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"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.
