He lifted one of her legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee, swirling his tongue against the finely spun silk there before hooking her knee over his shoulder and leaning forward to place a kiss against her beautiful mound. He stroked deep, first with one finger, then two as he blew a long stream of air over the spot where his thumb had been swirling. She sucked in a deep breath. “Cross,” she whispered. “Please—”
And in that plea, he lost himself. “Yes, love,” he said, inhaling her heady, glorious scent. “I’ll give you everything you want. Everything you need.”
He stroked into her softness again, and he wondered at the way she wept for him, not knowing what he would give her . . . what he could do to her . . . and wanting it nonetheless. “Do you feel it? The truth of it? How much you want me?”
“I want . . .” she started, then stopped.
He turned his head, nipping at the soft skin of her inner thigh, reveling in the softness there—that untouched, uncharted, silken spread. “Say it.” He would give it to her. Anything in his power. Anything beyond it.
She looked down at him, blue eyes fairly glowing with desire. “I want you to want me.”
He closed his eyes at that; trust Pippa to be forthright even here, even now, even as she bared herself to his eyes and mouth and hands. Trust her to strip this moment of all remaining shrouds, leaving it raw and bare and honest.
God help him, he told her the truth. He wasn’t certain he could do anything but. “I do, love. I want you more than you could ever know. More than I could have ever dreamed. I want you enough for two men. For ten.”
She laughed at that, the sound coming on a wicked movement of strong hips and soft stomach. “I don’t require ten. Just you.”
Even as he knew he would never be worthy enough for her, the words went straight to the hard, straining length of him, and he knew he would never be able to resist her—not when she asked with truth in her big blue eyes and passion on her soft, lyric voice.
He leaned in, and spoke to the heart of her. “And you shall have me.”
And then he was where he had wanted to be for a week. For longer. He removed his hand from where it had been working its irresistible rhythm, retreating slowly, killing them both until she moved to seek his touch. He couldn’t stop the wicked grin that spread across his face at the proof that she wanted him. “Easy.”
“No.” The word came out on a near desperate whine. “Now, Cross.”
“So demanding,” he teased, his blood running hot at her insistence. “Now, it is.” And he spread her gently, revealing the core of her, willing and wet and perfect.
He kissed her then, the way he’d promised he would that night in his office, the way he’d dreamed late at night as he lay in the darkness and imagined this vision of a woman rising above him, open and available for worship.
Just as she was now, standing above him, one hand holding her sapphire skirts, the other thrust into his hair, holding him against her as he pressed his tongue into her softness, savoring her taste, making love to her with slow, languid strokes that made her sigh and writhe and push against him. She was pleasure and heat and passion—the first, fresh drink of water after years in the desert.
He found the heart of her desire, working it first slowly, then longer and faster until time faded and he was wrapped in her sound and her feel and her taste, with no desire to move or stray from her. He’d promised her hours, and he could make good on it—he could worship her from here, on his knees, for an eternity.
She lost her grip on her skirts, and her thighs trembled against him as she arched away from the wall, a wicked, wonderful offering. He took it without question, reaching up to hold her, returning his fingers to the heat of her in one long, deep thrust.
She came apart then, against his hands and his mouth, crying her pleasure beneath his tongue and teeth, and he carried her over the edge, through her passion, working her with his touch and his kiss and every bit of desire and depravity he’d resisted over the last six years . . . over longer than that. He reveled in her softness and her sounds, not wanting to leave her. Wanting the experience with her.
She called out his name, her fingers tight in his hair, and he came with her, hard and hot and unavoidable. And in that moment, his own pleasure startled from him by hers, he should have felt embarrassment or shame or something infinitely more base. But instead he felt as though he’d been waiting for that moment.
For her.
And there, in the darkness, her soft cries echoed by the roar of London’s wealthiest gamers scant feet away, he caught his breath and ran his hands along her thighs, guiding her skirts back into place, and considered the startling possibility that Pippa Marbury was indeed his savior.
The thought rocketed through him as quick and unexpected as his climax, and he bowed his head, looking down at her little sapphire slippers, shocked as hell, even as he knelt at her feet and reveled in the feel of her hands in his hair.
That’s how Temple found them.
He came up short just inside the door to the owner’s suite, six feet of muscle going perfectly still, his scarred face a portrait of shock. “Shit,” he said, backing up, propelled from the space by its intimacy. “I didn’t—”
Pippa’s hands moved like lightning, and Cross was naked at the loss of her touch. “Your Grace,” she said, and Temple’s title startled him, a reminder of all their places. Of the wrongness of her being here. “I— We—”
He needed time to think.
He needed time to understand what had just happened.
How everything had changed.
He rose. “Get out.”
Pippa turned her wide gaze on him. “Me?”
No. Never her. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak to her yet. He didn’t know what he would say. How he would say it. She’d wrecked him, thoroughly, and he wasn’t prepared for it. For her.
For the way she made him feel.
For the things she made him do.
For the future she tempted him with.
“I think he meant me, my lady,” Temple cut in.
Then why was he still here?
Temple replied as though Cross had spoken the words aloud.
“Knight has arrived.”
Chapter Fourteen
Oh, my.
It seems that all the discussion of brute beasts and carnal lust addressed in the text of the wedding vows was not just for the groom.
I have never in my life felt anything so . . .
Remarkable.
Magnificent.
Emotional.
Unscientific.
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 30, 1831; six days prior to her wedding
He left Pippa immediately, releasing her into Temple’s protection, even as he loathed the idea of her in his club with another man, outside of his own protection. Outside of his sight.
Outside of his embrace.
He wanted her home. Safe. Far from this place, and these villains. He wanted to be with her. He paused in the process of fastening the fall of a fresh pair of trousers, the thought throwing him.
He wanted to be with her in his home.
Not in his cluttered office, on his inferior, makeshift bed. At his town house. Where he’d never taken a woman. Where he rarely was in residence. Where the demons never ceased to threaten.
Pippa wouldn’t stand for demons.
One side of his mouth kicked up at the thought. Pippa would exorcise every one of his demons with her logical mind and her incessant questions and her impossibly sure touch. A touch he found himself rather desperate to experience once more.
He wanted her to touch him everywhere. He wanted to touch her everywhere. He wanted to explore her, and hold her, and kiss her and make her his in every imaginable way.
She wanted to un
derstand lust? He could show it to her. There was time. She had six days before she married Castleton.
Not enough time.
Something tightened in his chest at the thought.
She was going to marry Castleton.
He sat to pull on his boots with vicious force.
I shall do it because I have agreed to, and I do not care for dishonesty.
Goddammit. She was engaged to the ordinary, uninspiring, idiot man.
Not so much an idiot now. He’d proposed to Pippa, after all. Snatched her up while the rest of England was looking the other way.
But she had come apart in Cross’s arms. Against his mouth. Did that account for nothing?
There was nothing he could do. Not to stop it. She deserved her perfect wedding with her handsome—if simpleminded—earl. She deserved a man without demons. A man who would give her a home. Horses. Hounds. Family.
Those children flashed again, the little blond row of them, each wearing a little pair of spectacles, each smiling up at their mother. At him.
He pushed the vision aside and stood, straightening his jacket.
Impossible.
Philippa Marbury was not for him. Not in the long run. He could give her everything for which she asked now . . . he could teach her about her body and her desires and her needs . . . prepare her to ask for what she wanted.
To ask her husband.
He swallowed back a curse.
Six days would be enough.
He ripped open the door of his office, nearly pulling it from the hinges, and headed for the library of The Fallen Angel, where Knight waited for him. Dismissing the guard at the door, Cross took a deep breath and entered, regaining his control. Focusing on the task at hand.
Knight was livid. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he turned toward the door, hatred in his ice blue gaze.
Cross took pleasure that, tonight, at least this had gone well—at least this was in his control. A thread of uncertainty tainted victory, however; Knight had not come alone.
A young woman sat primly in one of the high-backed chairs at the center of the room, hands folded in her green woolen skirts, eyes cast downward, as though she could will herself invisible. She was pretty enough—pale skin, tight black curls, and a little red mouth that curved up in a bow even though she looked nothing close to happy.
Indeed, it was her misery that established her identity.
Letting the door to the room close behind him, Cross looked to Knight, meeting his nemesis’s icy blue gaze. “Not very fatherly of you . . . touring your daughter about London’s better hells in the middle of the night.”
Knight did not respond to the insult, instead turning away from the sideboard where he stood, ignoring the girl entirely. “You think you’ve won? With one night?”
Cross folded himself into another large chair, extending his long legs and doing his best to look bored. He wanted this confrontation over and done with. He returned his gaze to Knight. “I know I have won. Your fifty largest players are right now losing at my tables. And with a word, I can keep them there, playing forever.”
Knight gritted his teeth. “You don’t want them. They’re too base for your precious club. The others will never allow the likes of those scoundrels on the books at the Angel.”
“The others will do what I choose. Your sorry lot is a sacrifice we will make to ensure that you understand your place. You are a product of our benevolence, Digger. You exist because we have not seen fit to take you down. Yet. It is time you realize that our club is more than yours will ever be. It is time you realize our power extends farther than yours ever could. Knight’s exists solely and completely because of my goodwill. If I want you destroyed, I can do it. And I will not be tested.”
Knight narrowed his gaze on him. “You’ve always liked to think of me as the enemy.”
Cross did not waver. “There’s no thinking about it.”
“There was a time when I was the closest thing you had to a friend.”
“I don’t recall it that way.”
Knight shrugged, uninterested in rehashing the past. “Have you forgotten Lavinia’s debt? She still owes me. One way or another.”
The sound of his sister’s name on Knight’s lips made Cross want to hit something, but he remained still. “I will pay the debt. You will refuse entry to Dunblade. Forever. And you will leave my sister alone. Also forever.”
Knight’s black brows rose, and he lifted his silver-tipped cane from the floor to inspect the finely wrought handle. “Or what?”
Cross leaned forward then, letting his anger show. “Or I take them all. Every last gamer.”
Knight lifted a shoulder. “There are more where they came from.”
“And I shall take them, too.” He paused, then added, “Over and over, I shall strangle the coffers of Knight’s until you can’t afford the wax to keep your tables lit.”
Admiration flashed in Digger’s gaze. “You shall make me a fine son-in-law.”
“I shall see you in Hell first.”
Maggie Knight responded to that, head snapping up, eyes wide, a deer in the hunter’s sight. “You wish me to marry him?” She hadn’t known. Cross resisted the urge to say something to the girl—to comfort her.
“Don’t let the crassness fool you.” Knight barely looked at her. “He’ll make you a countess.”
“But I don’t wish to be a countess.”
“You wish for what I tell you to wish for.”
“Wishing won’t make it so, I’m afraid,” Cross said, ending the conversation by standing and heading for the door. “My apologies, Miss Knight, but I shan’t marry you.”
She exhaled. “That is a relief.”
Cross’s brows rose. “It is, isn’t it?”
“No one should be relieved.” Digger turned to Cross. “We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we, Cross? Longer than you’ve known any of these nobs you call partners.”
Cross stood. “I’ve a rather impressive group of gamers on the floor tonight, Digger. More than I had originally planned. I’m afraid I haven’t the time for nostalgia. You’ll have Dunblade’s debt tomorrow. Or I take Knight’s. Gamer by gamer. Brick by brick.”
He reached for the door handle, already thinking of his next destination.
Of Pippa.
Of the way she smelled and tasted, of her smart mouth and flashing eyes, of her curiosity. She was somewhere in this building, likely gambling or interviewing a prostitute or doing something else scandalous, and he wanted to be near her.
Desperately. She was opium. One taste, and he couldn’t stop himself.
Something had changed in the darkness earlier that evening.
False.
Something had changed earlier than that.
He found he was rather desperate to explore it.
Six days. He wouldn’t waste another second of it in this room. He opened the door. Less than a week, then he would leave her. She would be his pleasure. His one taste. His one mistake.
And afterward, he would return to his life.
“I see I must sweeten the pot. Shall I add in Philippa Marbury?”
The words sent an icy chill through Cross, and he turned slowly, the open door forgotten. “What did you say?”
Knight smirked, cold knowledge in his gaze. “Ah, I’ve your attention now. You shouldn’t have left Sally at the club. Whores are so easily convinced to turn traitor.”
A pool of dread spread through Cross’s gut as the other man continued. “I may not be the great genius you are purported to be, but I know my way around lightskirts. A few extra quid, and Sally told me everything I needed to know. Your plan to lure my big gamers to Pandemonium. The names of all the girls who helped you—every one of them out on the streets now, by the way—and most importantly, the name of the aristocratic lady who happened in
to your office while you were plotting my demise. Blond girl. Spectacles. Odd as an otter.” Knight rocked back on his heels, his false accent returning. “Sounded right familiar, that one.”
Cross could see it coming. A runaway carriage, too fast to stop.
“Philippa Marbury. Daughter of the Marquess of Needham and Dolby. Future Countess of Castleton. And the sisters . . . cor! One to be married to Tottenham, and the other Lady Bourne!” Knight whistled, long and low, the sound sending fury through Cross. “Impressive, that. Wouldn’t like to see ’em ruined. Wager Bourne wouldn’t neither.
“Terrible thing for an unmarried Lady Philippa to be discovered trottin’ about in a gamin’ hell. And with a pure scoundrel like yourself, no less . . . with your reputation? Why, she’d never be allowed in polite society again. No doubt the old Castleton bird won’t have her baby boy marryin’ her.”
Cross froze at the words. At their implication.
He should have seen it coming.
A memory flashed, the older man leaning over him six years earlier, Cross nearly dead from the beating he’d taken at Knight’s henchmen’s hands.
Insurance.
He should have known that Knight would have had a second plan. An insurance policy. Should have known, too, that it would be Pippa.
What he had not expected was how very angry that made him.
He was at Knight’s throat in three long strides, one large hand wrapping around the other man’s neck and throwing him back against the sideboard, rattling glasses and sending a decanter of scotch toppling to the floor. He ignored the startled gasp from the girl on the opposite end of the room. “You’ll stay away from Philippa Marbury, or I’ll kill you. That’s the game.”
Knight caught his balance and smiled, as though they were discussing the weather and not his imminent demise. “I wouldn’t worry. I shan’t have time to go near her . . . what with all the excitement around my girl’s wedding.”
“I should kill you anyway.”
Knight smirked. “But you won’t. I saved your life, boy. Without me, you’d be drunk and half-mad with the pox, if any one of half a dozen hell owners hadn’t dumped you in the Thames themselves. Without me, you’d be dead or living dead. You owe me even without my having your pretty plaything in my clutches. You were useless. Weak. Unworthy. And I gave you an exit.”
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Page 26