She shook her head, matching his smile with her own. “The irony of this situation is not lost on me, I assure you.”
He toasted her and drank the entire glass in one great swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol down his throat—embracing its distraction. “Your question?”
She did not answer for a moment, and he forced himself to look in her direction, where he found her gaze trained on the crystal tumbler he clutched in his hand. He set it on the sideboard with a thud, and the soft sound pulled her from her reverie. She dipped her head, focusing on the small book in her hands.
Because she was not looking at him, it gave him leave to watch the pink wash over her cheeks as she framed the question that was sure to destroy his sanity.
God, he loved to watch her blush.
“I suppose I shall start at the beginning. It appears that I’m utterly lacking in knowledge of the basics. I mean, I understand dogs and horses and such, but humans . . . well, they’re different. And so . . .” She paused, then rushed forward, the words pouring out of her. “I wonder if you could explain the use of the tongue.”
The words were a blow, one of Temple’s strong, unpulled punches, and—just as it happened inside the ropes—it took a moment for the ringing in Cross’s ears to subside.
When it did, she had grown impatient, adding softly, “I understand it has its uses in kissing. And other things, too, if Olivia is to be believed—which she isn’t all the time. But I don’t know what to do with it, and if he were to kiss me . . .”
If he were to kiss her, Cross would take great pleasure in destroying him.
It took every ounce of his strength to keep from leaping over the table, lifting her in his arms, pressing her back against the wall, and ravishing her. He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what would come, but knowing, without a doubt, that if she said one more perfectly reasonable, rational, insane thing, he would not be able to resist her.
Before either of them could speak, there was a knock at the door, and he was saved.
Or perhaps ruined.
Either way, Pippa was saved.
They both looked to the door, surprised and confused by the sound for an instant before he was moving to open it, using his tall frame to block the view into the room.
Chase stood on the other side of the door.
“What is it?” Cross snapped. Smirking, Chase attempted to see past him into the room. Cross narrowed the gap between door and jamb. “Chase,” he warned.
There was no mistaking the smug laughter in Chase’s brown eyes. “Hiding something?”
“What do you want?”
“You have a visitor.”
“I am otherwise occupied.”
“Intriguing.” Chase attempted another look into the room, and Cross could not help the low, unintelligible threat that came at the movement. “Did you just growl? How primitive.”
Cross did not rise to his friend’s bait. “Tell someone to handle it. Handle it yourself.”
“As the it in this scenario is your . . . Lavinia, I am not certain you would like me handling it.”
Lavinia.
Surely he’d misunderstood. “Lavinia?”
“She is here.”
She couldn’t be. She wouldn’t risk herself. She wouldn’t risk her children. Fury flared, hot and quick. “Are we simply allowing entry to every woman in London these days?”
Chase was still attempting to see inside the room. “Some of us are more to blame for the recent rash of peeresses than others. She is in your office.”
Cross swore, harsh and soft.
“Shame on you. In front of a lady, no less.”
He closed the door on Chase’s smug face, turning to Pippa.
What a disaster.
She and his sister, under the same, scandalous roof, and it was his fault.
Goddammit.
He was losing control of the situation, and he did not care for it.
She had edged closer, her curiosity making her brave, and she was only a few feet from him. Two minutes earlier, and he would have closed the distance and kissed her senseless.
But Chase’s intrusion was best for both of them, clearly.
Perhaps he could will it to be true.
He had to deal with his sister.
Now.
“I shall be back.”
Her eyes went wide. “You’re leaving me?”
“Not for long.”
She took a step toward him. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
Thank God for that.
He took a step back, reaching for the handle of the door. “I will be back,” he repeated. “You’re safe here.” He opened the door a crack, knowing that there was little he could do. Lavinia could not be left alone in the casino.
Not that Pippa was entirely trustworthy. Indeed, this lady could wreak no small amount of havoc if she were left to her own devices here, on the Other Side.
For a moment, he hovered between staying and going, finally meeting her big blue eyes and saying in his most commanding tone, “Stay.”
Lord, deliver him from women.
Did he think her a hound?
Pippa circled the hazard table, absently collecting the dice and rotating them over and over in the palm of her hand.
She hadn’t heard much, but she’d heard Cross say her name.
Felt the keen disappointment that came—altogether irrationally—with the syllables on his tongue.
He’d left her, for another woman. For Lavinia. The woman from the gardens.
With nothing more than a masterful, “Stay.”
And he hadn’t even answered her question.
She hesitated, turning to face one long edge of the table, placing her hands on the finely carved mahogany bumper that kept the dice from rolling right off the table and clattering to the floor. She tossed the dice that she had been clutching in frustration, not watching as they knocked against the wood and tumbled to a stop.
The man would learn quickly that she was in no way houndlike.
Leaning over the table, she stared long and hard at the hazard field, mind racing, the green baize, with its white and red markings, blurring as she considered her next course of action. For she certainly was not going to stand by and wait in this tiny, constricting chamber as all manner of excitements occurred in the club beyond.
Not while he scurried off to do whatever it was scoundrels did with women for whom they pined.
And he certainly pined for this Lavinia person.
He’d pined enough that he’d met her clandestinely, at Pippa’s betrothal ball. He’d pined enough that he chased after her today. And he clearly pined enough that honoring his commitment to Pippa was easily forgotten in Lavinia’s presence.
Suddenly, her chest felt quite tight.
Pippa coughed, standing straight, her gaze falling on the closed door to the little room where he’d left her. She lifted one hand to her chest, running her fingers along the bare skin above the edge of the wool bodice, attempting to ease the discomfort.
She took a deep breath, the thought of Cross’s rushing through the gaming hell and into the welcoming arms of his lady—who had clearly realized he was a man worthy of forgiving—overwhelming all others.
She was likely beautiful, petite, and perfectly curved. No doubt, she was one of those ladies who knew precisely what to say in any situation and never ever found herself saying the wrong thing or asking an inappropriate question.
Pippa would wager that his Lavinia could not name a single bone in the human body.
No wonder Cross adored her.
The tightness in her chest became an ache, and Pippa’s hand stilled.
Oh, dear. It was not physiological. It was emotional.
Panic flared. No.
She leaned back over the t
able, closing her eyes tightly and sucking in a long breath. No. She wouldn’t allow emotion into the scenario. She was here in the interest of discovery. In the name of research.
That was all.
She opened her eyes, searched for a point of focus, and found the dice she’d tossed earlier.
Six and three.
Her gaze narrowed on the winning toss.
Six and three.
Suspicion flared. She collected the dice. Rolled again. Six and three.
Inspected them carefully. Rolled again. Six and three.
Just one die. Three.
Three.
Three.
Her eyes went wide as understanding came. The die was weighted. The dice were weighted.
She hadn’t won.
He’d let her win.
He’d been directing the game all along.
There’s no such thing as luck.
He’d lied to her.
He’d been working the game, no doubt with losing dice, too . . . planning to fleece her of all her research plans, planning to take from her these last weeks of freedom before she was Countess Castleton. He’d stolen from her!
Worse, he’d stolen from her and left her to meet another woman.
She stood straight, scowled at the door where she’d seen him last.
“Well,” she said aloud to the empty room, “that won’t do.”
And she headed for the door, putting all her strength into the movement when she reached for the door handle, and found the door locked.
A little sound escaped her, a cross between shock and indignation, as Pippa tried the door again, certain that she was mistaken. Sure that there was no possible way that he had locked her in a room in a gaming hell.
After cheating her.
No possible way.
After several attempts, Pippa was confident of two things: First, he had indeed locked her in a room in a gaming hell after cheating her. And second, he was clearly mad.
Crouching low, she peered through the keyhole into the hallway beyond. She waited a few moments, uncertain of what precisely she was waiting for, but waiting nonetheless. When no one appeared or passed through the corridor on the other side of the door, she stood, pacing away from the door and back again, confronting the wide oak.
She had only one course of action. She had to pick the lock. Not that she’d ever done such a thing before, but she’d read about the practice in articles and novels and, honestly, if small children could accomplish the task, how difficult could it be?
Reaching up, she removed a hairpin and crouched low once more, jamming the little strip of metal into the lock and wiggling it about. Nothing happened. After what seemed like an eternity of attempting the impossible, growing more and more infuriated at her situation and the man who had caused it, Pippa sat down with a huff of frustration and returned the hairpin to its rightful place.
Apparently, there were a number of small children in London who were significantly more accomplished than she. She cast an eye at the enormous painting she’d noticed before. No doubt the young men in the oil would have no trouble at all with the lock. No doubt, they would have a half dozen ways of escaping this small room.
Like a secret passageway.
The thought had her on her feet in seconds, one hand against the silk wall coverings, tracing the edge of the small room in search of a secret door. It took her several minutes to check every inch of wall, from one side of the painting to the other, finding nothing out of the ordinary. There was no secret passage. Not unless it was into the painting itself.
She eyed the painting.
Unless.
Grabbing one side of the massive frame, she pulled, and the painting swung out into the room, revealing a wide, dark corridor.
“Triumph!” she crowed to the room at large before lifting a candelabrum from the nearby table and stepping into the corridor, pulling the wide door closed behind her with a thud.
She couldn’t help her self-satisfied smile. Cross would be shocked indeed when he unlocked her cage and discovered her gone.
And he would deserve it, the rogue.
As for Pippa, she would be wherever this passageway led.
Chapter Ten
I have studied a great many species of flora and fauna over the years, and if there is one truth to be found, it is this: Whether hounds or humans, siblings almost always display more heterogeneity than they do homogeneity. One need only look at Olivia and me to see the proof.
Parents are the red rosebush . . . offspring the white branch.
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 28, 1831; eight days prior to her wedding
I came to tell you to leave us alone.”
Cross stood just inside the closed, locked door to his office, beyond which two hundred of Britain’s most powerful men wagered. On the way there, he’d considered a half dozen things he might say to his sister, all variations on the theme of “What in hell would possess you to come here?”
But he did not have the opportunity to say any of them. His sister spoke the instant the lock clicked, as though she had nothing in the world about which to worry but that single calm, clear sentence.
“Lavinia—” he began, but she cut him off, her serious brown gaze unwavering.
“I am not here to discuss it,” she said, the words like steel. “I came from Knight’s, and he refused to see me. Because of you.”
Ire flared. “As well it should be. You should never have gone to him. And if he knows what’s best for him, he’ll never see you again.”
She looked tired—pale and thin and uncomfortable, with dark circles beneath her eyes and hollow cheeks, as though she had not slept or eaten in days. But it had been more than days that had made her this way—that had stolen the bright-eyed, happy seventeen-year-old girl and left behind this stoic twenty-four-year-old woman who seemed years older and decades wiser.
Too wise. She did not back down. “This is none of your concern.”
“Of course it is my concern. You’re my sister.”
“You think that the pronouncement of the words makes them true?”
He moved toward her, hesitating when she pressed back, clasping the edge of his desk as though she could gain strength from the great slab of ebony. “There is no making about it. They are true.”
Her lips twisted in a bitter, humorless smile. “How simple you make it seem. As though you have done nothing wrong. As though we are all expected to forget that you deserted us. As though we are expected to pretend that all is well, and nothing has changed. As though we are to slaughter the fatted calf and welcome you back into our lives—our prodigal son.”
The words stung, even as Cross reminded himself that Lavinia had been so young when Baine had died. Seventeen and barely out, she’d been too focused on her own pain and her own tragedy to see the truth of what had happened. To see that Cross had had no choice but to leave the family.
To see that he’d been pushed out.
To see that they would have never forgiven him. That, in their eyes, he would never have been good enough, strong enough, Baine enough.
Not only in their eyes. His as well.
He did not correct her—did not tell her. Instead, he let the words sting. Because he deserved them. Still.
He always would.
When he did not reply, his sister added, “I have come to tell you that whatever arrangement you have made, whatever deals you have struck with Mr. Knight—I don’t want them. I want you to rescind them. I shall take responsibility for my family.”
The words made him angry. “You should not have to take responsibility. You have a husband. This is his purpose. His role. It is he who should be protecting his children’s futures. His wife’s reputation.”
Her brown eyes flashed. “That is none o
f your concern.”
“It is if you require protecting, and he cannot provide it.”
“Now you play the expert in familial protection? The perfect older brother? Now, after seven years of desertion? After seven years of invisibility? Where were you when they married me to Dunblade to begin with?”
He’d been counting cards in some casino, trying to pretend he did not know where his sister was. What she was doing. Who she was marrying. Why. Ironically, that casino had likely been Knight’s. “Lavinia,” he tried to explain, “so much happened when Baine died. So much you don’t know.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “You still think me a little girl. You think I don’t know? You think I don’t remember that night? Need I remind you that I was there? Not you. Me. I am the one who carries the scars. The memory of it. I carry it with me every day. And somehow, it is you who has taken ownership of the evening.”
She shifted, and he noticed the flash of discomfort on her face as she leaned into her finely wrought cane. He moved to a nearby chair, lifting a stack of books from its seat. “Please. Sit.”
She stiffened, and when she spoke, the words were like ice. “I am quite able to stand. I may be lame, but I am not crippled.”
Goddammit. Could he do nothing right? “I never meant—Of course you are able to stand. I simply thought you would be more comfortable—”
“I don’t require you to make me comfortable or to make my life easier. I require you to stay out of my life. I came to tell you that. And to tell you that I will not allow you to involve yourself with Knight on my behalf.”
Anger flared, and frustration. “I am afraid the decision is out of your hands. I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself to Knight. Not when I can help it.”
“It’s not your place to step in.”
“It is precisely my place. Like it or not, this is my world, and you are my sister.” He paused, hesitating on the next words, not wanting to say them, but knowing he owed them to her. “Knight came after you to get to me.”
Her brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon?”
He hated himself in that moment, almost as much as he hated the look in her eyes, suspicion and disbelief. “He wants me, Lavinia. Not you. Not Dunblade. He knew that threatening you would be the fastest way to get what he wants from me.”
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Page 19