A Little Bit Wild (21 page)

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.

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.

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."