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"Marissa."
She froze at the soft strength in his voice.
"We are still betrothed."
"I-I suppose we are. Until everything settles, at least."
"Agreed."
She was so flustered that she forgot any idea of stealth, and simply slipped from the room as quickly as she could. Only when she found herself standing in the corridor did she realize her mistake. Luck saved her from stumbling into another guest, but she didn't pause to savor it. Marissa sprinted around the corner, only able to force herself to slow when she could no longer see Jude's door.
This nightmare of hers was almost over, and as she walked sedately toward her room, chin held high, Marissa convinced herself that the sick feeling in her stomach was relief.
What else could it possibly be?
Chapter 13
"I just don't understand what he's still doing here," Marissa hissed as they ascended the steps of the Framershams' front entrance.
Aidan glanced down at her with an arch look. "He's my guest, and I am still here, so I gather that's why. The question, darling sister, is why his presence is causing you so much bother. Jude means nothing to you, or so you say."
It had been a week. A week of guilt and uncertainty.
Turning her head, she caught sight of Jude twenty feet behind her, gallantly escorting Aunt Ophelia up the steps. Cousin Harry followed with Beth and Nanette, and Edward had already swept Mother inside and out of the cold.
"He reminds me of something I should never have done. That's all."
"Well, I'm pleased you're capable of feeling regret, Marissa," Aidan drawled. "I wasn't sure you could. And I tell you, if I were your eldest brother, I would have turned you over my knee and paddled your backside for what you did."
She set her jaw and thought, Hypocrite, but she wasn't rash enough to say it aloud. Aidan's temper could crack like lightning, and she didn't care to face that storm in a public place. Once again, she felt the sharp loss for the brother he'd once been. "Of course I feel regret. I never meant it to affect any of you. I just want this incident to be over, and Jude reminds me that it is not."
"Good, because it isn't. It's not yet clear that the talk has died down, and we still have no idea what Peter White will say. If you're not feeling relieved, I'd say that's a sign of intelligence."
"Pardon me if I don't simper with gratitude at your assessment."
His bark of laughter was loud and harsh, but it was laughter, at least, and when he laid his hand over hers and squeezed, Marissa found that his eyes had softened. "You were born into this family, so you were bound to suffer a scandal or two. Let's hope this is the worst of them."
She longed to turn and hug him, but they were entering the hall now, so Marissa only smiled. "Will you dance with me tonight, Aidan?"
"I am here," he sighed. "I suppose I may as well dance."
"So gallant."
"As ever," he agreed, turning her for a kiss on the check before he walked away. She knew from experience that he was off to fortify himself for the evening with a few glasses of brandy. But Marissa was going to fortify herself with dancing.
A quarter hour later, and she'd already greeted the hostess and danced with two gentlemen she'd never met. The Framersham country ball was one of her favorites, for they always invited too many people and sent their footmen out in force with glasses of champagne punch.
In the mayhem, it was easy to lose sight of Jude and the reminder of the past two weeks of tension. Here, she was back to her old self, and when a beautiful young ma
n approached her for the next dance, Marissa didn't have to fake her fluttering response. She'd met him twice in London, and his sky blue eyes and smooth cheeks had inspired several fantasies of kissing and more. So her enthusiasm was quite real when Mr. Erikson led her out into the center of the dancers. Her body tingled quite recklessly at the touch of his gloved hand on her back and the thought of him wrapping his arms around her. Oh, my.
When the dance called for separation, she took the opportunity to ogle his lean, graceful legs. But then something went wrong. The cut of his trousers was splendid, revealing the line of his thighs perfectly. But the line struck her as a bit. . . underwhelming. His coat was divinely constructed, but even with the expert padding in the shoulders... well, she certainly couldn't imagine Mr. Erickson picking her up and carrying her into a secret bower to make love.
Marissa forced herself to smile wider when he tossed her a flirtatious wink. It wasn't the carrying that mattered, after all. It was the kissing and the stroking, and surely none of that would be affected by the anemic color of his skin. That was only proof that he was always careful to wear a hat while riding.
His mouth looked made for kissing, after all, so rosy and lull. Yes, Mr. Erickson would give lovely, gentle, skilled kisses, she was sure of it.
But somehow as she slid past him and took the next dancer's hand, Marissa's thoughts of warm, skilled kisses twisted. Now she was thinking of being devoured. Of a mouth demanding that she open and yield. Of hands that lifted her into place and held her there for anything the gentleman might wish to do to her.
