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"Ha. I think you are. That's fine, because I don't think you're pretty, so there's no need to mutter it like it's a secret."
"Thank you for your honesty!"
Marissa crossed her arms and glared at him. "What woman would ever think you pretty? You're big and wide, with legs and arms like tree limbs."
Jude growled. "Perfect."
She moved closer to touch a finger to his jaw. "You've a face like an ancient warrior, as if it's seen far more battles than waltzes. And hands better suited for battering opponents than playing the piano."
He turned his face away. "Touché."
"You are not pretty, Jude. And I want you more than I've ever wanted any pretty man. You are strong, and looking at you makes me feel weak. For you." She tried to spread her fingers over his cheek, but he stepped away.
"Weakness is nothing to build a life on, Marissa. This was all a mistake. I wanted you, and I thought being wanted in return would be enough."
"It's not?"
"No, it's not! I've been satisfied with being accepted for too long. I would ask more than that from my wife."
Marissa almost gave an easy answer. Reassurance was a simple thing, because she felt so much for him, but just as she was taking a deep breath, the torment on his face stole her words.
His eyes glinted with an impossible mixture of regret and pride. "For a dozen years, it's been enough for me to be my father's bastard. To be welcomed as an exotic diversion. To be accepted. And I tried to win your love in the same way. Do you see that? To slip in beneath your defenses and lull you into accepting me." He snarled the word, rage curling his lip. "But I am not a bastard child anymore. I am a man, and I ask for more than that.
His anger should have frightened her, but she found that she needed to touch him. His words didn't scare her, because she had his answer. She could give him what he demanded. She already had.
Marissa stepped close, one last time. If he stepped away again, he'd find his back to the wall. "Would you ask for love?" she whispered.
"Yes."
She put her hand to his chest, amazed that it could already feel familiar. "And admiration? And respect?"
Jude closed his eyes, his chest expanding under her hand as he drew in a deep breath.
"And would you want lust too, I hope?"
"You're saying foolish things."
She slid her hand around to his back and laid her cheek to the spot she'd touched. His heart raged beneath her ear. "I love you, Jude."
"Don't say that, mon coeur. Don't."
"I love you, and I'm weak with wanting you."
"That is lust," he insisted, his words hoarse at the edges. "It's only lust."
"And my yearning to talk with you, to be alone and hear your thoughts? Is that lust as well? I underestimated you, Jude. I dismissed you. And now you're doing the same to me. I love you as a man, and I want you as a husband."
"Marissa," he said. His hands settled on her shoulders, poised to pull her tighter or push her away. She didn't know, and she suspected Jude had no idea himself.
"I want this betrothal to be real, Jude. I want you to take me as your wife. And out of all the pretty men I've danced wi
th and all the lust that's burned in my heart, I never wanted that from any of them."
He drew a sharp breath as if he'd speak, but no words passed his lips.
"Do you still like me?" she asked, squeezing her eyes shut in preparation. There was every chance he'd seen her true self and changed his mind. What an irony that would be, for Jude to decide, in the end, that she was too ugly for him.
But perhaps she could turn his own techniques against him.
