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gh Marissa's chest. She couldn't argue her brother's point. She hadn't meant to bring her family shame. She hadn't meant anything at all by it. But if Peter White spread the tale it would be awkward. And if she was pregnant, there could be no choice. But if he didn't and she wasn't. . .
"Edward, it will take time to find a willing and acceptable match, won't it? Decent men do not hang about at crossroads just waiting for a ruined woman to take them home."
"Ah ..." he started.
"Harry will never tell a soul. And if there are to be permanent consequences, we should know within two weeks. Two weeks would be quick enough! If you must orchestrate a betrothal, let us prepare for it and then forget it entirely when I'm proved, er... unripened."
A blush flared up his neck. "I... is there no one you are fond of? No one who would make an offer?"
"I was rather fond of the gentleman in question before this evening. He's an excellent dancer, and his coat always fits perfectly. But now ... no. No one."
Her brother muttered something that sounded like, "His coat,"just as her mother's eyes fluttered open.
"Marissa," she sighed. "How could you? Why would you do something so awful?"
Awful. Yes, her mother had that right. "I don't know," she replied honestly. There had been wine and secret kisses, and it had seemed rather exciting when they'd stumbled into this room together. Then it had deteriorated into something more easily described in scientific terms than poetry. "Idiot," she bit out.
"Yes, you are an idiot!" her mother cried.
"I meant Mr. White."
"Mr. White," her mother said. "Hm. He is an excellent dancer. And a handsome fellow. He does bring in a fair income. Yes, he'll make a perfectly good husband."
Edward waved her out. "We'll discuss this later, Mother. Right now I have to think. Where is Aidan when I need him? He's supposed to be here, and he probably knows some likely fellows."
"Please don't tell him," Marissa pled. Somehow, she wasn't the least bit surprised that her words preceded the entrance of a footman by mere seconds.
"Mr. Aidan York has arrived, my lord," the servant said, bowing. "He sends apologies for his tardiness and bids me tell you he'll descend as soon as he's washed and dressed."
"Perfect," Edward murmured. "I won't tell him until White has had time to pack and flee. Otherwise we might have a murder on our hands."
"Murder!" their mother gasped, then slumped back into the chair, presumably unconscious, though not so unconscious that she couldn't eavesdrop, of course.
Marissa glanced around to see if there was a chair close enough for her to faint into as well, but there was only the couch, and she'd had enough of that. There was nothing to be done but take a deep breath and live with the consequences of what she'd done.
A moment later she realized there was one more thing she could do. The wine in her stomach began a war with the anxiety now coursing through her body. Head spinning, Marissa leaned over to peer closely at the gold-hued Oriental rug beneath her feet. And then she was sick all over it.
"Did I thank you yet for the invitation?" Jude Bertrand asked half-jokingly as he followed Aidan York down the curved staircase.
Aidan tossed a glance over his shoulder and said nothing, though he raised an amused eyebrow.
Jude had, in fact, thanked him several times already. For some reason, being on the York estate filled Jude with buoyancy. The house was large and airy, the windows looking out onto wild meadows and swaths of forest. The land enchanted him, and the family... well, oddly enough, the family reminded him of his early childhood. Decidedly strange, as his early years had been spent in what had essentially been a French whorehouse.
Chuckling at the odd comparison, Jude ran his hand down the banister, remembering his stay here last year and a certain strawberry-haired hoyden's slide down the wood. She'd thought no one else awake at that early hour, and Jude hadn't disabused her of the notion. He'd simply watched her slide down the banister, and then he'd continued on his way, marveling that no one else seemed able to see the wildness inside her.
He was greatly anticipating seeing her again.
When they reached the first floor, Aidan York nodded to a few of the guests but continued on toward his brother's study. Jude followed. The door was closed when they reached it. Raised voices could be heard vibrating through the wood, but Jude felt no surprise. The York family was surprisingly dramatic for such an established peerage.
Aidan didn't seem surprised either. He simply gave a perfunctory knock and walked into chaos.
The dowager baroness had draped herself across the settee and was weeping loudly into a lace handkerchief. The baron, Aidan's older brother, paced in front of the fireplace, his red face giving him away as the source of the shouting. A cousin was there too. Harry, maybe? He looked decidedly morose.
Jude raised a hand in greeting to the mob.
"Aidan," balkcd Edward. "Thank God you're here!"
Then his gaze shifted to Jude. "Jude, you can't be here. I'm sorry."
