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"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.
