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"I believe he's angrier with that scoundrel White."
She snuck a peek over his shoulder to find Aidan staring out the window, his jaw clenched so hard that the muscle jumped in a secret rhythm. "He won't even look at me. Edward, I'm so sorry. Have you... surely you have reconsidered your proposal? I'm certain there's no reason to worry."
"On the contrary, I have found a likely husband for you."
"Pardon?" She stepped back in shock, her heels crossing the threshold so that she stood half in the hallway, as if stepping the last six inches into the study would be an acceptance of this mad plan. "Where could y
ou possibly have found a man who'd marry me?"
"Right here, as it turns out."
"Here? In the district?"
"Here, in our house."
"But who?"
He gestured toward the room. "Mr. Jude Bertrand."
"Mr. Bertrand?" she repeated too loudly. Panic-was beginning to set in. Edward hadn't changed his mind at all. He was moving matters forward at a dizzying pace. "Who is Mr. Bertrand?"
A figure moved from Aidan's side. It was that groundskeeper fellow, stepping toward her, his wide mouth crooked in a half smile as he approached. He stopped a few paces away and made a passably elegant bow. "I am Jude Bertrand," he said, turning the surname into something French and exotic.
"Should you not present him?" she snapped at her brother, meaning to insult the presumptuousness of this man who looked like a servant dressed in gentleman's clothes.
"Miss York, my apologies," the man said, rising now to meet her gaze. "But we have already been introduced. Twice."
"Oh." She pressed her hand to her chest, briefly mortified by her own rudeness. "I apologize, Mr. Bertrand. I must have . .." The words trailed off as she realized how meaningless all these pleasantries were. She slid her eyes toward Edward, trying to convey her alarm.
This man was not suitable. Not at all. He was big and rough looking, built for mucking out stables or loading freight onto a ship. He was not a gentleman. Not by far.
"I ..." She gave up subtlety and raised her eyebrows at her brother.
He smiled. "Marissa, Mr. Bertrand is a good friend of Aidan's, and he has generously offered to... be your escort for the next few weeks. Would you allow him to accompany you to the breakfast room this morning?"
Had she driven her brother to madness? Marissa gave her head a frantic shake. "I would rather a moment to speak with you in private!"
Mr. Bertrand offered another bow. "Of course, Miss York. I'll excuse myself." Again, it was a perfectly elegant bow, but each time he rose, he seemed to grow bigger. He was taller than either of her brothers, and his shoulders looked to fill the whole doorway when she stepped aside to let him pass. Not a groundskeepcr then, but a blacksmith. Yes, she could picture him perfectly in a leather apron, hand grasping a great hammer.
Utter madness.
Cousin Harry rose, tortured regret twisting his mouth. "I can't help but feel responsible. Peter White was my friend, after all. I apologize to all of you for inviting him."
"Nonsense," Edward said. "Aidan and I knew him as well. It's no more your responsibility than ours. Please don't give it another thought."
Harry didn't look convinced. "I wish it were as simple as making him step forward as a gentleman. I'd be gratified by the opportunity to persuade him."
Marissa closed her eyes to try to find some calm, but when she opened them, she found that Aidan had crossed the room and now stood before her. She'd been wrong to think he would wound her with a glare. He looked at her with disappointed pity in his eyes.
Tears gathered in her throat like a lightening fist. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But can we not reconsider this plan?"
Edward shook his head. "It is enough of a risk to wait the month out. I have given you that, 'Rissa. It's more than our father would have done."
"But that man ... he is entirely inappropriate. I would not even trust him to see me across the street, much less give the rest of my life to him."
Aidan finally spoke. 'Jude Bertrand is a gentleman and a good friend. I would not have let him offer otherwise."
"He looks as if he were dragged from the smithy's hearth!"
