He did not let go.
What had she been thinking?
Her spectacles were slipping, and she stilled, afraid they would topple off her nose if she moved too much.
“You should know better than to reach into the darkness, Pippa,” he said softly, the sound of her name familiar on his lips. “You never know what you might find.”
“Release me,” she whispered, risking movement to look over her shoulder to the still-open door to the ballroom. “Someone will see.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” His fingers tangled with hers, the heat of his grasp nearly unbearable. How was he so warm in the cold?
She shook her head, feeling the wire frames of her glasses slip more. “No.”
“Are you certain?” His grip shifted, and suddenly, it was she holding him, not the other way around.
She forced herself to release him. “Yes.” She put both hands safely on the stone railing, straightening, but not before her glasses dropped into the darkness. She reached for them, knocking them off course with her fingertips, sending them shooting through the night. “My spectacles!”
He disappeared, the only sign of him the whisper of fabric as he moved away from her. And she didn’t know how, but she could feel the loss of him. The top of his head came into view, a few inches of blurred, burnt orange gleaming in the candlelight loosed from the ballroom.
Recognition surged on a tide of excitement. Mr. Cross.
She pointed toward him. “Do not move.”
She was already heading for the far end of the balcony, where a long staircase led down to the gardens.
He met her at the base of the stone steps, the dim light from the house casting his face into wicked shadows. Extending her spectacles to her, he said, “Return to the ballroom.”
She snatched the glasses and put them on, his face becoming clear and angled once more. “No.”
“We agreed you would relinquish your quest for ruination.”
She took a deep breath. “Then you should not have encouraged me.”
“Encouraged you to eavesdrop and hobble yourself?”
She tested her weight on the foot, wincing at the pinch of pain in the toe. “I think at the worst it is a minor phalangeal fracture. It will heal. I’ve done it before.”
“Broken your toe.”
She nodded. “It’s just the smallest toe. A horse once stepped on the same toe on the opposite side. Needless to say, ladies’ footwear does not provide much in the way of protection from those so far better shod than we.”
“I suppose anatomy is another one of your specialties?”
“It is.”
“I am impressed.”
She was not certain he was telling the truth. “In my experience, ‘impressed’ is not the usual reaction to my knowledge of human anatomy.”
“No?”
She was grateful for the dim light, as she could not seem to stop speaking. “Most people find it odd.”
“I am not most people.”
The response set her back. “I suppose you’re not.” She paused, thinking of the conversation she’d overheard. She ignored the thread of discomfort that came with the memory. “Who is Lavinia?”
“Go back to your ball, Pippa.” He turned away from her and started along the edge of the house.
She could not let him leave. She might have promised not to approach him, but he was in her gardens. She followed.
He stopped and turned back. “Have you learned the parts of the ear?”
She smiled, welcoming his interest. “Of course. The exterior portion is called the pinna. Some refer to it as the auricle, but I prefer the pinna, because it’s Latin for feather, and I’ve always rather liked the image. The inner ear is made up of an impressive collection of bones and tissue, beginning with—”
“Amazing.” He cut her off. “You seem to know so much about the organ in question, and yet you fail so miserably at using it. I could have sworn I told you to return to your ball.”
He turned away again. She followed.
“My hearing is fine, Mr. Cross. As is my free will.”
“You are difficult.”
“Not usually.”
“Turning over a new leaf?” He did not slow.
“Do you make it a practice to force the ladies of your acquaintance to run to keep up with you?”
He stopped, and she nearly ran into him. “Only those whom I would like to lose.”
She smiled. “You came to my location, Mr. Cross. Do not forget that.”
He looked to the sky, then back at her, and she wished that she could see his eyes. “The terms of our wager were clear; you are not to be ruined. If you remain here, with me, you will be missed, and sought. And if you are discovered, you will be ruined. Return. Immediately.”
There was something very compelling about this man—about the way he seemed so calm, so controlled. And she had never in her life wanted to do something less than leave him. “No one will miss me.”
“Not even Castleton?”
She hesitated, something akin to guilt flaring. The earl was likely waiting for her, lemonade warming in hand.
Mr. Cross seemed to read her mind. “He is missing you.”
Perhaps it was the darkness. Or perhaps it was the pain in her foot. Or perhaps it was the way the quick back-and-forth of their conversation made her feel as though she had finally found someone with a mind that worked the way hers did. She would never know why she blurted out, “He wants me to name his hound.”
There was a long moment of silence during which she thought he might laugh.
Please don’t laugh.
He didn’t laugh. “You are marrying the man. It is a rather innocuous request in the grand scheme of things.”
He did not understand. “It’s not innocuous.”
“Is there something wrong with it?”
“The dog?”
“Yes.”
“No, I think she’s probably quite a nice dog.” She lifted her hands, then dropped them. “It just seems so . . . So . . .”
“Final.”
He did understand. “Precisely.”
“It is final. You’re marrying him. You’re going to have to name his children. One would think the dog would be the easy bit.”
“Yes, well, it seems the dog is the much harder bit.” She took a deep breath. “Have you ever considered marriage?”
“No.” The reply was quick and honest.
“Why not?”
“It is not for me.”
“You seem sure of that.”
“I am.”
“How do you know?”
He did not reply, saved from having to by the arrival of Trotula, who came careening around the corner of the house with a happy, excited woof. “Yours?” he asked.
She nodded as the spaniel barreled to a stop at their feet, and Cross crouched low to pet the dog, who sighed and leaned into the caress.
“She likes that,” Pippa said.
“Name?”
“Trotula.”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a small, knowing smile. “Like Trotula de Salerno? The Italian doctor?”
Of course he would know she’d named the dog for a scientist. Of course he would guess. “Doctoress.”
He shook his head. “That’s a terrible name. Perhaps you shouldn’t name Castleton’s dog after all.”
“It is not! Trotula de Salerno is an excellent namesake!”
“No. I shall allow you ‘excellent example for young women’ or ‘excellent scientific hero,’ but I will not allow you ‘excellent namesake.’ ” He paused, scratching the spaniel’s ear. “Poor beast,” he said, and Pippa warmed to the kindness in his tone. “She’s mistreated you abominably.”
Trotula turned over onto her back, displayin
g her underside with an alarming lack of shame. He scratched her there, and Pippa was transfixed by his strong, handsome hands—the way they worked in her fur. After a long moment of observation, she said, “I’d rather stay outside. With you.”
His hand stilled on the dog’s stomach. “What happened to your aversion to dishonesty?”
Her brows snapped together. “It remains.”
“You are attempting to escape your betrothal ball with another man. I would say that’s the very portrait of dishonesty.”
“Not another man.”
He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
She hurried to rephrase. “That is, you are another man, of course, but you aren’t a real man. I mean, you are not a threat to Castleton. You are safe.” She trailed off . . . suddenly feeling not at all safe.
“And the fact that you’ve asked me to assist you in any number of activities that might destroy your reputation and summarily end your engagement?”
“It still doesn’t make you a man,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Quickly enough to have to take it back. “I mean. Well. You know what I mean. Not in the way you mean.”
He exhaled on a low laugh and stood. “First you offer to pay me for sex, then you throw my masculinity into question. A lesser man would take those words to heart.”
Her eyes went wide. She’d never meant to imply . . . “I didn’t . . .” She trailed off.
He stepped toward her, close enough for her to feel his heat. His voice turned low and quiet. “A lesser man would attempt to prove you wrong.”
She swallowed. He was intimidatingly tall when he was so close. So much taller than any other man of her acquaintance. “I—”
“Tell me, Lady Philippa.” He raised a hand, one finger lingering at the indentation of her upper lip, a hairsbreadth from touching her. “In your study of anatomy, did you ever learn the name of the place between the nose and the lip?”
Her lips parted, and she resisted the urge to lean toward him, to force him to touch her. She answered on a whisper. “The philtrum.”
He smiled. “Clever girl. It is Latin. Do you know its meaning?”
“No.”
“It means love potion. The Romans believed it was the most erotic place on the body. They called it Cupid’s bow, because of the way it shapes the upper lip.” As he spoke, he ran his finger along the curve of her lip, a temptation more than a touch, barely there. His voice grew softer, deeper. “They believed it was the mark of the god of love.”
She inhaled, low and shallow. “I did not know that.”
He leaned down, closer, his hand falling away. “I’d be willing to wager that there are any number of things about the human body that you do not know, my little expert. All things that I would happily teach you.”
He was so close . . . his words more breath than sound, the feel of them against her ear, then her cheek, sending a riot of sensation through her.
This is what it should feel like with Castleton. The thought came from nowhere. She pushed it aside, promised to deal with it later.
But for now . . . “I would like to learn,” she said.
“So honest.” He smiled, the curve of his lips—his philtrum—so close, and as dangerous as the weapon for which it was named. “This is your first lesson.”
She wanted him to teach her everything.
“Do not tempt the lion,” he said, the words brushing across her lips, parting them with their touch. “For he most certainly will bite.”
Dear God. She welcomed it.
He straightened, stepping back and adjusting the cuffs of his coat casually, utterly unmoved by the moment. “Go back to your ball and your betrothed, Pippa.”
He turned away, and she sucked in a long breath, feeling as though she had been without oxygen for a damaging length of time.
She watched him as he disappeared into the darkness, willing him back.
Failing.
Chapter Six
Hours later, long after the last gamer had left the Angel, Cross sat at his desk, attempting to calculate the evening’s take for the third time. And failing for the third time.
Failing, because he could not eradicate the vision of blond, bespectacled Philippa Marbury charging down the rear steps of Dolby House toward him. Indeed, every time he attempted to carry a digit from one column to the next, he imagined her fingers threading through his hair or her lips curving beneath his hand, and he lost the number.
Cross did not lose numbers. Much of his adult life had been spent in punishment for being unable to lose numbers.
He bowed over the book again.
He’d added three lines of the column before the pendula on his desk caught his attention, and he remembered her soft touch setting the drops in motion. Temptation flared, and he imagined that same touch setting other things in motion. Like the fastenings on his trousers.
The nib of his pen snapped against the ledger, sending a splatter of ink across the ecru page.
She thought him safe.
And with any other woman, he was. With any other woman, he was safety incarnate.
But with her . . . his control—that which he valued above all else—hung by a thread. A delicate, silken thread, soft as her hair. Her skin. Her voice in the darkness.
With a groan, he shoved his hands through his hair and pushed his chair away from the desk, tilting it back against the wall and spreading his legs wide. He had to exorcise her memory from this place. Everywhere he looked—the abacus, the globe, the damned desk—everything was sullied with her. He was almost certain that he could still smell her there, the lingering scent of sunlight and fresh linen.
Goddammit.
She’d ruined his office . . . as thoroughly as if she’d marched into the room and removed all her clothes.
And laid herself across his desk, wearing nothing but her spectacles and her little crooked smile, her skin pale and beautiful against the ebony.
He closed his eyes, the vision altogether too easy to conjure. He pinned her with one hand just below her beautiful white breasts, their tips the color of her lips—fresh peaches drizzled with honey. His mouth watered; he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from leaning over her, from taking one of those perfect nipples into his mouth and tasting her. He’d spend an age on those breasts, teasing her until she was writhing beneath him, savoring her until she was desperate for him to move on—begging him to move lower.
And only when she begged would he give her what they both wanted—spreading her thighs, running his hands over her soft, creamy skin, and—
A knock on the door sounded like a rifle’s report. His chair slammed to the floor, punctuated by his wicked curse.
Whoever it was, Cross was going to murder him. Slowly. And with great pleasure.
“What?” he barked.
The door opened, revealing the founder of The Fallen Angel. “A fine welcome.”
Cross considered leaping over the desk and strangling Chase. “I must have said it wrong. Barring the club being aflame, you are unwelcome.”
Chase did not listen, instead closing the door and dropping into a large wing chair on the opposite side of the desk.
Cross scowled.
His partner shrugged. “Let’s say the club is aflame.”
“What do you want?”
“The book.”
Gentlemen’s clubs across London prided themselves on their betting books, and the Angel was no different. The massive leather-bound volume was used to catalog all wagers made on the main floor of the club. Members could record any wager—no matter how trivial—in the book, and the Angel took a percentage of the bets to make certain the parties were held to whatever bizarre stakes were established.
Chase dealt in information, and loved the book for the secrets it revealed about the club’s membership. The insurance it provided.
&
nbsp; Cross set the heavy tome on the desk.
Chase did not reach for it. “Justin tells me that you were not here for most of the evening.”
“Justin needs a sound thrashing for all the information he gives you regarding our whereabouts.”
“I care less about the others’ whereabouts these days,” Chase said, extending one arm and setting the massive globe in motion. “I’m chiefly concerned with yours.”
Cross watched the globe spin, hating the realization that the last person to interact with the giant orb had been Philippa Marbury and resenting Chase’s touching it. “I don’t know why.”
“Knight is easier to watch when I know where to find him.”
Cross’s brows rose. Surely he had misunderstood. “Are you suggesting that I ignore the fact that he has ruined my brother-in-law, threatened my sister’s safety, and blackmailed me?”
“No. Of course not.” Chase stopped the globe, one long finger on the Sahara. “And I care not a bit about whether you marry the girl or not. But I want you to be careful about the way you choose to punish Knight. He will not take kindly to half measures.”
Cross met his partner’s gaze. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you have one chance to do this. You establish our might wholly, or not at all.”
“I have plans for wholly.”
“There is a reason why his largest players do not have memberships to the Angel. They are not men we would ordinarily welcome at our tables.”
“Maybe not. But respect tempts them. Power. The chance to rub elbows with those who have it, those who are titled. The chance to play the Angel.”
Chase nodded, reaching for a box of cigars on a nearby table. “Where were you tonight?”
“I do not require a keeper.”
“Of course you do. You think I don’t already know where you were?” The words came from behind a cloud of smoke.
Irritation flared. “You did not have me followed.”
Chase did not respond to the anger. “I don’t trust Knight around you. The two of you have always had a . . . troublesome . . . rapport.”
Cross stood, towering over the desk and his partner. “You did not have me followed.”
Chase rolled the cigar between thumb and finger. “I do wish you had scotch in here.”
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Page 10