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"It might not be him," she said more loudly.
One by one, the men ceased their violent planning and turned toward her.
"Pardon?" Edward said.
"Peter White. He might not be the one who wrote the letter."
Aidan rolled his eyes, as if she were a silly miss whose brain moved at a snail's pace. "Marissa, it's obviously him. Or an associate of his, at least."
Every face held varying degrees of confusion as they awaited her explanation. Every face except Jude's. He raised an eyebrow, and his eyes glittered with amused curiosity.
"There's a small possibility ..." Her dry throat formed the words roughly, so she coughed into her fist and tried again. "There's a small possibility that someone else could've written that letter."
Realization took hold of Aidan's face first, then Edward's. Jude's eyes fairly glittered with laughter.
"Marissa," Edward growled.
"I would not like to see Mr. White unjustly murdered."
Aidan snatched the letter from Edward's hand and held it out toward Marissa. "He says he's seen your thighs, Marissa. So how could it be anyone but him?"
"Yes, well..." What in heaven's name was she to say to that?
Aidan's hand crumpled the letter, and the sound of it made her wince. "Is the description accurate?"
"Is it accurate?" he shouted.
Strangely enough, his anger stoked her courage. She sat straighter, raised her chin, and met Aidan's furious green gaze with her own. "Yes, it's accurate. So before you string Mr. White up from the nearest tree, you may want to speak with Fitzwilliam Hess as well."
"Fitz... William ..." Aidan stammered, his face growing alarmingly red.
Edward put a hand on his brother's arm. "Marissa, you're not saying ... you said you were a virgin."
"I was." She didn't dare meet Jude's gaze. "Fitzwilliam and I only engaged in kissing. And such."
"And such!" Aidan yelled.
"Yes."
Their eyes were like flames against her skin, and Marissa felt a tickle of perspiration on her hairline. But it was nearly over. Nearly.
Edward dropped his head, hands fisting on his hips. "Is Hess even in the country? The last I'd heard he was on the Continent."
More voices joined in, debating the whereabouts of Mr. Hess. She glanced over her shoulder to note that her mother had fallen into a faint, her head hanging perilously over the side of the couch. Possibly, she was truly unconscious this time.
It was now or never. Marissa chose a particularly faded rose on the study rug to focus on. "Also she said just loudly enough to stop the conversation. "There's a small possibility of a third gentleman."
At first, she thought the strangled huff was a male sob, and the sound startled her so much that her gaze lost its hold on the rose and flew up.
Jude stood, crimson-faced, hand covering his mouth. Was he... crying? He sobbed again, and despite the shock of her last statement, everyone in the study now looked at him.
Marissa's head swam with the idea that she might have broken his heart, and she was holding out her hand when he muttered "Pardon me," from behind his fingers and rushed for the study door. His eyes glinted with moisture. His neck burned red. She watched open-mouthed and horrified as he flew into the corridor and slammed the door behind him.
"What in God's name—" Edward started, but he was cut off by a roar of laughter trembling through the wood. Even from the study, one could clearly make out the echo of it bouncing down the passageway. Jude Bertrand was laughing his head off. At her.
"Why, I never!" her mother gasped, miraculously revived from her faint.
Marissa just stared at the door, stupefied. Jude's choked guffaws continued to sneak into the room.
