sigh. "I suppose you must be right, Baron. Oh, this is all so difficult to accept! My poor family!" And she was gone into one of her swoons again.
Marissa turned back to Edward. "The acknowledged son of a duke. He's natural born then?"
"Yes."
She started to raise both hands to plead with him, then thought of what Aidan had said. She lowered her hands. "I have never even spoken with him, Edward."
"He's visited us four times, but if he doesn't make a pretty turn in the ballroom, I suppose you do not see him."
The awfulness of that truth swept over her like an icy breeze. Gooseflesh sprang up on her skin. And yet, what could she say? She liked to dance with handsome gentlemen. She enjoyed their flirtatious attention and the excitement of stolen kisses. And when there was no music or dancing to be had, she preferred that they disappear into their smoky male habitats and leave her alone with her friends.
It was no different for the men, so far as she could tell.
"I'm sure he is perfectly nice—"
"You'll find out soon enough. Jude will spend time with you this week. Enough time that no one will talk if a betrothal is announced a fortnight from now."
Protest bubbled inside her. She wanted to scream a denial. Fall to her knees and beg. Shout at the world to leave her be.
But her brothers were right. She was not a child anymore, not by even the most liberal definition. So Marissa folded her hands together and nodded. There would be time for another solution, if one was needed at all. This was not the end. Jude Bertrand was not her husband.
Yet.
Chapter 3
Mr. Bertrand stood at the end of the hall, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out a narrow window. Sunlight should have streamed through the glass, but the wide span of his back blocked every single ray. If he did dance, Marissa should not like to be the girl whose slipper he trod upon.
Yet as rough a figure as he cut, she could see no other reason to believe that Jude Bertrand wasn't a gentleman. It may have taken yards of fabric to cover those shoulders, but the lines of the coat were impeccable. His hair might look a bit coarse, but it was trimmed straight and neat at his neck.
He shifted, and his hair glowed in the sun, revealing that the dark shade was not true brown but auburn, and Marissa found herself cringing to think that it must have been quite red in his youth. What a little ruffian he would have looked. Red-headed and coarse-featured. What a little ruffian his children would be. And with her own red hair, there would be no escape from it.
She'd meant to approach him with determination, but her feet slowed at that thought.
Perhaps Mr. Peter White was not such an awful choice, after all. He was witty, and he kept a merry crowd of friends.
She stopped, intent on escaping without notice, but Mr. Bertrand cocked his head and turned toward her.
"Miss York," he said solemnly.
When their eyes met, she blushed, thinking of what he must know about her. "Mr. Bertrand," she murmured.
He smiled, and his smile, at least, was pleasant, despite the vulgar width of his mouth. "Have you decided if I may escort you to the breakfast room?"
The question recalled her earlier rudeness. If I may escort you. But in truth, he wasn't asking about breakfast. He was asking if she might marry him at the end of the month. If he could pretend to be her suitor. Because she'd lost her virginity the night before on the couch of the sewing room. Her cheeks burned with heal. "Of course, Mr. Bertrand. I'd be honored."
He nodded, but the tilt of his mouth made clear that he found her answer amusing.
"This is overwhelming," she explained. True enough, but she knew that much of her discomfort was because she could not picture marrying a man like him. She liked handsome, elegant, finely made men. Jude Bertrand was . . .
Marissa could not bring herself to call him ugly, not when he was treating her so fairly. But his face was wide and looked hewn from stone, with an old break in
Marissa turned back to Edward. "The acknowledged son of a duke. He's natural born then?"
"Yes."
She started to raise both hands to plead with him, then thought of what Aidan had said. She lowered her hands. "I have never even spoken with him, Edward."
"He's visited us four times, but if he doesn't make a pretty turn in the ballroom, I suppose you do not see him."
The awfulness of that truth swept over her like an icy breeze. Gooseflesh sprang up on her skin. And yet, what could she say? She liked to dance with handsome gentlemen. She enjoyed their flirtatious attention and the excitement of stolen kisses. And when there was no music or dancing to be had, she preferred that they disappear into their smoky male habitats and leave her alone with her friends.
It was no different for the men, so far as she could tell.
"I'm sure he is perfectly nice—"
"You'll find out soon enough. Jude will spend time with you this week. Enough time that no one will talk if a betrothal is announced a fortnight from now."
Protest bubbled inside her. She wanted to scream a denial. Fall to her knees and beg. Shout at the world to leave her be.
But her brothers were right. She was not a child anymore, not by even the most liberal definition. So Marissa folded her hands together and nodded. There would be time for another solution, if one was needed at all. This was not the end. Jude Bertrand was not her husband.
Yet.
Chapter 3
Mr. Bertrand stood at the end of the hall, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out a narrow window. Sunlight should have streamed through the glass, but the wide span of his back blocked every single ray. If he did dance, Marissa should not like to be the girl whose slipper he trod upon.
Yet as rough a figure as he cut, she could see no other reason to believe that Jude Bertrand wasn't a gentleman. It may have taken yards of fabric to cover those shoulders, but the lines of the coat were impeccable. His hair might look a bit coarse, but it was trimmed straight and neat at his neck.
He shifted, and his hair glowed in the sun, revealing that the dark shade was not true brown but auburn, and Marissa found herself cringing to think that it must have been quite red in his youth. What a little ruffian he would have looked. Red-headed and coarse-featured. What a little ruffian his children would be. And with her own red hair, there would be no escape from it.
She'd meant to approach him with determination, but her feet slowed at that thought.
Perhaps Mr. Peter White was not such an awful choice, after all. He was witty, and he kept a merry crowd of friends.
She stopped, intent on escaping without notice, but Mr. Bertrand cocked his head and turned toward her.
"Miss York," he said solemnly.
When their eyes met, she blushed, thinking of what he must know about her. "Mr. Bertrand," she murmured.
He smiled, and his smile, at least, was pleasant, despite the vulgar width of his mouth. "Have you decided if I may escort you to the breakfast room?"
The question recalled her earlier rudeness. If I may escort you. But in truth, he wasn't asking about breakfast. He was asking if she might marry him at the end of the month. If he could pretend to be her suitor. Because she'd lost her virginity the night before on the couch of the sewing room. Her cheeks burned with heal. "Of course, Mr. Bertrand. I'd be honored."
He nodded, but the tilt of his mouth made clear that he found her answer amusing.
"This is overwhelming," she explained. True enough, but she knew that much of her discomfort was because she could not picture marrying a man like him. She liked handsome, elegant, finely made men. Jude Bertrand was . . .
Marissa could not bring herself to call him ugly, not when he was treating her so fairly. But his face was wide and looked hewn from stone, with an old break in
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