A Little Bit Wild

A Little Bit Wild by Victoria Dahl Page A

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Authors: Victoria Dahl
Tags: Histórica
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heard from women, yes. It seems a knowledge gained by only a happy few. Still, I'd say it's a more important skill than jumping a hedge, for instance, and yet so many husbands spend far more time learning of horses. You wouldn't want one of those husbands, would you. Miss York?"
    "I-I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
    "Really? I'm sure you do." He settled more firmly against the back, stretching enough that his thigh inched closer to her, his knee brushing her skirts. "There is more than one way, you know."
    "More than one way to what?"
    "Pleasure a woman."
    Her pulse took up residence between her legs. "Is there?" she squeaked.
    "Indeed. And of course men are pleased in countless ways. We are easily deciphered creatures. No depth to us at all."
    Oh, but that wasn't true. She did not know any more of men's pleasure than she knew of her own. Did they like the same things? Did they feel the same sensations? Marissa stared straight ahead, hands fisted in her lap. She should not encourage him. She should not lay a hand on his thigh oilcan toward him for a kiss. Then he might think she truly desired his attentions, when all she really wanted was pleasure.
    The faint shush of fabric behind her told her he had moved his hand. And when he dragged one finger down her neck, Marissa shivered and closed her eyes, trying to hold back a sharp sigh.
    "May I call you Marissa when we are alone? We are pretending, after all." His touch circled to the side of her neck as his thumb brushed her spine.
    Marissa felt the tightening of her nipples as gooseflesh flowed down her body. She knew that was a place that men might touch during lovemaking. "Yes, of course."
    "This is nice. Here, in the quiet, with you."
    "Mm." She dared not say more.
    "But your dance partners will be looking for you. Marissa."
    A faint French accent molded her name, the same as it molded his own when he introduced himself. "Mm," she murmured again, concentrating on his hand at her neck. It was hot and surprisingly light against her. She imagined it moving toward her neckline....
    "Shall we?" his quiet voice brushed over her as his palm snuck heat into the nape of her neck.
    Marissa arched carefully, curving her spine more fully into his hold. For a moment, his lingers felt heavier, and tension stretched between their bodies like a visible cord. His thigh tensed, pressing his knee against her. Was he leaning forward? Would he brush his mouth over the exposed skin of her shoulder? Her lips parted to allow deeper breaths. "Yes," she whispered ... and Jude stood and straightened his coat.
    "Then please allow me to escort you to your eagerly awaiting beaus."
    "To what?"
    He offered a hand, and she took it automatically, letting him help her to her feet.
    "But I don't feel like dancing now."
    "Then we shall talk."
    "What in the world would I talk to you about?"
    He huffed a laugh. "Why, anything you might talk to anyone else about."
    Disgruntled by her misunderstanding of his intent, Marissa scowled. All men ever wanted to discuss was horses and government. "Oh, you'd like to hear of my gardening, would you? Or I could regale you with tales of the latest novel I read. Perhaps I shall tell you of my plans for the little pillow I'm stitching."
    "Absolutely," he walked her slowly from the room.
    "I am not appeased by polite murmurings and the glazing of eyes, Mr. Bertrand. But if you care to speak of horseflesh, I will hang on your every word, I'm sure."
    "My God. You have a low opinion of men, don't you?"
    "On the contrary, I like men. They are polite and helpful and necessary for dancing. And men are so handsome and different , aren't they?"
    "Not all of us, clearly, but I'll let that go. You know, my mother enjoys gardening, and I used to spend hours helping her."
    She studied his face to see if he was humoring her, but he looked earnest.
    "She grows herbs in her small yard, and roses along the walk."
    "Really? I have never grown herbs. Cook won't let me into her plot, but roses

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