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"I endeavor to intrigue. So... the men."
The men. That sounded so sordid. Or wicked. Or at least naughty. How did Jude manage to see so many unfortunate things about her? She sighed in surrender and gave up her resistance. She wanted to talk about it, and so she would.
"Charles knew he had to marry someone else."
"Charles?"
She shot him an irritated glance. "Yes, Charles LeMont. You missed that part while you were recovering yourself."
"Ah. Carry on."
"His family... they insisted he cultivate a political connection. But we fancied ourselves in love, and it was all very tragic and romantic."
"So you soothed your heartache in one another's arms?"
"Something like that. But it was all quite innocent, if such a thing could be. We were young, and we only wanted a few stolen moments. It was... lovely."
"Kisses and such?"
She blushed. "Yes. And then he married, and that was that. He's never so much as flirted with me since his wedding. So I can't imagine he'd send such a note."
"And then there's Fitzwilliam Hess. I needn't ask how you found yourself alone with him."
"He's quite charming."
"So I've heard. So has everyone. He's infamous."
"Justifiably so," she said before she thought better of it.
"Ah, maybe I am jealous. You know that as a proper young miss, you're supposed to avoid infamous men, right?"
She thought of the way Fitzwilliam had touched her, and her face burned, but that didn't keep her quiet. "He could have ruined me, and he didn't. He just... he made me feel good. And wicked. And I would've done it again, if I'd had the chance."
She held her breath after that, waiting for a response. She had liked what she'd done with Fitzwilliam. For the first time in her life, flirting with a man had felt dangerous. Risky. When he'd flirted back, there'd been more than admiration in his eyes; there had been calculation, as if she were a code he'd wanted to crack.
She'd pretended not to notice it, just as she'd pretended not to know that he'd walked her far too deeply into the gardens at the Windsor Ball.
Still, even with her sturdy powers of self-deception, she'd understood that stealing into the greenhouse with a known rake could not have a decent ending. And yet it had. Decent enough, at any rate. Fitzwilliam's self-preservation had protected her. He had no intention of being forced into marriage.
He'd explained that to her as he'd placed shivery kisses along her neck. "Don't worry," he'd whispered. "I won't ruin you."
And yet he had. The things he'd done to her in the dark. The secret places he'd put his mouth. The touches he'd demanded in return. . ..
Despite his promises, Marissa had been ruined, because she’d only wanted more after that. More pleasure. More knowledge. But she'd been good. She hadn't snuck away with any more gentlemen, despite the wild curiosity for m
ore embraces. She hadn't even shared more than a dance with Fitzwilliam Hess when she'd met him again.
No, she'd held her secret desires close and hidden... until that fateful evening with Peter White.
My God, what a waste that had been. Not pleasantly enjoyable like her night with Charles. Not unexpectedly amazing as it had been with Fitzwilliam. And nothing at all like the wild pleasure Jude Bertrand had shown her.
She glanced toward Jude and realized she'd pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips in memory. His gaze was focused just there.
"Yes, I'm quite sure I'm jealous, after all," he murmured.
She snapped her hand down to her lap, and nearly blurted out that she'd been thinking of him, not Fitzwilliam. But how would that be better?
"I did not know you then," she snapped.
