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"You . .. You're leaving?"
"We'll still carry on with the betrothal, of course, but I'm no longer needed. You are saved. I'll let you and your mother sort out the details of the break, and how it will be presented."
Her limbs went numb and heavy with the weight of his announcement, and his arm seemed the only thing supporting her. Marissa curled her lingers tighter around his sleeve. "But..."
"I trust you not to paint me in too dark a hue." He smiled at her then. Actually smiled, while Marissa was trying not to fall to the grass.
"Yes," she whispered. "Of course. You've been so kind to us. We wouldn't dream of casting you as the villain."
"Well, your mother might not be able to resist, for drama's sake, but I know you'll watch out for me." He smiled again, and she felt dizzy at the sight.
'Jude ... I wish... That is to say—"
"No, don't say anything, Marissa. I owe you an apology. I've behaved abominably these last few days. What I said and did ... it was inexcusable, and I hope you can forgive me."
She spun toward him, squeezing his arm too tight. "Of course I can."
"I'm glad." When his mouth offered that crooked half smile, she thought he might say something different. Ask for another chance at winning her hand. But he said, "Perhaps I did overstay my welcome, and the spirit of Othello infected me. Though not with murder, of course. Just madness."
A joke. He was joking. She made herself answer his smile.
"I've never been a jealous man, Marissa. I liked you too well for my own sanity, I think. But I've found my bearings again, so I hope that we might still be friends."
"Of course," she breathed.
"Perhaps we might stay in touch."
Stay in touch? How could he say that so casually? Did he feel nothing for her anymore?
"I'll send you my favorite novels, even, and this time you may tease me."
"I would like that," she lied, staring up at his wide mouth and damaged nose and wicked eyebrows. What had once been vulgar was now sensual. What had seemed obtrusively brutal was now simply masculine. She had touched that wild, thick hair and found it smooth beneath her fingers. She had kissed those lips and found them more tender than any other man's.
He could have been her husband, and now he wanted to be her friend ?Did he hate her so much? So much that in a few days' time he could go from standing naked before her, daring her to touch him, to offering a friendly farewell and the promise of a witty letter or two?
She realized then that if the threat of scandal still hung over her head, she would never have let him free of his promise to marry her. Love or not, she would've held him to it. Given time . . .
"I'm sorry," she blurted out, reaching to clasp his hand between hers. "I'm so sorry for what I said! Jude, please—n
"Don't." His smile slipped finally. For just a moment, she saw his hurt, the hurt she'd done to him. His gaze slid to the ground, and when he looked up again, the pain was gone. But she'd seen it. "Don't," he repeated.
He turned to continue their stroll, and what could she do but let go her death grip on his hand and walk beside him?
"I'm off to Italy for my father," he offered in that pleasant voice. "There's a vineyard he admires. He may purchase it."
"Italy? You'll leave now?" The evenness of her tone stunned her.
"Best to sail before the winter storms set in."
"Of course."
"How will you occupy your time, Miss York? With stitching?"
Marissa frowned at the grass, troubled by his teasing. Everything he said indicated that he was over his little affection for her. But she'd seen that moment of pain in his eyes. And her own eyes burned with it. "But what if..." Her throat choked on the words. If she confessed her new and tender feelings for him, he would have to say something, but she had no idea what that something might be.
He might still like her, but not well enough to marry. He might confess that familiarity had bred contempt. He might say that he had loved her for a moment, but she had brushed it aside to dry and wither. Or he might love her still.
The last seemed a small possibility, and her own feelings fel
