A Little Bit Wild (16 page)

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.

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.