."

She cried out behind his hand and bucked against him.

"Come, woman. You'll only hurt yourself."

After a few more minutes of straining and wriggling, she finally gave in and slumped against him. Jude stopped to give his heart a moment to recover. He'd only settled into his witch five minutes before, and the shock of seeing a dark figure sneak toward the rocks had sent his pulse racing. The surprise of realizing it was a woman still confounded him. Was it possible Patience had lied?

The cloak had bunched up on her head, so he couldn't even glimpse the color of her hair in the faint light of the half-moon. It could be Patience. She was a slender woman.

Christ, what a mess this was.

Jude slowly cased his hand down, and the forest filled with echoing pants as the woman pulled in breath after panicked breath. She was sobbing by the time he reached into his pocket for a rope to tie her hands. He lugged her arms behind her back and began to wind the rope around.

"Please, sir!" she whimpered.

Not Patience, thank God.

"Please, sir, it wasn't my idea, I swear it!"

Jude frowned at the cadence of her words. Even past the panicked sobs, he could tell she was a villager or servant. And in that moment, he knew that the mystery wasn't solved. They wouldn't know the culprit unless the woman could be persuaded to talk. And even then, what hold would they have

over the blackmailer? None. He hadn't received his five-thousand pounds, so the talc would be told.

"Who do you work for?" he growled in frustration.

She wept harder, and shook her head in answer.

"God damn it! Who do you work for?"

"Please, sir. Please."

"Well, if you won't speak the truth, at least keep your mouth shut."

Wrapping his hand around her arm, Jude tugged her through the trees toward the lighter night beyond them. Aidan had already grown tired of the party, and when Jude had relieved him, he'd volunteered to wait in the garden instead of going inside. Jude saw the orange glow of his cigar when he was still forty steps away.

"I've got her."

"Her?" Aidan asked, pushing to his feet.

The windows of the manor cast a faint glow over the garden, so Jude tugged down the girl's cloak to get a look. She was no one he recognized, and Aidan looked her over and shrugged as well. Back to square one.

"We don't dare interrogate her here. If you'll call for one of the carriages, I'll meet you just past the gates."

"Good idea. I'll let Edward know."

The girl stiffened in his hands. "No! Please don't."

"You don't want to go with us? There's a simple solution to that, sweetheart. Tell us who sent you to retrieve the money."

She shook her head, then jerked straight. "I don't know who sent me!" she said brightly, as if the idea had just occurred to her. Jude rolled his eyes and led her back toward the woods.

"Then we'll spend the carriage ride discussing his appearance, shall we? Perhaps one of us will recognize him."

"Don't take me away," she plead a few times as they walked. Jude ignored her in the hopes she would break and confess, but she didn't.

Though he was naturally sympathetic to women at a disadvantage, Jude spent the next quarter hour steeling himself against her pitiful pleas. Whether she was responsible or not, she'd played an essential part in this plot to destroy Marissa, and he would not let his tender heart affect the plan.

When the carriage finally rattled from the dark, the girl ducked down and tried to lunge toward escape, but Jude caught her on her second step and lifted her easily through the open door. He jumped in behind her and found that Edward had joined them as well. Jude tossed the money to him.

"Harry is going to gather up the women in a few minutes," Edward explained. "I didn't think it wise to usher everyone out in a rush." His eyes slid to the girl, now huddled in the corner of he seat. "Who is she?"

"She won't say."

Edward tugged her cloak back and frowned. "I don't think I know her, but she's a touch unremarkable, I suppose. Who are you, girl?"

She shook her head and tugged the hood back up. "Please let me go. I'm only a servant. I had nothing to do with this!"

Jude glared at her bowed head. "And yet you haven't yet asked what 'this' is, which strikes me as highly suspicious."

"Tonight could go very badly for you," Edward added. "A few years in jail, at least. But if you tell us the name of your employer, perhaps it will end well."

The girl looked up then, her eyes widening at the thought, but perhaps she was smart enough to see they were bluffing, because she shook her head again. In truth, it would go badly for her either way. If her master turned her out for giving away his identity, she'd be unemployable whether she went to jail or not.

Jude cocked his head and studied her, now that she was looking at them. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of her full mouth. She was pretty enough that this might not be about her position.

He considered Cousin Harry one last time as he offered his next conjecture. "Perhaps it is not a matter of who her employer is, but her lover?" She only looked momentarily confused, so he shook his head. "No, that's not it. Her accomplice is not her lover, so perhaps it's a woman behind this, after all."

"Ah," Aidan murmured when her face paled. "That's it then."

The girl pressed her lips together and dropped her head. She refused to say anything more no matter how many questions they peppered her with.

"Well," Edward sighed, "it's clear it must have something to do with one of you two."

"What?" Aidan barked, while Jude wondered again if it was Patience causing this trouble. But he was nearly certain it didn't fit her personality. He'd inherited a gift from his mother, to meet a person for even a few moments and form a good impression of them. She had based her whole career on that sense. Choosing the right man could mean the difference between life and death for a woman like her.

"What do you mean?" Aidan asked, nudging Edward's foot with his.

Edward barked a laugh. "If there's a woman out to destroy our family, surely you can see your fingerprints in this."

"That's the most—"

"Hold!" Jude shouted over Aidan's rising voice. "Edward's right that it could have something to do with one of us, but let's not forget the focus of this madness. Marissa. If it's a woman behind this... she could've come by her knowledge any way."

Her brothers exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"I'm talking of visits and changes of dress and bathing in the pond and—"

"Oh," Edward interrupted. "Of course."

"So how do we figure it out?" Aidan asked.

They all turned to look at the girl. As they studied her in silence, Jude's mind turned back toward Marissa. When he'd looked up from Corrinc to catch her watching, he'd known that taunting her with Corrinc had been a bad idea. The dance itself had been a happy waltz through the memories of their time together. He'd enjoyed it, but that enjoyment only made his gut burn with guilt now.

While he'd meant to tweak her pride, he'd seen more than indignation on Marissa's face. He'd seen sorrow. Sorrow he'd caused.

He was ashamed now. The characteristics he'd always liked about Marissa, the wild, free heart that was so at odds with her cool exterior... he'd started to resent her for those very things. He could hardly blame her for being confused. A few days ago, he'd teased her for her love of pretty boys, and now he derided her and called her shallow.

If his mother were here, she would toss her head in disgust and call him a fool. And she would be right.

Furious with himself, he turned that anger on this girl who was trying to harm Marissa. "We are almost to the York estate. You only have a short time left to confess what you know. I'll personally retrieve the constable myself as soon as we are settled, and then the matter will be out of our hands."

Though she took a shuddering breath, the girl said nothing.

"Tell us your mistress's name, and we'll let you go."

She was shaking her head when the carriage slowed and pulled to a stop.

"We're here," Edward murmured. "Let's get her inside and decide what is to be done. But if the girl is missed, it could already be too late."

Jude stepped heavily from the carriage and pulled the girl toward her temporary prison. For the first time, this family seemed more scandalous than his own, and he was quite sure he was no longer enjoying the drama.

Marissa raced through the house, heart and hands both trembling with anxiety. She knew nothing except that someone had been caught and brought back to their estate, which made no sense. Harry claimed that the men knew nothing more than she, and he seemed just as unconcerned as the baroness, who'd chattered brightly about intrigue on the whole ride home. Marissa was beside herself.

Her family's reputation was poised on the brink of ruin because of her actions, and the rest of them seemed to think it a farce. Maddening people.

Her slippers slid across the floor when she tried to make the turn. Marissa bumped hard into the wall, then kept going. She put her arm out to keep herself from tumbling around the next corner, and then she was at her brother's study... only to find the door was locked.

After wiggling the knob, she knocked impatiently. The quiet murmur of male voices stopped, and she was under the distinct impression that everyone, herself included, was holding their breath.

"Let me in!" she finally hissed.

The murmurs started again, and a few moments later she finally heard the click of the lock turning. Edward stuck his head out. "You shouldn't be here, Marissa. It's no place for a woman."

She tried to shove him out of the way, but his body didn't budge. "This is my scandal, Edward. Don't be ridiculous."

"Marissa—"

"Get out of the way!" She kicked him in the shin, which probably hurt her toes more than his leg, but he was so surprised that he gasped in horror.

"I want to know who it is, Edward!"

"We don't know who it is," he said, making a great show of rubbing his leg and looking hurt.

Jude would let her in. She knew it. So she called his name, and Edward rolled his eyes. "Oh, fine, you stubborn brat. Come in and see if you can make any more sense of this than we can."

He opened the door, and Marissa meant to search the room for the blackmailer, but as the door swung open, she spied Jude, only three feel away and reaching toward the door. For a moment, she thought he was reaching for her, and her heart jumped up to pound against her throat in delight. Maybe he didn't hate her. Maybe it wasn't too late.

But his hand dropped as the door swung open, and when she met his eyes, his gaze fell to the ground.

Marissa stared at his hard jaw and wide mouth, and she wished she had the right to touch him. To greet him simply and rise up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. But with all that lay between them now, she knew that even if they married, she wouldn't have that right. They would be like those other unhappy couples who danced together only once at each ball for appearance's sake. What would people see when they looked at Marissa and Jude? An unfortunate match, they'd say, likely blaming Jude's appearance and low beginnings.

Marissa felt a sharp pain where her heart had been pounding just a moment before. That future seemed unbearable, and as she stepped closer to Jude, Marissa reached out and touched his hand.

He frowned. His eyes rose. But before she could identify the emotion in his look, Edward slammed the door and locked it, startling her into dropping her hand.

"Well?" he said. "Here is our culprit, but she—"

"She?" Marissa asked, spying the huddled figure pressed against one arm of the couch.

"Yes, it's a girl. A servant, we think, but she won't reveal who her employer is, or anything else for that matter.

Marissa cocked her head to see beneath the cloak, but she couldn't make out anything of the shadowed face. "Remove the hood, please," she said loudly, but the girl only curled more tightly upon herself.

"She won't say anything." Aidan growled. "Not even when threatened with the constable, and that may turn out to be our only option."

She frowned at the girl, but was momentarily distracted from her study by the movement of Jude next to her. He walked away and stood looking out the window at the black night beyond, his back to the room. She wanted to follow him over to that private corner and ask if he could forgive her. It wasn't the time for such discussions, but her legs ached with the need to walk to him.

Impatient now, Marissa strode to the woman and tried to pull her hood back, but the girl yelped and held light to the fabric. "Oh, for goodness sake," Marissa huffed. "Let me see you."

A whimper emerged from the layers of cheap wool.

Edward said, "That's odd," and came to join Marissa. "She didn't put up such a fight with us."

A thought bloomed in her head. "She's a maid, you said?"

"Of some kind, I believe."

Marissa took a deep breath. "Take off the hood," she said one more time. The head shook again, and Marissa sighed in sorrow. "Take it off, Tess, or I shall have the men hold you down and I'll take it off myself."

The figure went still as a stone, while Edward looked at Marissa in confusion. "Tess?"

"My lady's maid. The one who went missing last month? We had to hire a new one, remember?" Edward still looked no clearer, but when Marissa reached for the cloak this time, the material slid free of the girl's hands and her brown hair was exposed.

"Tess," Marissa sighed heavily. It was her maid, and that explained the description of the birthmark on Marissa's thigh. Her embarrassing confession had been completely unnecessary. Though it had saved Peter White's life, she supposed, whatever that might be worth.

"How could you have done this?"

Tears spilled down the maid's cheeks, and she shook her head. "I'm sorry, miss."

"I was so worried about you. Mother said you'd probably run off to get married, but I was afraid something dreadful had happened!"

"I didn't meant to hurt you," Tess whispered.

"Well, you have!"

"I'm sorry! It... she ..." Tess bit back her own words and ducked her head.

"Who?" Marissa barked. "Did someone pay you to do this? Who was it?"

Tess sobbed quietly and didn't volunteer another word. Marissa supposed at another time she would've admired the girl's steel, but right now she was far too betrayed for any generous thoughts. Marissa set her shoulders back and straightened her spine, trying to draw enough air to think, but all reasonable thought lied when she realized Jude stood at her shoulder.

"Are von all right?" he murmured, and when she turned to him, his arms opened and suddenly she was surrounded by him. Nothing else existed in that moment. Nothing but Jude's safe arms and spicy scent. His mouth brushed the top of her head, sending awareness tingling down her neck. He still liked her enough to pity her, at least, and Marissa felt tired enough to take priceless joy in that.

"I'm sorry," she breathed into his chest, knowing he would not hear it. Now was not the time, but she held on and let him stroke her back for a few more moments before she eased herself away. She was almost sure he hesitated before letting her go, but in the end it was probably her own imagination, because his face was still a stony facade.

Her brothers watched her with worry, but Marissa felt steadier when she turned back to watch Tess sob. "Who paid you, Tess? I assume you were paid, and didn't just do this because you dislike me?"

"Of course not!" the maid gasped. "I ... I can't say any more. I can't."

"Why? Just tell me who did this and go. It's that simple. No damage done." She managed to make that lie sound quite genuine, Marissa thought.

"I can't! " Tess wailed. Marissa really couldn't understand her adamance. What did she have to lose? Was she being threatened? But what could be held over the head of lady's maid?

"This is useless," Aidan muttered.

Edward agreed. "She's using information gleaned during her employment to blackmail you, Marissa. The constable will surely be interested in that. Perhaps she'll change her mind once she's been carted off. I'll send for him now. Jude?"

Marissa watched Tess, expecting her to waver at the thought of arrest, but the girl stared steadily at her lap, resigned to her fate. Marissa held up a hand to stop the men, then knelt down in front of her. "If you won't speak, then I'll have to go visit your family. Perhaps they know where you've been employed."

Tess's head flew up, eyes wide with panic.

"They're in Hull, are they not?"

She shook her head, face blanching.

"Yes, they're in Hull. I remember you went there to visit your mother last Easter. You must have written to let them know your new direction, because we haven't received any letters for you. That was one of the reasons Mother insisted you must be fine."

Tess stared, bug-eyed, at Marissa for a long time; then she looked to each of the men, as if one of them might save her. Apparently, she didn't find a friendly face, because her eyes filled with more tears. "If I tell you, she won't pay me. It's the only reason I did it, I swear. One hundred pounds ... I still have four sisters at home. Even if I spend a year in jail, that money would ..."

"It's too late now," Edward said softly. 'Just tell the truth."

Silence swelled in the room until it became a relentless buzzing in Marissa's ears. The clock on Edward's desk licked, and she wondered how she'd never noticed the sound before. Likely, her family was never this quiet.

Finally, Tess spoke. "At first, she paid me twenty pounds just to come work for her. Twenty pounds!"

"That's why you left?"

"I sent it all to my mum, I swear. It's not that I'm greedy."

Marissa nodded as if she understood.

"I should've known the woman was up to no good, but I thought maybe she'd admired your hair and such... ."

"Who?" Jude demanded.

Tess swallowed hard. "It was Mrs. Charles LeMont."

No one so much as breathed. The clock ticked even louder.

Tess seemed to relax, as if she knew her part was done.

"Mrs. LeMont?" Edward said. "That's ridiculous."

"She's pregnant," Aidan added.

Marissa shot them both a scornful glare as she rose to her feet. "And what has that to do with anything?"

Edward looked dumbfounded. "She's .so nice."

"And," Jude added, "apparently jealous?"

Tess nodded. "Yes. She hates Miss York." The look she gave Marissa past her lashes was weighted. The maid was well aware that Charles and Marissa had been in love years before. Marissa had spoken of it, and the betrayal of that trust felt like a weight pressing on her chest.

"I don't understand. Surely he didn't say anything to his wife?" Marissa breathed.

"She told me nothing about it. Only that she wanted to know as much of you as I'd tell. I didn't say much, but she asked if you had any birthmarks, any features worth noting. I did not truly understand... and then, I only had to retrieve a

bag tonight, and she said she'd reward me with a hundred pounds. I didn't mean anything by it, miss."

Whether she had or not, the damage was done. But at least they knew who was threatening them. "If she hates me so much, what is the chance that she will leave this be?"

She addressed the room at large, but no one answered. Edward glanced toward the clock. "I'd say this is best left till morning. It's nearly midnight already, and the LeMont estate is nearly three hours away. We'll leave at first light."

"And the girl?" Jude asked.

They all stared at Tess as she began to weep again.

Edward finally sighed. "I suppose we shall lock her in a room tonight and send her on to Hull in the morning. You're going home, Tess, so I hope that twenty pounds will count you settled for a time."

"Of course," she whispered.

Aidan wrapped a hand around her arm and lifted her up. "Third floor, I assume?"

Tess gave Marissa one last pitiful look before being led away. Marissa felt a twinge of pity for the girl who'd been her maid for four years, but Tess had known full well that she was being asked to do something wrong. No one paid a hundred pounds for charitable works.

"Why don't you try to get some sleep, Marissa?" Edward said. "We'll see what can be done tomorrow. If Mrs. LeMont is reasonable ..."

Marissa didn't know the woman well enough to guess. She'd met her a dozen times over, but even before the marriage to Charles, there'd been nothing like friendship between them. She'd been a serious young woman who'd always seemed more comfortable with the married ladies. Marissa had run with the younger girls. And the gentlemen, of course. She couldn't fathom how Charles's wife had come to hate her.

She looked up from her thoughts to see that Jude had resumed his place at the window, and the rigid posture of his back screamed of a desire for solitude. Despite that, she considered going to him, to ask if they might speak in private. But what could she say? I'm sorry I thought you ugly. I'm sorry I liked you and wanted you and still thought there couldn't he more between us.

What if that only hurt him more?

Better to wait until tomorrow, when this drama was resolved. Better to know where they stood before she decided if she should take a step toward him or simply let him walk away.

So she left Jude staring out at the lonely night and went to find her own loneliness in her chambers. She only wished she knew if Jude was thinking of her as he stared out at the dark, or if he was praying for the chance to leave this mad place and never return.

Jude's muscles felt like tightening rope beneath his skin as he stared out at the black night. What had Marissa meant by that small touch? What had it meant when she'd clung so tightly to him?

Nothing, he told his injured heart. Nothing more than any other touch had meant. And there was so much more to worry over, but Jude couldn't seem to turn his mind to the problem at hand.

Edward sighed loudly, prompting Jude to face the room again. The man sat slumped at his desk, head in hands, the very picture of a troubled gentle man. When he raised his head, his weary gaze completed the portrait. "I'd best go check with Aidan," he grumbled. "Our servants' quarters are hardly equipped to hold prisoners."

He stood and set his shoulders deliberately back, as if to resettle the weight upon them. "I'll see you in the morning."

Jude raised a hand. "Good night."

He was turning back toward the window when Edward's voice drifted in from the corridor. "Harry," he said, "I'll be back in a few minutes to fill you in."

"But..." Harry wandered into the room, his face tight with confusion. "What in the world has happened? Did the girl confess?"

"She did." Jude poured Harry a drink and approached him with a carefully neutral expression. "The girl was Marissa's lady's maid, hired away by Mrs. Charles Lemont."

"Mrs. Lemont?" Harry sputtered. "But that makes no sense. The blackmail ..."

"She was out to ruin Marissa's reputation because of Charles Lemont's previous affection."

"My God," Harry breathed. "All that because of young love?" Everything on his face sang of surprise, but Jude still felt uneasy. Harry was a born actor, after all.

Jude's neck prickled. His instincts had never failed him before. He raised one eyebrow. "Quite a feat for a gently bred woman to carry off on her own."

"Indeed." Harry's eyes didn't even twitch.

"Do you think she might've had help? Someone to arrange contact with the maid? Someone to help her plot?"

"I suppose it's possible." His forehead crinkled with thought. "One of the guests, do you mean?"

Jude cocked his head. "I was thinking someone closer still."

Harry's puzzlement held for a few more heartbeats, then his eyes widened as he met Jude's gaze. Blood rushed to his cheeks in a violent flush. "I say, sir! You are not accusing me in this, I hope!"

"Perhaps accuse is too strong a word."

"How dare you! I am her cousin. A member of this family! If anyone is set to benefit from this outrage, it's you."

A fair enough point, actually, but Jude was sure of himself, at least. "Ah," he said, "but I am not the one who's hiding something from this family, Harry. You are."

Jude felt a hard surge of satisfaction at the panic that flared in Harry's eyes. Without a doubt, Marissa's cousin was hiding something. Something important, it seemed.

"I d-don't ..." he stammered. "I most certainly am not."

"Indeed you are. I can see it clearly on your face, not to mention there's the little scene I witnessed in the stable yard. Something involving that package you entrusted to the groom ..."

Harry's face went so white that Jude felt a moment of sympathy. "You... you didn't. . . ?"

"Why don't you tell me the truth, Harry, else I'll feel it my responsibility to mention what I saw to Edward."

"It's nothing to do with this," Harry breathed. "I swear on my honor as a gentleman."

"The same honor that allows you to live beneath your cousin's roof and lie to his face? Tell me what you did. Perhaps you didn't even realize you were helping Mrs. Lemont."

"It's nothing like that! You must believe me."

Jude wanted to believe him, for Marissa's sake, if nothing else. "What is it then?" he asked quietly.

Harry shook his head. "Edward mustn't know. I owe him so much, and I've taken every precaution to protect the York name, I swear to you. It's only that I felt so unimportant. A useless extension of the family tree. For a time, I cared for Aidan. I was needed. But then ..."

Jude felt more confused than ever. "What is it, man?"

"'Twas boredom, I suppose. I thought no one would know."

Jude wrapped his hand around Harry's arm to draw his attention. "What did you do?"

Harry's gaze met his, eyes wide with shock as if his own confession was a surprise. "I wrote a book," he murmured.

Jude shook his head. "You what?"

"I wrote a book. I never expected... but it was accepted by a publisher, and he wanted another. So I wrote a second hook, and then a third."

Jude dropped his arm. "A book? What type of book?"

Harry's flush was back. He grimaced. "Nothing edifying, I'm afraid. But I took great care to keep my identity a secret. I worry though. I never expected they'd be so popular. Still, the money goes to an account in my solicitor's name. No one will ever connect William Wicket to the York family, I swear. I'd rather die than bring dishonor on my cousins."

"William Wicket," Jude murmured. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"If I'd known they'd be so widely read ..."

And then Jude realized. "The book," he said. "The book I read with Marissa!"

"Oh, God," Harry groaned. "Please don't tell the family. After everything they've done for me ..."

The dark worry burning in Jude's stomach disappeared in an instant. His scowl turned to a laugh. "You write love stories?"

"Shh!" Harry shot a terrified look toward the door.

"That's not so awful. I quite enjoyed the story. What are you worried about?"

"The gossip. The tittering. The scandalized measuring of every line of every book ... It would awful."

Jude considered it a moment. "I suppose you're right. It would create a sensation."

"That's putting it mildly. Listen, I just sent off the last manuscript. I won't write any more, I promise. I feel disloyal asking you to lie to my family, but would you see lit If I keep this to yourself?"

Jude shrugged. "I don't see why not. You're not hurting anyone. Aside from the tender minds of young Englishwomen, I suppose."

Harry swiped a shaking hand over his forehead. "I can't thank you enough."

"It's nothing. I apologize for my suspicions."

Harry shook off the apology and drained the glass of brandy Jude had handed him earlier. "Consider it forgotten," he rasped.

Jude was happy to oblige him. There'd be other worries to face in the morning, and the trip to the Lemont estate seemed the least of them.

Chapter 21

Jude rode through the early morning fog, ignoring the looks of the men traveling on either side of him. The mist bit into the exposed skin of his face, turning his cheeks to ice, but Jude didn't mind the cold. It matched his mood and helpfully froze his scowl into permanent place.

Aidan cleared his throat, but Jude continued to ignore him. They were nearly to the LeMont estate, if he could only keep their curiosity at bay for a short while longer.

"I say, Jude," Edward ventured, "are you in love with our sister?"

Jude, disturbed by the directness of the question, lowered his chin and urged his horse to a quicker pace.

The York brothers kept up, and Aidan pulled slightly ahead so he could look back and catch Jude's gaze. "Jude, are you in love with her?"

"Christ, what business is it of yours?"

"She's our sister."

"She's my fiancée! You've already given your approval for our marriage, and that is where your involvement should end."

Aidan glared as if Jude had done something wrong. "Falling in love with a woman is a far cry from simply marrying her. We both know full well that there are plenty of couples who live separate lives. But a husband in love ... that can be the start of endless troubles."

"This is a ridiculous conversation," Jude answered. "You've no idea what you're talking about."

"Yet you haven't denied anything."

"And," Edward added, "You've been decidedly foul-tempered for days. Scowling and snapping, yet when Marissa appears you become cool and silent."

Jude chose to remain cool and silent at that point, but Aidan wouldn't allow it.

"You're in love with her," he barked. "Admit it!"

"I'll do no such thing. You two are fools."

Aidan slowed his mount and let it draw even with Jude's again. He stared straight ahead and said quietly, "She doesn't love you, Jude. This can't end well. You're from two different worlds."

The sympathy in his voice didn't improve Jude's mood at all. Two different worlds. As if he hadn't lived half his life in a duke's household. He clutched the reins too tightly, and the horse shied and bumped Aidan's. Jude murmured something soothing and patted the horse's neck.

A good while later, Edward cleared his throat. "I want to thank you, Jude. Your suspicions were spot on. II you hadn't been here, Aidan and I would have blamed Peter White without exception."

"Once again, my base beginnings prove useful."

Edward cleared his throat again, but couldn't seem to think what to say. Jude wished he could pull the petty words back and swallow them as easily as he'd so often swallowed his pride.

In the end, both he and the horse were saved by the landscape. They topped a small hillock, the drive of their destination came into view, and all three men pulled to a stop to stare down on it.

All uncomfortable visit awaited.

'Jude," Aidan tried again, but Jude held up a hand.

"Whether this story with Marissa ends well or not," he finally said, "I don't doubt there will at least be a moral in it. That's all I mean to say."

Aidan snorted and slapped him on the back, and the horses started down the hill in response.

"So... what if Charles LeMont is here?" Jude asked.

Edward set his jaw. "Then I suppose he will hear an unwelcome truth."

"She'll deny it."

"Of course."

When they readied the doors, Edward instructed the boy to walk their mounts. They didn't anticipate a long visit. Still, they found themselves pacing the morning room for a good half hour. The mistress was still dressing, the maid explained, seeming nervous in their presence. Jude supposed they must look forbidding, at best. He certainly felt as if he were attending a hanging.

Edward was right. Mrs. LeMont would deny it, and none of them were relishing the prospect of browbeating a woman. The maid had been a trying experience. What to do with a gentlewoman with a child in her belly? If she feigned illness, they had no defense against that. He had a sneaking suspicion this ambush would end with all three men gathered around the fainting couch, fanning their enemy and offering strong tea.

His stomach burned at the thought, and it wasn't alleviated by the sight of the smiling Mrs. LeMont breezing into the room. She rested one elegant hand on her rounded belly. "Gentlemen! What a pleasure to see you again so soon."

She was, as Aidan had said, a handsome woman. Dignified and glowing with good health. But as Jude moved closer, he saw that the flawlessness of her skin was enhanced by powder that did only a passable job of hiding the circles beneath her eyes. And though she smiled in happy welcome, her eyes glittered a bit too brightly. She was nervous, and no wonder. The maid had disappeared, and now there were wolves in her morning room. But he could understand that the York brothers had not been able to see past her belly. It was a distraction, and a sympathetic one.

"My husband is off this morning to oversee the clearing of a field, so I'm embarrassed to say you've missed him once again! You did find him last night though, right? Yes, of course, you did. I remember now."

"We did," Edward said.

"Has your horse not improved, then?"

"Mrs. LeMont..." Edward's voice was too serious to mistake it for anything less than somber, but her smile did not so much as fade at the edges. If Jude hadn't known the truth already, he would have suspected her involvement now. Edward cleared his throat. "We are not here about the horse."

"No?" That simple word rose at the end like a bird taking flight. "Oh, forgive my rudeness, gentlemen. Let us all have a seat. Let me pour you a cup of tea."

Tea had been delivered upon their arrival, but the cups sat empty and untouched, and even after she waved them to the gathering of chairs, she did not reach for the pot.

"Mrs. LeMont," Edward tried again, "We have spoken to Tess."

"Tess?" she asked.

"The maid."

She shook her head in blank denial.

"The one you sent last night to retrieve the money. My money."

'What a very odd thing to say!" she chirped past her smile.

"Mrs. LeMont..." Edward said hopelessly.

Jude was done with this. "We know you were behind the threat to Miss York, so if you care for your dignity at all, you will cease this ridiculous playacting and tell the truth. This game is over, madam."

Her smile snapped away like a sheet popping in the wind. "Sir," she growled. "I do not know you."

"I am Miss York's fiancé, and that is all you need to know, I'd wager. I consider your threat to her as a threat to me, so here I am to see that it goes no further."

For a moment, her face was frozen in vicious outrage. All the color in her skin gathered in two spots of scarlet high on her checks.

"Perhaps," Jude murmured, "We should take this up with your husband?"

There was her weakness. Her outrage melted into stark fear over the course of several long seconds.

The mad brightness in her eyes suddenly revealed itself as swimming tears, trapped by her lashes. "Don't," she whispered.

"Madam," Edward said, leaning forward a bit, "You must stop this dreadful assault against my sister. I don't know what you think she's done to you—"

"He loves her," she hissed, and Jude felt the shock of those words as if she'd just stripped him bare.

It took more than a few heartbeats for Jude to realize that she wasn't speaking of him.

"He has always loved her."

Edward frowned. "Your husband?"

"If he finds out about this, he will hate me. Please ..."

Edward handed her a handkerchief, and Jude felt a brief moment of vertigo. All the niceties must still be observed, even if the lady was a blackmailer. Among his mother's circle, things would've been handled with a bit more honesty.

Jude interrupted the tender scene as she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. "To put this more bluntly, madam, you dislike Marissa, so you decided to ruin the reputation of the York family and steal from them as well?"

"No! It's not that I wanted to steal from you, but I thought the culprit would be less... identifiable if money was involved."

"But you did mean to ruin the family? Or her, at least."

She stiffened, and her jaw trembled with outrage. "It's not fair! He's my husband. He took me as his wife! I always suspected that he was hesitant to love me. At first I didn't know why. And then I saw them. ..."

"What do you mean?" Aidan barked.

She jumped and pressed the handkerchief to her mouth as she calmed herself. "At a harvest feast. I looked up at him and caught an expression on his face... yearning. Heartbreak. And when I followed his gaze... there was Miss York, strolling by with some other gentleman."

Jude scowled. "And you blamed her for that?"

"Who else was I to blame? My husband? I love him! And she seemed so cool, as if his love hardly affected her at all. I knew that one cruel word from her could've cut him loose, but she was always kind enough to keep him enraptured." "Still—"

"I asked around, and I found they had been sweethearts. I saw the way she was with other men. So flirtatious and bold. I knew ... I assumed she and Charles had... and then ..." She glanced up as if jarred from a secret thought, but when her gaze fell on Jude, her eyes hardened. He knew he looked scornful, but he could not help it.

"Don't look at me that way. I could've lived with it. I told myself it was my imagination. I let myself believe my own eyes had lied. But then he... then he whispered her name. He whispered her name in my bed!"

Heat burned through Jude at that. Jealousy and a horrible, sudden sympathy for this woman's heart.

"He didn't even realize it. He called me by her name, and he didn't even realize." Her soft words broke on a sob, and Edward shot Jude a glare as if he had done something awful.

Aidan rescued him by being just as hard-hearted. "So you decided to have your revenge?"

"I love him," she wailed. "And when I discovered my condition, I felt desperate that he should love me as well. I will be the mother of his children. How could he not love me? I hired Tess away, thinking I could at least reveal some of Miss York's secrets to him. Tear her down with idle gossip. Then when I heard the recent whispers about her, and well, it seemed to good to be true. I just wanted him to see her for what she was! I wanted him to scorn her. To hate her."

Jude leaned back in his chair, relieved that the whole story was finally out. "Where have you spread your lies?"

"Nowhere. Not yet."

"Not yet?" Edward asked.

Though the woman's hands shook with startling force, she did not look away. "I... Tess, the maid ... she told me your sister had some intimacy with Fitzwilliam Hess, but if you promise not to tell my husband, I swear to you, I'll never say anything.

"For God's sake," Aidan roared. "Are you threatening us even now?"

"Please!" she cried. "I'm sorry, but I love him! If you tell him what I've done, he'll never forgive me. Please, just give me that. You may cut me dead at the next ball, but please do not tell Charles." She was sobbing now, both arms wrapped around the firm bulge of her pregnant belly.

"What you are doing is unforgivable," Edward said.

She nodded frantically, eyes shut.

"Christ," he bit out. "Do you swear you will never so much as imply a foul hint about my sister?"

"I swear. On the life of my child. Just grant me this mercy."

Jude was inclined to he done with this mess, and when he glanced at Aidan, he found that the other man had averted his eyes. Despite his had temper, Aidan had a good heart, and no taste for cruelty toward women.

Edward, of course, had the softest heart of all three of them, and he actually started to reach toward the woman's hand before he caught himself and sat back. "All right," Edward finally said. "You will have to earn your husband's attention in some other way. I won't tell him."

"Thank you," she sobbed, her body curling in as if she meant to protect her child. "Thank you. I'm sorry. I don't... I feel I've gone a little mad."

Well, Jude had heard that tale about pregnant woman often enough from his mother's friends. They laughed over their moods and manic tempers later, but he did not think Mrs. LeMont would laugh over this.

Aidan walked out, and Edward followed, but Jude hesitated for a moment.

He almost left without saying a word, but then she looked up at him with a question on her face.

"Your husband," he said carefully. "He danced with Miss York last night. And she told me she's never seen him happier."

Her brow crumpled in doubt. "She did?"

"She said he spoke of you and the babe and nothing else."

Her face cleared, and for a heartbeat or two, she looked hopeful, so Jude left her with that. He understood what it was to love someone who could not love you. He hadn't resorted to criminal activity, but surely he'd made a fool of himself at least.

There should’ve been some satisfaction amongst them as the men remounted their horses and turned toward home. They'd averted disaster, after all, saving the York family both their reputation and their five thousand pounds. But they were a trio of long faces as they rode down the drive of the LeMont estate.

"Well," Aidan said. "There will be no scandal, so it seems we will not be brothers after all."

"I'm sure you're relieved that my services will no longer be required."

"Jude, I never meant that. I'm humbled that you agreed to marry Marissa in the first place. But now . .. she simply doesn't share your feelings."

Jude stared out at the horizon and didn't say a word. This time, the brothers did not push him. Speaking of love was one thing, but a broken heart was another matter entirely.

Chapter 22

Despite the cold that turned her fingertips to ice, Marissa wandered through the garden. The roses were being pruned, and she wanted to supervise the gardeners, but more than that, she could not bear sitting and stitching and waiting for the news.

Her mother's constant chatter hardly helped her nerves, so Marissa had left her to gossip away to deaf Aunt Ophelia. Harry had long since gone off for a ride.

She could breathe out here at least, in the crisp tang of autumn, and her blue cloak tossed dramatically in the wind, satisfying some blood-born need for dramatic effect. She'd get windburn if she wasn't careful. Her pale skin couldn't take such abuse.

She was reaching for her hood to pull it up when she noticed a man from the corner of her eye.

Jude.

He stood beneath the tree where they'd lain together, and he watched her with a direct stare that made no excuse for his gaze. In that instant, she felt nothing but a deep, dark satisfaction that he watched her as if he owned her. Then she realized what his presence meant. Her steps were slow as she walked toward him, and he strode out from the shade to meet her at die edge of the roses, bringing too soon an end to her reprieve.

"Did you see her?" she asked.

He nodded.

"And?"

"She was jealous of you."

"That makes no sense. Charles married her."

"She feels he's still in love with you."

Marissa didn't pretend not to understand. She was sure he had still loved her, a little, when he'd said his vows. But not for a long time now, surely. "I don't think that's true, Jude. Not anymore."

"I told her as much."

"And ... she admitted it all?"

"She did. On the condition that we not tell Charles."

Marissa frowned viciously. "But he should know what kind of woman he's married to. She's deceptive and conniving and—"

"She's in love with her husband and pregnant with his child." His brow was creased with worry. "She said at first she only meant to tell tales about you to Charles. I'm not saying I would be bosom friends with her, only that she is in pain."

Though she was still furious with the woman, Marissa considered what it would be like. To be married to Jude and know that he loved another. It wasn't hard to imagine going mad with frustration and aching. "You're certain she was sincere?"

"As certain as I can be. And her teal's are well-founded.

If her husband finds out, whatever love they've built together might crumble."

"I suppose I shall have to let it be, then."

Jude nodded. "Fair or not, she felt as if she were living with your ghost between them."

"Are you actually attempting to turn my anger into guilt?"

Jude smiled and offered his arm, with a bit of the old easiness between them. Marissa took his arm with a feeling of tentative hope as they walked along the outer edge of the garden. Maybe he was not done with her.

"Not guilt," he said, "but I admit to a sympathy for the poor woman. I was furious when I arrived, and only maudlin when I left. Do you really think he's come to love her?"

She nodded and wondered how to broach the more difficult subject of her own feelings. This was the time, when no outside obstacles existed between them. This was the moment to set her fears aside and speak honestly.

But her fears clawed up inside her and invaded her mind. There was no more danger. No need to marry. Jude was free, and she'd given him every reason to change his mind about this match. She needed to convince him that it was more than a farce. More than a desperate means of saving her from ruin.

Marissa needed to tell him what she really felt.

She'd had hours to plan a speech, but she'd hadn't used those hours wisely. She'd worried and fretted and paced and frowned. But she hadn't thought of the right words, and as she struggled with them now, Jude spoke instead, and his speech made hers impossible.

"I'll leave in the morning." Five simple words, but they told her everything. She was too late.

"You . .. You're leaving?"

"We'll still carry on with the betrothal, of course, but I'm no longer needed. You are saved. I'll let you and your mother sort out the details of the break, and how it will be presented."

Her limbs went numb and heavy with the weight of his announcement, and his arm seemed the only thing supporting her. Marissa curled her lingers tighter around his sleeve. "But..."

"I trust you not to paint me in too dark a hue." He smiled at her then. Actually smiled, while Marissa was trying not to fall to the grass.

"Yes," she whispered. "Of course. You've been so kind to us. We wouldn't dream of casting you as the villain."

"Well, your mother might not be able to resist, for drama's sake, but I know you'll watch out for me." He smiled again, and she felt dizzy at the sight.

'Jude ... I wish... That is to say—"

"No, don't say anything, Marissa. I owe you an apology. I've behaved abominably these last few days. What I said and did ... it was inexcusable, and I hope you can forgive me."

She spun toward him, squeezing his arm too tight. "Of course I can."

"I'm glad." When his mouth offered that crooked half smile, she thought he might say something different. Ask for another chance at winning her hand. But he said, "Perhaps I did overstay my welcome, and the spirit of Othello infected me. Though not with murder, of course. Just madness."

A joke. He was joking. She made herself answer his smile.

"I've never been a jealous man, Marissa. I liked you too well for my own sanity, I think. But I've found my bearings again, so I hope that we might still be friends."

"Of course," she breathed.

"Perhaps we might stay in touch."

Stay in touch? How could he say that so casually? Did he feel nothing for her anymore?

"I'll send you my favorite novels, even, and this time you may tease me."

"I would like that," she lied, staring up at his wide mouth and damaged nose and wicked eyebrows. What had once been vulgar was now sensual. What had seemed obtrusively brutal was now simply masculine. She had touched that wild, thick hair and found it smooth beneath her fingers. She had kissed those lips and found them more tender than any other man's.

He could have been her husband, and now he wanted to be her friend ?Did he hate her so much? So much that in a few days' time he could go from standing naked before her, daring her to touch him, to offering a friendly farewell and the promise of a witty letter or two?

She realized then that if the threat of scandal still hung over her head, she would never have let him free of his promise to marry her. Love or not, she would've held him to it. Given time . . .

"I'm sorry," she blurted out, reaching to clasp his hand between hers. "I'm so sorry for what I said! Jude, please—n

"Don't." His smile slipped finally. For just a moment, she saw his hurt, the hurt she'd done to him. His gaze slid to the ground, and when he looked up again, the pain was gone. But she'd seen it. "Don't," he repeated.

He turned to continue their stroll, and what could she do but let go her death grip on his hand and walk beside him?

"I'm off to Italy for my father," he offered in that pleasant voice. "There's a vineyard he admires. He may purchase it."

"Italy? You'll leave now?" The evenness of her tone stunned her.

"Best to sail before the winter storms set in."

"Of course."

"How will you occupy your time, Miss York? With stitching?"

Marissa frowned at the grass, troubled by his teasing. Everything he said indicated that he was over his little affection for her. But she'd seen that moment of pain in his eyes. And her own eyes burned with it. "But what if..." Her throat choked on the words. If she confessed her new and tender feelings for him, he would have to say something, but she had no idea what that something might be.

He might still like her, but not well enough to marry. He might confess that familiarity had bred contempt. He might say that he had loved her for a moment, but she had brushed it aside to dry and wither. Or he might love her still.

The last seemed a small possibility, and her own feelings fell so large and vulnerable in comparison.

He'd confessed to liking her, after all, and nothing more than that.

His voice interrupted her painful thoughts. "I'll say my farewell."

She looked up, startled, and found that they were standing before the conservatory door now. Their walk was done. Jude smiled down at her.

"But you said tomorrow."

"Today I must pack and send letters to my father and to the vineyard. Perhaps I'll invite my mother for a visit in Italy. She loves the sun there."

"Your mother ..." Marissa latched onto the topic, desperate to keep him talking. To keep him standing there, his arm solid beneath her fingers. "Where in France does she live?"

"She lives on a quiet little street at the outskirts of Paris."

"Is that where you were raised?"

"Yes." He knew what she was doing. His voice had lost its playfulness, and he glanced toward the door with a hint of impatience.

But she couldn't give up. The moment she stopped talking would be the end. The end of his visit, yes, but more than that it would be the end of them together.

"Does she have a ... a companion right now?"

Jude relented and offered a slight smile. "No. She only keeps male friends on her own terms now. She's still beautiful, but she says she's too old to worry over pleasing men."

"She sounds very wise."

"Yes. She goes to the ..." She'd had him for a moment. But Jude caught himself midsentence

and shook his head. "We'll speak about this some other time."

"When?" she asked in a voice that sounded too much like pleading.

"I'm sure I'll return soon. How could I resist?" But she read the insincerity in his words. They were meant to make her smile. There was no promise in them. He didn't mean to come back.

"Good-bye, Marissa," he said.

The sound of her name urged her up to her toes, and Marissa dared to press a kiss to his mouth.

He was stone beneath her lips, rigid and cool. He did not warm to her, did not open. And Marissa blinked back tears as she settled back to the earth, her mouth burning with shame.

He looked away from her and reached to open the door. She stood there for a moment, but Jude staled out at the gardens instead of at her. He wanted her to believe this farewell meant less than nothing to him.

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 with 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?"

"Don't do that," he growled.

Marissa backed away from his advance and pulled the tics loose. "You did it to me."

When she slipped her shoulders free of the flowing arms, Jude froze. "Don't. Please."

"Don't be a coward," she said, to him or to herself.

And then she dropped the gown.

For the first time in her life, Marissa was completely naked in front of a man. He hadn't admitted any lingering affection, and that vulnerability left her with the urge to hide behind her hands. But she didn't.

She could make him like her again. She'd use her body as he'd once planned to use his.

Jude's gaze slipped over her nakedness. He swallowed hard. And then he stalked toward the door.

He was only two feet from escape when Marissa darted past him and barricaded the door with her body. Her nude body.

Jude could feel his face twist with anxious shock. "What are you doing?"

"Seducing you," she answered. It seemed an odd choice of words for sprawling naked against a door. All the same, he was being seduced. Her small breasts and slim waist, and my Clod, the golden curls that hid her sex ...

"I—" he started, then lost the words in his study of her body.

"I love you," Marissa said. "I want to marry you. And I'm willing to use my body to trick you into feeling some affection." His heart twisted to hear her say those words. He fell true pain when he took a deep breath.

"I don't want to be tricked," he finally managed to say, darting a quick look at the doorknob next to her hip.

Marissa straightened, drawing her feet closer together and sliding her hands down the door.

"Marissa, don't. Just don't." He was begging. He wanted more than this, and yet this was all he wanted.

Instead of granting mercy, she stepped away from the door and stopped only a foot from him. He supposed if his body had been more willing, Jude might've been able to retreat, but Marissa's nakedness stole his will and he couldn't move.

She curled her arms slowly around him, her touch blooming from the faint line of her fingertips to the warm bands of her arms going around his ribs. Finally, her whole, hot body took him over, pressing tight to his front. All Jude managed to do was raise his hands high enough to avoid clutching her to him.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I won't do this. We'll wait. And if we marry ..." If we marry. My God, those words cut jagged holes in him. Was that possible, after he'd steeled himself for the loss of her?

"No, Jude," she whispered. "I'll have you. Now. Please? Take off your clothes. I want to feel you against me."

He shook his head, but his cock had long since responded to the sight of her, and it throbbed eagerly at her words.

"Fine." Marissa pulled his shirt free from his trousers and pressed her belly to his.

"Oh, good Christ," he moaned. The feel of her skin, hot on his, became his whole world in that moment.

"You've made me wait too long already," she whispered. "You've reduced me to throwing myself against you. At least case this ache you started."

"Hush," he ordered, starting to forget why he fought her. Why? She slid her arms around his waist and pressed her breasts tighter to his chest, and Jude finally lowered his hands to her back. He spread his lingers wide over her naked spine.

"I don't want to do this," he murmured.

Marissa shivered beneath his hands. "It feels like you do."

God, he did want to give in. But more than that, he wanted to have her forever. "Let me leave, Marissa. I won't go to Italy. I'll find a house, and I'll court you properly. We can take our time. You can be sure. You must be sure."

She stretched like a cat, and his hands slid naturally down her back, shaping the precious lines of waist and hips. She was just so damn naked.

"Oh, Jude," she purred. "I love that."

Love. The word taunted him, and anger swelled in his chest again. But anger combined with a naked woman to calmed him in a different way. Instead of rage, he felt blind lust.

He kissed her then, tasting her for the first time in so long, dragging his hands down her body with intoxicating freedom. All of her was exposed to him. All of her was his.

She pressed close, her nails digging into his back, and kissed him with as much hunger as he kissed her. He could just unbutton his trousers and have her. Right now. Slide deep and true and make her his forever. Everything in his body and soul yearned toward that, a force he could feel, pulling every fiber of him toward her.

She wanted this. Wanted him. Why couldn't that be enough?

Jude let go of her and pushed her away, running a hand through his hair in violent frustration. "No! We'd have to marry—"

"All this talk of being a man," Marissa snapped, hands flying up in frustration.

She gestured from his head to his toes, but Jude's eyes lost track of her hand and focused on her breasts again. The nipples tight and flushed . . .

"Well, I need a man, Jude! Now. Tonight."

"Forever, Marissa," he growled. "You understand that? Coming to my bed is the same as marrying me. I won't let you go."

She raised her chin and held his gaze. "You're neither my tutor nor my guardian, so stop treating me like a child. Take me, and damn your caution."

Her eyes blazed with anger and lust. Jude knew his did too. And she was right. She wasn't a child, and she proved that by walking to his bed and laying herself out. Like a sacrifice or a feast. His pulse hammered.

She trembled a bit, like a leaf fluttering, and everything inside him shook as well.

This was a mistake, but she was offering herself and he ached for her, had been aching for weeks. Her eyes dared him to refuse. Challenged him.

Jude growled like an animal and pulled off his shirt.

It took him only a few moments to strip, and his lust grew as she watched him with triumph in her smirk. And then he was sliding into bed with Marissa, her skin an impossible beauty against his.

She was right. A man would not run from the love of a woman like her. A man would take his chances, and damn the risks, even if it was the worst mistake he'd ever made.

***

Marissa's body was a strange jumble of heavy pleasure and anticipation that made her feel afloat Jude's body became her world. He was pressed against her and hovering above her, and she could see nothing but his dark eyes as he stared down at her.

The hair of his chest was crisp against her naked skin, and when he slid closer, his manhood pressed against her hip. The fit of their bodies felt natural and fantastically strange at the same time. A thing she'd always known but had never had.

She put her hand to his neck and drew him down to her.

His kiss was no seduction this time. It was a claiming, slow and deep. He was in her body, his tongue exploring her- heat, and she dug her nails into his neck to pull him deeper. Everything about him made her yearn for more. His size, his heat, his flexing muscles and scratchy jaw. He was a fascination and a danger all at once. A danger that belonged to her-. A fascination she could explore to her heart's content.

She slid a foot along his calf, murmuring with pleasure that she could. When Jude shifted, she insinuated her leg between his and turned toward him. Now they were touching. Now they matched. His shaft pressed against her sex. Her breasts rubbed his chest as they kissed. And Jude sighed with the same relief she felt.

He pulled back to look at her. "You are a fantasy," he said as he cupped a gentle hand over her breast. "Here, in my bed, turning to me."

"I love you," she whispered. "There is nothing of fantasy about that."

"Speak for yourself."

But she couldn't speak. She was too busy arching into his exploring hand. He teased her nipple for long, delicious seconds before smoothing his hand down to her hip and back up again. When she twisted impatiently, his hand returned to her breast, just as she'd wanted it too.

"You know what you want, already, mon coeur?" His soft words danced over her.

"I'm precocious."

He put just the right amount of pressure into his teasing, and Marissa groaned her pleasure.

"You certainly are. Soon, I shall have nothing left to teach you." When she arched hard against his hips, Jude gasped. "In fact, I think you're teaching me how to perform as a boy again."

Caught between a laugh and a groan, Marissa rubbed her body more firmly against his, and his shudder filled her with power and lust. He might know more of making love, but she could still make him shake with lust for her. How could she not feel powerful?

Ducking her head down to taste his neck, Marissa did some exploring with her hands as well. His chest and ribs, his hips, so narrow and unyielding compared to hers. Everything about him was a new world. She wanted to know it all.

The muscles of his stomach jerked from her touch like she'd burned him. She knew the feeling. Half her body felt afire already.

Heart pounding, Marissa smoothed her hand down his stomach. She touched the crisp hair that surrounded his sex, and then her fingers brushed his shaft. Again, his body jerked away, but then he settled, his chest still as he held his breath. She held her breath too, and curled her fingers around the thick width.

"You're so hot," she whispered. "Is my hand too cold?"

"No," he bit out.

Marissa smiled and tightened her hold. "Docs it feel good, then?"

"Yes."

"And this?" She stroked him, keeping her hold firm.

"Yes. You... needn't ask again. It's all yes, Marissa."

She chuckled, testing a light hold on him, then tighter. He felt heavy in her hand, and powerful, and Marissa was curious enough to scoot back and push off the bedclothes. She was warm now, after all, and she wanted to see him.

"You will unman me," he groaned, as she watched her hand stroke his cock. She trailed her fingers down to his bullocks as well, then drew her hand up to circle the crown.

Jude groaned and bent to suck her nipple between his teeth. That kiss spiraled through her, tightening her sex and reminding her of where her need was centered. Touching Jude had aroused her to the point that she whimpered and writhed as his teeth scraped her.

She rubbed her leg restlessly against his, needing to draw him near. "Jude," she breathed. My God, she wanted him so badly. What she'd fell in the past had been nothing bill mere curiosity. This was need.

Jude seemed to realize she was done with her teasing, he kissed her with a pressure that cased her to her back, and then it was his turn to explore. But Jude wasn't touching out of curiosity, he was touching to arouse... and succeeding splendidly. He trailed kisses to her neck, then sucked there as he shaped her hip with his hand. Her impatient squirming seemed a hint he could easily read though, for his hand moved down to her thigh.

When he raised his head, she thought he'd kiss her again, but instead he looked her over. "What's this?" His thumb feathered like a kiss over the top of her thigh. "The cause of so much trouble."

She looked down to see the faint pink mark she'd had since she was born. It looked so harmless and innocent, but the heart-shaped discoloration had caused her to confess so many wicked things.

"I'm honored to finally be amongst such a small band of brothers."

"Hush!" she scolded.

Jude chuckled against her neck and distracted her from her outrage by cupping his hand over the hair between her thighs.

"Oh," she sighed, tilting her hips up in shocked welcome.

"So pretty," he murmured, as his fingers slowly stroked. "So warm and lovely and... slick."

Marissa eased her knees open so that he could do those wonderful things he'd done that night in the gazebo. Yes, she was slick, and she knew what that meant. Slippery sliding and wonderful thrusts.

And Jude didn't disappoint. He stroked her until she was shaking, and then he finally slid one thick finger inside her.

She thought she might scream with the pleasure of it. Maybe she did scream a little, as she dug her heels into the bed and ground her hips against his hand. Jude kissed her hard, and his mouth absorbed her cries of need. It felt so good, his finger working in and out, but she knew what would feel better. She knew what she wanted. But he seemed infuriatingly content to continue his torment.

Just as she reached the peak of desperation, Jude pressed another finger in, and the pressure caught her breath in a stranglehold for a moment.

How much larger would his thick shaft feel? How much more satisfying?

She tore her mouth from his. "Please."

Though his breath quickened against her neck, he didn't respond. If he could ignore her plea, he couldn't possibly be as desperate as she was, but Marissa knew a quick way to rectify that.

Hard as it was to tear her mind from his thrusting hand, Marissa let go of her hold on his arm, and curled her lingers around his cock instead.

His rhythm faltered; his teeth scraped her neck. And when she stroked him slowly from tip to base, Jude gasped, and his whole body thrummed like a taut bow.

That power again, this time tightening around the fingers deep inside her. She was triumphant. And whimpering like a kitten.

And when Jude drew his fingers from her body, she wrapped her arms around his waist to pull him over her. He came willingly, thank God, and when his cock rubbed her sex, she arched into him, moaning as he slid against her.

Oh, God, yes. That was good. So good. And even better when the head notched against her and he eased inside.

"Oh," she whispered, 'Jude," because she wanted her body to know it was him she took inside. Jude, who stretched her sex tight as he slowly sank into her.

He drew out a little, then eased farther in, and Marissa wrapped her arms so tight around him that she could hardly breathe.

"Shh," he murmured. "Relax, mon coeur."

"I can't!" She was breathing too hard, overwhelmed with all she wanted from him.

"Marissa." His voice dropped. "Marissa." He reached back to tug one of her hands free. Then the other.

He tucked her fisted hands into his and lowered them to the bed. Marissa squeezed her eyes shut and tried to slow her breathing.

"Shh," Jude whispered. He pressed a kiss to one of her eyelids and then the other.

She sobbed and drew her legs high on his. When she wrapped her ankles around him, Jude thrust deep and true, and sank himself fully inside her.

She arched, pushing her head back in stark relief. She was filled with him, just as she'd wanted.

Jude eased slowly out, and when he thrust back in, Marissa opened her eyes to see him above her. He looked fierce and frightening. As fierce as she felt inside her heart as she tightened her fists and tilted her hips up to meet him.

"Breathe, Marissa."

"I can't! I just... I want you so much."

"You have me, mon coeur. I'm yours."

"Please," she pled. 'Jude, I..."

He kissed her cheeks, her mouth, her jaw. "Here,

love." Her eyes were still closed when he turned her. Suddenly she was above him, and he was still snug inside her. "Here," he said, "I'm yours."

Marissa drew a deep breath and pushed up on her hands. The weight pushed her body more firmly against him, and she sighed her satisfaction.

He let go of her wrists, and Marissa put her palms to his chest and looked down at Jude. He was gorgeous beneath her. Not pretty, not even handsome, but a gorgeous sight as she raised her hips and then took him deep.

Oh, yes. She could breathe again, though Jude seemed to be having trouble now. His hands gripped her hips as she began to ride him, and his breath came fast and hard.

Marissa felt that power again, the power she held over him, but this time it mixed up with his power over her. He filled her. Pushed inside her. Forced her body to stretch and take him in.

And she loved it. She loved him.

She tried moving faster, then in slow, torturous increments. Jude let her do what she wanted, and it was all as lovely as she'd dreamed. Her thighs began to shake, but she couldn't stop. It wasn't nearly enough. Jude's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and he slid one hand along her thigh until he touched her sex.

"Ah!" she cried out, her hips jerking with the shock of that electric touch.

"That's it," he murmured. "Have me."

She took him harder, as his thumb pressed that spot where all the tension built. "Oh, God. Jude." This was the culmination of every sensation she'd been chasing for years. The wickedness, the tightening, the wild licks of pleasure, the fullness of her very core. This was everything.

The tension became an aching weight that pulled her into herself. Marissa closed her eyes and dropped her head, concentrating on the miracle of her own body. And it was a miracle, the way her pleasure pulled at her soul, becoming something close to pain. She cried out in desperation, and then she broke. Her soul or her body, something inside her broke and released all her joy and pleasure with such force that she screamed as she slammed her hips into Jude's. She needed him impossibly deep, and he must've sensed it, because his hips rose to meet hers with brutal force as she sobbed and shook against him.

When the pleasure finally let go its grip on her, Marissa collapsed to Jude's chest, to pant and shiver against him. His big hands stroked her back as he hummed a soothing sound against the top of her head.

"You're amazing, Marissa."

"I've never . .. I've never felt anything like that."

"Ah. Finally."

"Jude!" she gasped, slapping his arm, but he was laughing against her. When she began to laugh too, his chuckles came to an abrupt stop. She couldn't help but laugh harder, aware of the way her muscles squeezed him.

"Christ, woman."

She rubbed her cheek against the hair of his chest, finding that his skin was damp with sweat. He smelled good and felt even better, pressed damp and hot against her.

She squealed when he flipped her to her hack and surged deeper into her.

"I've told you I need no teasing, mon coeur. You're driving me mad."

He looked mad, wild-eyed and flushed with passion. Marissa wrapped her legs around his hips and took him as deep as he needed to be. He kissed her with the same hunger she'd felt moments before. And when he finally reached his climax with a last desperate thrust, Marissa felt tears leak from her eyes.

He was her friend and her lover, and he'd be her husband as well.

"I love you," she whispered into the wild mess of his hair.

When he sighed, the weight of his body settled more fully onto her, but it was a happy weight, not one she wanted to squirm away from. He set his forehead to the pillow and shook his head. "I couldn't resist, and now you will regret this."

"I could never regret this. Never."

He pushed up a little, raising his head to look into her eyes. After a moment, weariness settled into his features. "It's too late regardless. I'm yours now."

I'm yours. The beautiful opposite of what Peter White had said to her. You're mine now, he'd crowed, as if she were a purchased treat. The difference, it seemed, between a boy and a man. Just as Jude had promised.

But she could not like the sadness in his eyes. Her vision went blurry. She felt a tear slip free and slide down her temple.

"I should not have given in," Jude sighed.

Marissa hit his shoulder. Hard. She felt his whole body tense against her, and then he rolled free, making her gasp with the strange feeling of him withdrawing from her body.

"Whatever your regrets," he said softly. "We'll marry."

"Those are your regrets, not mine!" she shouted. "I regret nothing. I will wait for you to like me again. I will demand it, do you understand? You will love me someday, damn your stubborn hide."

Jude slowly rose up to his elbow to give him a better vantage point from which to glower down at her.

"Oh, don't look so dark. You're stuck with me now. I will use you until you surrender. You'd do well to make the best of it."

She was about to sit up and reach for the covers, but he stopped her with the gentle brush of his thumb over her cheek. "You're trying to turn my own pleasure against me? Trick me into loving you?"

"You can hardly judge me for the very thing you meant to do. Only you are the fickle one it seems. So easily turned away from your affection." Her breath skipped and jumped in her throat as she tried to h-old back more tears. "Don't. . . please don't tell me I'm too late, Jude. I only just realized how much I love you. It isn't fair."

His hand cupped her chin as pain twisted his mouth into a brief scowl. "How can you be sure?"

She blinked away more tears, angry when they escaped and let Jude see how much she hurt. "All I know is that I have no idea what you're thinking, but I'm willing to tell you what I feel. I love you, and you may not like me at all."

"Ah, God, Marissa." His thumb traced shivers over her bottom lip. "Don't be a fool. I love you."

She swallowed hard, but a small sob of relief still escaped. "You do?"

"Of course I do. I love you. And that's why I can't stand the thought of having less than everything."

Marissa felt more tears fall, and she ignored them, even when Jude kissed them away. "And your regrets?"

"I regret nothing." He slid over her again, kissing her, and she was just wondering if she might dare spending the whole night in Jude's room when the hard crack of knuckles on the door invaded the quiet.

Jude was reaching desperately for the bedcovers when the door opened with tragic speed.

"Sorry to disturb you," Harry said, his voice still coming from the hall, thank God. "But Marissa has gone missing and—"

She met Harry's eyes at the exact moment his voice died an ugly death in his throat. Jude had half succeeded with the covers at least, though she suspected Harry had seen far more of Jude than he'd ever expected to.

"Harry," Jude started, but Harry just shook his head and backed out.

"Oh, never mind. So sorry. I'll just..."

"God damn it," Jude barked as the door closed with a crack that sounded eerily like impending doom.

"Good thing you didn't regret it," Marissa muttered.

"Jesus, woman, you are a magnet for scandal."

"I know. Who will ever marry me now?"

Finally, the fierceness left his face, and Jude smiled, then laughed. "You may break my heart and ruin my reputation, but I already know it will he well worth it." He offered a kiss that left Marissa sighing with satisfaction.

"How long do you think we can stay here?"

Jude shook his head. "You're too wicked for your own good. It's time to pay the piper. Again."

"Again. This is getting tiresome. At least when we're married, I won't have to face the prospect of being called to your study."

"I'm not so sure about that."

Amazingly, despite the drama awaiting her below-stairs, Marissa laughed and teased as she dressed. Jude kissed her and promised to meet her at her room so that she needn't enter Edward's study alone. Fifteen minutes later, Marissa was presented before the exhausted eyes of her family. She only just managed to look somber in the face of their shock.

Chapter 24

Caught in the snare of the silent room, Jude realized that from the start, this had been the inevitable outcome: Marissa perched on a chair before her brother's desk; Jude standing behind her, struggling to look regretful; both of them still weak with the intensity of their lovemaking.

Her maid had put some effort into making her presentable, but Marissa's mouth was swollen and pink, and there were at least two distinctively reddened patches on her that weren't quite covered by the high collar of her gown.

Jude hoped he looked almost normal. He'd combed his hair, but it was still wet from the grooming, and there'd been nothing to do for the stubble on his jaw that made him look a rakish debaucher.

Marissa cleared her throat. "So ..."

"I take full responsibility for everything that happened," Jude interrupted.

Marissa looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, do you? Funny, if it had been up to you, you'd be halfway to Italy by now. Alone."

Jude aimed a quelling look at her, but she'd already turned around, so it did no good. "I'm a guest in this house," Jude continued. "And I apologize for abusing your hospitality so ..."

"Strenuously?" Marissa ventured. "Oh, for god's sake!" Edward shouted, banging the flat of his hand against the desk. "Marissa Anne York, you are behaving outrageously!"

She shrugged. "I suppose. But we are engaged, so I'm not sure what all the fuss is—"

"The fuss," Edward ground out, "Is that this gentleman—"

The word carried enough scorn that Jude felt his shoulders tense in defense.

"—promised not to dishonor you further, regardless of the status of your betrothal. Which, by the way, I understood that neither of you intended to carry through."

Jude swallowed his anger and bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I can't deny that I broke my word."

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, considering," Edward growled.

Clenching his jaw, Jude shot a look toward Aidan, but his friend watched him with a steely eye and offered no sign of sympathy. "I assume you refer to the details of my birth?"

"You made a promise," Aidan snapped Jude squeezed the back of the chair until his hand went numb. This was what he'd always known and never admitted. That one misstep would see respectable friends turn against him. "And what has that to do with my circumstances? A well-born man has never been a fool for the sake of love? Neither of you has ever broken a promise over a woman?"

Oh, Aidan lost his steely-eyed look then. Sharp, jagged fury transformed his face into an animal's.

Jude faced him and stood his ground. "Do not throw my birth at me, then pretend outrage in the face of the truth. You are no better than I, damn it. Not at all."

A moment hung between them, a moment where Aidan might say something unforgivable. At the very least, Jude expected they would conic to blows. But in the end, Marissa stood and rounded her chair to stand next to Jude. She put her arm through this.

"You two men were forgiving enough of my dishonor, and I daresay I have an impeccable bloodline. And my fall was seen to by a gentleman of the ton, I might add." She cocked her head. "Actually, all of the men in my past have been pureblooded gentlemen, have they not? So Jude is absolutely right. This has nothing to do with his birth, and it dishonors you both to bring it up."

Aidan's face did not relax. His fists remained clenched. Marissa didn't seem intimidated. "Jude was gentleman enough to take your sister off your hands when it was convenient," she said. "Your hypocrisy boggles the mind."

The scene hadn't changed. Jude still stood before two rightfully enraged brothers, but the tension cased from his chest, replaced by a suspiciously maudlin warmth. Her words sounded sincere. She didn't regret loving him. She didn't regret his birth.

Jude tried very hard to maintain a serious expression. "Marissa has agreed to marry me in truth."

"Oh, my word, no!" her mother shouted.

"Mother," Marissa gasped, but Jude could see that the baroness was not the problem.

Edward was the man of the house, and he looked only marginally less furious than he had moments before. "I don't understand, Marissa. You've made your feelings clear from the start. You cared nothing for him."

"I was a fool. Such a fool that even Jude did not believe me. However, I did my best to convince him, and eventually he ... succumbed."

"I see." Edward offered Jude a dark look.

"Oh, don't look at him that way. What was he to do? Push me out into the corridor naked?"

Jude put a hand over hers. "Marissa."

"Oh, I am done with all this. I am no better than I should be, and Jude does not mind that at all, and I love him."

"But no!" the dowager baroness squealed. "My darling girl ... it was lovely of Mr. Bertrand to offer to help, but to marry him for love... I cannot imagine."

Marissa shot her mother an impatient look. "You'll get used to it, Mother."

"Well... this is all very strange!"

"It is, " Jude agreed, and the baroness's feathers unruffled a bit.

She looked back and forth between the two of them. "I suppose we must make the most of it, as circumstances have already... progressed."

Aidan cursed again while Edward shook his head in disgust.

Her mother clapped her hands together with a sound like a shot. "We shall plan a spectacular wedding for just before Easter! Do you think your father might attend, Mr. Bertrand? What a coup that would be! I daresay—"

"I'm sorry, Mother," Marissa said. "But the wedding cannot wait until spring for obvious reasons. It might be more of a spectacle than even you would care to present."

Her mother's eyes dipped to Marissa's belly, and she actually took a moment to think it over. "Oh, I suppose you are right."

"Wait a moment!" Edward shouted. "I have not agreed to any of this."

"Oh, stop it, brother," Marissa scolded. "In a month's time, I will no longer be your problem."

"A month, you say?" His face lost some of its tension.

"Perhaps even less."

Her mother fluttered about, trying to convince them all that she could not possibly plan a wedding within a month's time. But when Jude assured her that his father would likely attend no matter the short notice, she settled into wedding plans with an enthusiasm that overtook the rest of the discussion.

"I'm due in Hull in a month," Aidan growled. "I've a new ship being outfitted."

Their mother quivered with outrage. "You will be at the wedding, Aidan York. She is your only sister, and she is blossoming into womanhood!"

The whole room went silent. Amazingly, no one laughed, though Marissa clearly came close.

Though Jude's mood had become impossibly light, he could see that neither York brother was at peace, so he offered a little bow to the room. "If

I could beg a moment of privacy with Edward and Aidan ..."

"Oh, of course!" the baroness chirped. "Marissa and Harry will come to the sewing room to look over the latest fashion plates that just arrived from London."

Harry had been sitting quietly in a corner, looking painfully embarrassed by the whole situation, but he brightened at the thought of escape. "Yes, of course! Anything I can do to help!"

"Mother," Marissa complained as she was ushered out, "there's no time for a grand wedding." Just before she was pushed out the door, she dug in her heels. "Wait!"

She rushed to Edward and gave him a tight hug.

"You're incorrigible," he growled, but when she smiled at him, his scowl twitched up for a split second.

"I'm happy," she whispered.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I shan't lock you in your room until the wedding. If you promise to behave yourself."

"I'm sure I'll try the best I can."

Edward's face reddened again, but Marissa's smile widened. She stopped to kiss Jude's cheek before floating from the room, and on that note, he faced the York brothers with far more happiness than the situation called for.

"Well," Aidan said, "You got what you wanted."

"Your sister loves me." He said the words, and they felt real his lips. Jude found himself truly believing it for the first time. "You may find it as difficult to fathom as I do, but it's true."

Edward snorted. "And you think that will last?"

He gestured at Jude as if his very being made the words a joke.

"Don't underestimate her," Jude said. The words were quiet, but he saw the way they hit Edward. "I would not love her if she weren't strong and intelligent and capable of seeing me for who I am."

Edward ran a weary hand through his hair while Aidan escaped to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. After shooting a dark look at Jude, he poured two more drinks and offered one to each of the men.

Jude took his glass and slopped Aidan with a hand on his sleeve. "I apologize for speaking so callously. And .. ." He cleared his throat. "I apologize again to both of you for betraying my word. If it's unforgivable, I can accept that. But I'll marry your sister, regardless."

Edward looked up at the ceiling for a moment; then he shook his head and stood to offer his hand. "You did this family a priceless service. I can't resent that it might actually turn out for the best."

Jude shook his hand. "Thank you."

"Congratulations."

Aidan did not slap him on the back and claim that all was well. Instead he slumped into a chair and drained his whole glass in one swallow. "As you once made clear, the line marking decent and dishonorable is a shaky, twisting thing. You were right then, and you are right now. And who has honor ever served, anyway?"

"I'll treat her well," Jude said quietly.

"I can see that." Aidan waved a dismissive hand and pushed to his feet. "Well, welcome to the blasted family. You'll fit right in, clearly."

Both men seemed content to leave it at that.

Jude felt a small sense of relief. He'd stepped into this room knowing he would marry Marissa, regardless of their objections. Still, his heart pounded with satisfaction as he escaped to find his bride.

Marissa loved him, and she was bright and brave and, yes, a tiny bit shallow. And he loved her.

The rest of society could go to hell. What did it matter what the rest of England thought of him, if Marissa loved him for the man he was? He needed nothing more than her.

And soon enough, it would be official. The family had given their reluctant blessing. The danger of public scandal had finally passed, and now Jude was looking forward to a lifetime of private debauchery.

A month suddenly seemed a long time to wait.

Chapter 25

The ceremony was, by all accounts, lovely. Marissa could remember nothing of it but Jude's hands around hers, and his happy eyes and secret smile. And then he'd kissed her and they'd left the chapel in a shower of good wishes and flower petals. It was done.

Once again, the rush to the altar had proved unnecessary, but Marissa would not have put off this day for anything.

She glowed. She knew she did, and it was confirmed by the whispers around her as they entered the wedding ball and were presented as man and wife.

"The bride ..."

"So beautiful..."

"Like an angel ..." No one said anything about the groom. But to Marissa he was far more an angel than she. One of God's warrior angels, perhaps, equipped with a great steel sword instead of a harp. He was fierce and gentle and so protective that he'd only let her sneak into his room twice more in the month since she'd convinced him to stay.

Infuriating man. He'd finally started bolting his door against her. But she'd have him tonight, and the knowledge burned bright in his gaze each time their eyes met. She'd have him tonight and every night she wanted.

Suddenly, Marissa regretted that her mother had forgone the traditional wedding breakfast in order to host a ball. Marissa had been thrilled with the idea of dancing with Jude on their wedding night, but now she wanted nothing more than for the festivities to be over. But her mother would never forgive an escape before the dancing. What if there would be no grand toasts or romantic exhibitions of marital bliss? And what would be the point of the tiny children wandering through the crowd dressed as cherubs? They would float through the room with no couple to bless.

Marissa caught sight of a white feathered wing bobbing by, and she cringed. Both she and Edward had tried to dissuade their mother from the cherubs, but no mortal force could change her mind. And so here they were, in a play as great as one might see on stage. Peacocks called from the yard, and Marissa could only hope they didn't freeze to death in the cold night. They weren't visible in the dark, but it was the idea of the thing, or so she'd been informed.

Marissa leaned over to say hello to Aunt Ophelia, despite that the old woman appeared to be asleep.

"Eh?" her great aunt cawed as she popped upright in the chair.

"I asked how you liked the ceremony, Aunt Ophelia!"

The woman squinted up at Marissa. "Oh, I liked it very much."

"I'm glad."

The wrinkles in the old woman's face folded deeper when she smiled. She smiled so rarely that Marissa found herself laughing with delight. Perhaps Aunt Ophelia was sweeter than she seemed.

"Yes, I liked it very much," Aunt Ophelia repeated. "And a lucky thing to get you married off before you worked your way through next Season's crop of gentlemen."

Marissa's grin froze. "Pardon?"

"Nothing wrong with a little slap and tickle, girl. But you've got to be a bit more circumspect. Girls were more clever in my day. I was beginning to think your wits as ill-used as your virtue."

"I... Aunt Ophelia... Pardon?"

But the old woman just slumped back into her nap. Marissa was about to shake her silly when she was stopped by a hand curling over her shoulder. Still dumbfounded, Marissa looked up to find Jude smiling down at her. She spared one last confused look for Aunt Ophelia before rising.

"Jude," she said, managing an uncertain smile.

"My father," he murmured as he turned her around to face the duke.

Marissa shook off her shock and offered a curtsy. "Your Grace," she said, feeling a more genuine grin stretch her mouth. She'd met the duke the night before, but she was still surprised by the sight of him. The Duke of Winthrop, one of the loftiest peers in England, looked exactly like Jude.

She blushed when she considered how many times she'd thought of Jude as a groundsman or blacksmith. What a fool she'd been. The duke was not as tall as Jude, nor quite as solid, but there was no denying dial Jude had inherited the man's face, right down to the wide mouth and square jaw.

The duke teased her for her blush, and she let him think she was shy and nervous, though Jude watched the exchange with an incredulous expression.

"Just a moment, m'dear," the duke said, patting her hand. "I've a surprise for you, if only I could find him."

When his father turned away, Jude leaned in close to brush his lips against her ear. "You'd think," he murmured, "after loving a woman like my mother, he'd be able to recognize a wicked woman when he saw one."

Grinning, Marissa raised up on her toes so that Jude's mouth would rest against her neck. He obliged her with a little nibble, then called her a distracting wanton and stepped away. She was still smiling when the Duke returned with a young gentleman in tow.

"Look who arrived just in time for the ceremony!"

"Melbourne!" Jude responded, dapping the newcomer on the back.

"Please," the duke continued, "Allow me to present my son, Viscount Melbourne, soon enough the duke himself, I don't doubt."

"Father," the man said flatly.

"Melbourne, I'm pleased to introduce you to your new sister, Mrs. Marissa Bertrand."

She curtsied deeply, studying him through her lashes as he bowed. This son must look like his mother. He was handsome enough. And elegant. And Marissa wished for nothing more than to send him away so that Jude could do a bit more nibbling.

But she managed to be gracious as she spoke with both gentlemen for ten minutes. The whole crowd watched the exchange. Half were likely curious about the relationship between Jude and his father. The other half were taking note that the young viscount would someday need a wife.

If they knew that Jude and Marissa were sailing to France before their honeymoon in Italy, there'd be even more talk. A duke was one thing, but a French courtesan was even more interesting. Or so Marissa thought, anyway.

While Jude and his brother were reminiscing about something decidedly male—a fishing hole of some sort—there was a grand flourish of violins, and Marissa looked up to find her mother gesturing furiously from the potted ferns that hid the orchestra.

"Jude, I believe we're wanted."

"Ah, yes. That plant does seem excessively eager. Pardon us, Father. Melbourne."

They emerged from the ferns a minute later, flanked by a cadre of cherubs. Edward, who was in the midst of introducing them to the crowd, choked and stumbled to a halt when he saw the great flock of wings. Marissa wished she could simply disappear into the floor, but Jude appeared to be greatly enjoying himself. She elbowed him several times, but his grin never faltered.

As he refused to share her humiliation, Marissa distracted herself by looking over the crowd. Beth and her cousin were right at the front, and Mr. Dunwoody, that fickle idiot, stood at Nanette's side, smiling down at her. Interestingly enough, Cousin Harry stood at Beth's side. Marissa would have thought nothing of it, if not for their recent conversation.

Before she could ponder it further, the room erupted into applause at the last of her brother's words, and the flock of cherubs ushered Jude and Marissa out to the dance floor.

Marissa threw off her thoughts, ignored the loose feathers floating in the air, and put her arms around her husband.

"No regrets yet?" he asked as they stepped into the music of the waltz.

"Aside from my fear that I'll slip on an angel feather and break my neck, no regrets at all. And you?"

"You know I've wanted this from the moment we met."

"When did we first meet?" she teased him.

She'd only been joking, but Jude's face turned intent when he looked down at her. "Aidan had dragged me here for some hunting. I don't care for the hunt, but I came along anyway. And when I walked into the music room, there you were, dancing with your cousin. You smiled at something he said, and then you caught sight of some gentleman walking past, and all your bright prettiness turned wicked and warm."

"Stop," she laughed.

"It's true. And I thought to myself, there is a woman who wants pleasure."

'Jude!" She blushed and slapped his arm; then she realized that the whole crowd chuckled in response. They were being watched. "You're awful," she whispered.

"Perhaps. But I was right, wasn't I?"

Finally, a few other couples joined them in the waltz, and Marissa could lean a little closer to her husband. "I do want pleasure," she answered. "Badly."

"Wench. Don't tease."

"But I've so yearned for a good ride these past weeks."

Jude groaned and glared around the room. "How many dances must we grant them?"

"No more than three, I should think."

"Excellent."

Marissa watched Mr. Dunwoody as he hurried by with a glass of punch. He looked... delicate and weak-chinned. The thought made her smile.

Jude leaned in close again. "Once we are established, I shall have to hire pretty footmen to entertain your eye."

"What? I wasn't ogling anyone." "Mm-hm."

"I wasn't! Anyway, I thought you were a jealous man now."

He pulled back to smile down at her. "No. I'm not jealous anymore. Look as much as you like. Just touching, if you please."

"Ah. The same goes for you, husband."

"I have no need to look at other women," he said with a cocky smile.

"We'll see. In a few years' time, you may Find yourself yearning for a glimpse of a real bosom. Or two."

Jude threw back his head and laughed so loudly that the whole ballroom paused to look. Every smile was happily indulgent.

"Your bosom," he finally said, "is more than enough for me."

"What a meager appetite you must have," Marissa murmured. "By the way, if I'm not mistaken, I believe Aunt Ophelia just called me a witless tart."

Jude must have assumed she was joking, because he only shook his head as if he didn't understand the joke. Oh, well. Marissa didn't understand it either.

They were in the midst of their second dance when Marissa saw that Beth was dancing with Harry and that Harry had put on his most charming smile. Was he following through with his thoughts on courting one of the Samuel girls? Marissa's heart cheered with happiness that Beth might someday he her cousin. She would not marry some man from the south and disappear for months at a time.

But there was a shadow to that thought as well. Harry did not love Beth, and Marissa wanted Beth to be happy.

"Do you think," she whispered to Jude, "that a marriage might be happy if two people are not in love?"

"This is a bad time to bring that up, sweet wife."

"I was speaking of someone else."

"Well then... I'm not sure. I'd hoped that if we married, you would come to love me. I think it does happen. I saw Charles LeMont and his wife in Grantham the other day."

"You did? Did she run away weeping, I hope?"

Jude rolled his eyes. "They didn't see me. But they looked happy. Very happy."

"I suppose I should be thankful for myself, at least."

"Be thankful for her," Jude said softly.

"Yes, I think you're right. I'll be thankful for her and for Charles." Jude was such a good man. She fought the urge to lay her head on his chest. Not yet. Not till much later.

When the dance ended, Marissa headed straight to Beth to tease her about Harry. "Your cousin has always been so kind to me," Beth responded with nary a hint of pink in her cheeks.

"Mm. He has a thousand pounds a year, you know. He shall make someone a good husband someday."

"He will indeed. Such a thoughtful man."

But Beth wasn't paying any attention at all. She was too busy frowning at Mr. Dunwoody, who was too busy fawning over Nanette to notice Beth's stare. One of the cherubs wandered up to pretend to shoot an arrow at Mr. Dunwoody's, heart. Wretched little feathered beast.

Marissa spotted Edward walking toward her and latched on to the distraction. "Ah, there is my brother looking far too serious, as usual. Have you danced with him yet, Beth?"

"Aidan? No, but he promised to find me later."

"I meant Edward," Marissa said, as her brother stepped up.

And then something very odd happened. Her friend jumped as if she'd just been poked, and her eyes flew to Edward. As Edward was leaning close to Marissa to complain about the cherubs, Beth's face turned a miserable shade of red.

"No, not him," she answered too loudly.

Edward looked up. "I apologize. I've interrupted your conversation."

"No!" Beth yelped. "It's nothing!"

"Edward," Marissa drawled. "You must dance with Miss Samuel tonight. Have a little merriment."

An eerie peacock cry drifted above the music, and Edward scowled. "Yes, of course," he muttered, then offered a little bow in Beth's direction. "I believe there is a quadrille coming up. I hope you'll do me the honor, Miss Samuel."

Beth stared at him, mouth agape, and didn't offer a response, but Edward was too distracted to notice. "Pardon me. I believe I just saw a peacock wander down that corridor."

"Inside?" Marissa gasped, craning her neck toward the doorway. She narrowed her eyes, wondering if this had been part of her mother's plan all along. It seemed highly likely. A few shrieking ladies would add to the excitement of the ball, and why not add a few colorful feathers to the down already floating above the dancers?

"My mother has truly—" But when Marissa swung back toward Belli, she found that her friend had vanished.

Marissa stood there, too puzzled to move. Surely Beth's reaction had been decidedly odd. She tried to think of other strained moments between her friend and Edward, but she could picture nothing. No interaction at all, which was even stranger than Beth's blush.

Before she could formulate a theory, Marissa was accosted from behind. The brief touch of a warm mouth on her neck identified the man at her back.

"Time for our third dance," he whispered, and Marissa felt her cheeks heat. The riddle of Beth's awkwardness would have to wait until after tonight. After her honeymoon, even. She turned to Jude and happily took the hand he offered. In a few moments, they'd be in their bedchamber with no mysteries to solve, no wandering birds, and no angel feathers floating between them.

Heaven.

No feathers awaited them, but there were rose petals. Everywhere.

"Mm," Marissa sighed as she peeled a petal off Jude's stomach and planted a kiss there. "You smell so pretty."

"I ..." His breath hitched when she placed another kiss lower down. ". . . endeavor to please. As always."

"I admit," she breathed against the faint path of hair beneath his navel, "I was convinced the roses were my mother's doing. I didn't suspect you at all."

"I... only wanted to ..."

"Relax, my love," she drawled. "Breathe." She touched her lips tentatively to the head of his manhood and smiled at the way his breath went ragged. It ceased altogether when she licked him. He tasted... warm. And friendly.

She smiled at the thought and tasted him a few more times to be sure. Yes, definitely friendly.

Marissa wasn't quite sure how to go about this. It seemed a very different task than when Jude had offered his own scandalous kisses during her last stolen visit. But when she closed her mouth over his shaft he made a sound of tortured pleasure, and his hips jerked toward her.

Oh, my. Delighted—and horribly aroused— Marissa took him deeper into her mouth, marveling at how smooth he was on her tongue. This was pure wickedness, and she was well aware of the wetness between her thighs as she slid her mouth down his cock. When she drew up and then took him deep again, Jude moaned. The sound was like a hand stroking her sex, and Marissa moaned as well. Every slide of his shaft over her tongue made her wiggle with eager arousal. He grew larger as she sucked.

"Christ," Jude murmured, and she looked up to see him watching, eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. "Come here, love," he whispered.

She ignored him, taking him deep into her mouth again, but he slid his hand into her hair to stop her.

"I have grander plans for our wedding night. If I spend like this—"

She licked her lips. "Oh, can you do that?"

Jude groaned and let his head fall to the pillow. "You will ruin me with happy looks like that."

"But you must let me—"

He pulled her to his chest and kissed her. "Yes, I will let you, cheeky girl. Tomorrow. Or later tonight? But not now. Now, I want to .. ."

His hands stroked down her arse, and when his fingers delved into the seam of her body, Marissa pressed her hips into his cock with a moan of need.

"God, but you're wet," he whispered. "Already."

"I liked doing that," she confessed. She felt a shudder run through his body.

Jude rolled her to her back and covered her, kissing her with such an intensity that he stole her breath away. But when he entered her in one merciless thrust, she gasped in a desperate gulp of air.

"I love you," she whispered as she wound a hand into his hair. "Forever."

Here, in their bed, Jude was a man, and she was a woman, and there was no thought of gentility or elegance or society. Out there, her life might he shallow and pretty. Here, they were base and honest and wild together. And Marissa would not regret that in a thousand years.

Here, Jude was beautiful, and she was the beast that would devour him if she could.

"Forever," he whispered back, and it was the prettiest thing she'd ever heard.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25