love. I did not find his story romantic, so he likes me."
Marissa nodded. The whole of the ton seemed to think Aidan nothing more than a dramatic figure to be used as a centerpiece at dinner parties. A young, handsome bachelor with a story that made the ladies swoon with sighed delight. The love of his life had been snatched from his arms by the cruel hand of death, and he mourned her to this day. What gentle heart could resist that story?
Aidan hated them all.
"You've been a good friend to him, I understand."
"Well, we have common interests. Between his ships and my father's investments, we often travel in the same circles."
"Really? Do you work for your father? I had no idea."
"I do. He enjoys dabbling in his own investments on occasion, and I enjoy having some industrious way to occupy my time. Idle hands make for the devil's work, you know." His gaze slid to her. "Perhaps you need more than stitching to keep you busy."
"Oh, aren't you clever?" She tried to leave it at that, but she found her body actually leaning toward his, curious to know more about this man. Marissa readjusted her posture and tried to look less fascinated. "Where do you travel then?"
"Well, France quite often, for obvious reasons. And all over Europe. Italy, Spain, Portugal. Constantinople was fascinating, of course."
"Constantinople? You've been there?" Well, there was no disguising her eagerness. She didn't even try. She could not imagine such an exotic place.
"I have." His eyes studied her, glinting with pleased assessment. "If we marry, I'd welcome your company when I travel. I'd be pleased to visit the Ottoman again."
She blinked several times, shocked and happy with his words. "Truly? I've... I've never considered.... Would I like it, do you think?"
His smile curved to a wicked angle. "You would love it."
She flushed at his words. The lone of them bespoke admiration and pride and a sure knowledge of her very nature. How could those simple words leave her flustered and overly warm? Marissa clutched her reins too tightly and shifted in the saddle. Cleopatra stepped nervously before relaxing into an easy gait again.
Marissa swallowed and urged her to a trot. She wanted to run, but the mare wasn't warm enough yet, even if Marissa was. She'd never been flustered by talk of travel before. Everything about Jude Bertrand was so very different. So unexpectedly intriguing. How did he make her need things from him that she didn't even want?
For instance, right now, she was staring hard toward the horizon, counting the seconds until she could push her marc to a full, hard run. The old church was only miles ahead, and she and Jude would be alone there. When they arrived they would dismount to explore the ruins. They'd disappear behind crumbling walls and overgrown orchards. Even a passing traveler would not be able to spot them.
Surely, he would kiss her, finally.
Finally.
Marissa reminded herself that she'd only known him for two days. And then she urged her horse to a gallop.
Chapter 8
Nothing.
He'd done nothing at all. Not a kiss. Not a stolen touch of her hip. Not a winking suggestion that she resume her exploration of his legs while they were away from the manor.
Jude had been a complete gentleman during the ride, and now the horses were happily walking the last few yards toward home.
Marissa's thoughts, however, had been less than ladylike. She still didn't think he was an attractive man, but she'd revised her opinion of his thighs.
Yesterday in the garden, his muscles had been just as hard as she'd expected when she'd touched him. Like stone, but stone that was warm and flexing and contoured into fascinating curves. Every shift of his body had felt like the pull and push of a mountain beneath her hand. And on his horse ... my Cod, on his horse, his thighs had bulged and tightened and pressed with fantastic indecency against his breeches. Marissa had found her breath coming quick and shallow by the time they'd reached the
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