followed her to the table, delivering her plate with a little bow before he filled his own.
When a footman approached with tea, Mr. Bertrand requested coffee instead. "Would you prefer coffee, Miss York?"
Would she? She started to say no, but paused when her tongue touched the roof of her mouth.
Half the male visitors preferred coffee, but all the ladies drank tea. She'd tried a sip of coffee once, and it had been awful. Bitter and harsh. She hadn't liked it... and yet she wanted it again, if only to be daring.
Marissa glanced to her steaming cup of respectable tea and shook her head. "No, thank you."
Disconcerted by his smile, Marissa took a bite to buy herself a moment of quiet. She was supposed to be getting to know this man, yet every moment with him left her more confused.
She did not want to like him. He was taking advantage of an awful situation. He was unattractive and strange. She would not like him just because he offered her an extra portion of bacon and a sip of a daring drink.
Her aunt excused herself before Marissa was halfway through her plate. "Have a lovely morning, Aunt Ophelia," Marissa called out loudly. The half-deaf woman waved an irritated hand.
They were alone.
Marissa decided to be up-front, because she was simply no good at prevarication. "Mr. Bertrand, this is obviously a delicate matter. I find it difficult to address, and yet I have no choice, due to my own... poor choices."
His voice remained as calm as if they were speaking of the weather. "I assure you that you may speak freely. I'm quite aware of the circumstances and am entirely unfazed by them."
"But... I don't understand you. How can that be?"
"Miss York, your brother may have told you that my father is the Duke of Winthrop? As lofty as my father's title is, my mother is not the most respectable of women."
"Well, I assumed ..."
"She is a paid companion."
"To whom?"
"To whichever gentleman she deigns to love at the moment."
"Oh!" she yelped. "I thought... oh, I see."
"She loved my father for a good many years, but he was not her only gentleman admirer, and she was not his wife. So when I tell you that you may speak freely with me, I am not being polite. You were with a man last night, and he is even less appealing a suitor than I, and so here we are."
You were with a man.... Her heart beat so hard that he must be able to see her pulse in her throat. He could undoubtedly see the scarlet blush climbing her cheeks. There was no hiding behind euphemisms. He knew that she lain down and raised her skirts and allowed Peter White to... do that. "I'd had too much wine."
"As is often the case in these situations."
"Mr. Bertrand," she snapped, "I am trying to discover your motives."
"I've already confessed my motives. I like you, Miss York. Is that not enough of a reason?"
"No! It makes no sense. You know nothing of me but this awful thing I've done. What could you possibly like so much that you would be willing to marry me?"
He finished his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup as he swallowed.
"Well?" she demanded.
Mr. Bertrand set the cup down, the proportions of it ridiculously small in his wide fingers. He politely raised his napkin to his mouth, the white linen calling attention to his tanned skin. No wonder she'd thought him a groundskeeper. It was likely he was related to one or two.
But regardless of his base beginnings, there was nothing subservient in his eyes as he leaned toward her. His eyes radiated all the confidence of a duke as he met her gaze.
"I like you, Miss York, because you are wicked, and there can he no finer a blessing for a man than a good and wicked wild. Wouldn't you agree?"
His words were so shocking that Marissa could not comprehend them for a moment. Wicked? He'd called her wicked? Blood rushed in her ears as the offense sunk in.
"How dare you? You are absolutely—"
He pushed back his chair, interrupting her tirade. "I'm sure you are correct. No need to continue. Consider me
When a footman approached with tea, Mr. Bertrand requested coffee instead. "Would you prefer coffee, Miss York?"
Would she? She started to say no, but paused when her tongue touched the roof of her mouth.
Half the male visitors preferred coffee, but all the ladies drank tea. She'd tried a sip of coffee once, and it had been awful. Bitter and harsh. She hadn't liked it... and yet she wanted it again, if only to be daring.
Marissa glanced to her steaming cup of respectable tea and shook her head. "No, thank you."
Disconcerted by his smile, Marissa took a bite to buy herself a moment of quiet. She was supposed to be getting to know this man, yet every moment with him left her more confused.
She did not want to like him. He was taking advantage of an awful situation. He was unattractive and strange. She would not like him just because he offered her an extra portion of bacon and a sip of a daring drink.
Her aunt excused herself before Marissa was halfway through her plate. "Have a lovely morning, Aunt Ophelia," Marissa called out loudly. The half-deaf woman waved an irritated hand.
They were alone.
Marissa decided to be up-front, because she was simply no good at prevarication. "Mr. Bertrand, this is obviously a delicate matter. I find it difficult to address, and yet I have no choice, due to my own... poor choices."
His voice remained as calm as if they were speaking of the weather. "I assure you that you may speak freely. I'm quite aware of the circumstances and am entirely unfazed by them."
"But... I don't understand you. How can that be?"
"Miss York, your brother may have told you that my father is the Duke of Winthrop? As lofty as my father's title is, my mother is not the most respectable of women."
"Well, I assumed ..."
"She is a paid companion."
"To whom?"
"To whichever gentleman she deigns to love at the moment."
"Oh!" she yelped. "I thought... oh, I see."
"She loved my father for a good many years, but he was not her only gentleman admirer, and she was not his wife. So when I tell you that you may speak freely with me, I am not being polite. You were with a man last night, and he is even less appealing a suitor than I, and so here we are."
You were with a man.... Her heart beat so hard that he must be able to see her pulse in her throat. He could undoubtedly see the scarlet blush climbing her cheeks. There was no hiding behind euphemisms. He knew that she lain down and raised her skirts and allowed Peter White to... do that. "I'd had too much wine."
"As is often the case in these situations."
"Mr. Bertrand," she snapped, "I am trying to discover your motives."
"I've already confessed my motives. I like you, Miss York. Is that not enough of a reason?"
"No! It makes no sense. You know nothing of me but this awful thing I've done. What could you possibly like so much that you would be willing to marry me?"
He finished his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup as he swallowed.
"Well?" she demanded.
Mr. Bertrand set the cup down, the proportions of it ridiculously small in his wide fingers. He politely raised his napkin to his mouth, the white linen calling attention to his tanned skin. No wonder she'd thought him a groundskeeper. It was likely he was related to one or two.
But regardless of his base beginnings, there was nothing subservient in his eyes as he leaned toward her. His eyes radiated all the confidence of a duke as he met her gaze.
"I like you, Miss York, because you are wicked, and there can he no finer a blessing for a man than a good and wicked wild. Wouldn't you agree?"
His words were so shocking that Marissa could not comprehend them for a moment. Wicked? He'd called her wicked? Blood rushed in her ears as the offense sunk in.
"How dare you? You are absolutely—"
He pushed back his chair, interrupting her tirade. "I'm sure you are correct. No need to continue. Consider me
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