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"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."
