A Little Bit Wild (6 page)

"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.

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."