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 understand 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 into 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.”
The words sent a chill through Cross, their truth undeniable.
Knight removed a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his lip, checking to see if there was blood. “You have me to thank for all this. Your entire empire. And the tragedy of it is that you’re too honorable to ignore it. Instead, you owe me.”
He shook his head, even as he knew the words were true. “Not this.”
“Of course this,” Knight scoffed. “It’s time you realize that aristocrats or not, money or not, fancy French chef or not, I’ve been down this road before you, and I’ll always know the terrain better than you. You can’t beat me.
“I hear Duncan West is here. I wonder if the lady will make Wednesday’s Scandal Sheet?” At Cross’s flashing gaze, Knight pointed to Maggie, who stared back at the two of them with shock and confusion in her eyes. “You marry my girl, or I ruin yours. That’s the game.”
Your girl. The words echoed through him, part taunt, part hunger. All truth.
For much of his life, Cross had been known for his ability to see all possible outcomes of a situation. He could look at a spread of cards and predict the next flop. He could see the next punch in a bare-knuckle boxing match. He could plot a dozen moves forward on a chess board.
He wondered if Pippa played chess.
He pushed the thought aside. There would be no more thinking of Philippa Marbury. No more touching her. His fingers itched at that, desperate for more of the contact they’d been denied for so long. He’d only been able to touch her for a heartbeat.
He’d ached for her since the second he left her tonight. Since before that.
And he knew, with the keen knowledge of one who had been so long in control of his desires, that he would ache for her for an eternity.
But he would take the ache to save her.
For once in his sorry, worthless life, he would save someone he cared for.
I should not have believed in you.
Pippa’s words from earlier echoed through him, taunting him.
He would save her.
“Maggie’s not a bad hand, Cross. She’ll make you pretty heirs.”
Cross lifted his gaze to follow Knight’s meaning, meeting Maggie’s eyes, recognizing the shock and disappointment there. She didn’t want to marry him any more than he wanted to marry her. He leveled her with a serious look. “Your father is mad.”
“I’m beginning to see that myself,” she replied, and Cross thought that if the situation had been different, he’d have smiled at that.
But the situation was not different.
There was only one course of action.
He approached Knight’s daughter—nineteen years old with mediocre French—dropped to one knee in front of her and said, “I’m afraid I haven’t a choice.”
He had lost so many. This time, he would save one.
The most important one.
Maggie nodded once. “It seems, my lord, that in that, at least, we have a great deal in common.”
Unshed tears shimmered in her brown eyes, and Cross wished he could say something else. Something that would make her feel better about the whole situation. But the truth was, Meghan Margaret Knight believed him a coldhearted man who ran a den of iniquity and made his money on sin. She believed that he consorted with ruffians and prostitutes and scoundrels the likes of her father, and that a marriage to him—once blessed—would be the result of blackmail and coercion, and nothing remotely fonder.
Meghan Margaret Knight, who had not known him for the better part of an hour, already knew more of his truths than Philippa Marbury ever had.
So, instead of comforting her, he lifted one of her gloved hands from where it clutched the green fabric of her skirts, held it in his firm grasp, and said, “Miss Knight, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Pippa was enjoying herself immensely.
She might have spent much of the last weeks unimpressed by the poorly lit, library-quiet main floor of The Fallen Angel, but tonight, she finally understood its appeal. By night, the club filled with light and sound and a long, languorous lick of sin that Pippa could never have imagined if she were not here, now, witnessing it.
Night breathed life into this great stone building, darkness somehow plunging the room into bright, bold light—a whirl of color and sound and thrill that Pippa drank in with heady excitement.
She stood at the center of the main floor of the club, surrounded by masked revelers: men in their dark suits, boldly colored waistcoats their nod to the evening festivities; women in their silks and satins, dresses designed to showcase skin and scandal.
Giving herself up to the movement of the crowd, Pippa allowed them to carry her from one side of the room, where she’d escaped Temple’s chaperone, to the center of the revelry, past piquet and roulette and hazard, and throngs of laughing, masked beauties and their handsome counterparts. She knew better, of course—knew that each of these bodies had flaws, likely significant ones—but somehow, masked, they seemed more than the sum of their parts.
Just as, somehow, suddenly, she seemed more than the sum of hers.
But she did not fool herself into thinking that it was her mask that made her feel so powerful, so different. Nor was it the room.
No, it was the man.
Her heart raced as she recalled the clandestine events of mere moments ago, of the heady, overwhelming touch that she had not expected but that she had craved.
And the kiss.
One hand lifted of its own volition at the thought of that devastating, remarkable caress, the one she had known would be everything she’d imagined and nothing like it, all at once. She regretted the instant that her fingertips brushed her lips—hating that their touch had erased his.
Wishing she could take it back.
Wishing she could find him once more and urge him to restore the memory of his kiss.
A thread of feeling settled deep in her belly, unfurling in slow, steady time as she recalled the moment, as she imagined the softness of his hair in her fingers, of his skin against hers . . . of his lips.
Of his tongue.
The room grew warmer as she realized that even the thought of his touch, of his kiss, of him, made her ache. But it was the location of the ache that unsettled—a deep, secret place that she’d never realized existed.
He showed her things she’d never known about things she’d always thought she understood. And she adored it . . . even as it terrified her.
Even as it made her question everything she thought true.
She resisted the thought, her gaze rising to one large wall of the club, where the Angel’s namesake fell in beautiful glass panels from Heaven to Hell, from good to evil, from sainthood to sin. It was the most beautiful window Pippa had ever seen, the work of true artisans, all reds and golds and violets, at once hideous and holy.
It was the angel himself who fascinated her, the enormous, beautiful man crashing to Earth, without the gifts he’d had for so long. In the hands of a poorer artist, the detail of him would have been less intricate, the hands and feet and face would have been shaped with glass of a single color, but this artist had cared deeply for his subject, and the swirls of darks and lights in the panels were finely crafted to depict movement, shape, and even emotion.
She could not help but stare at the face of the fall—inverted as he fell to the floor of the hell—the arch of his brow, the complex shade of his jaw, the curve of his lip. She paused there, thinking on another pair of lips, another fall. Another angel.
Cross.
Emotion flared, one she did not immediately recognize.
She let out a long breath.
She wanted him—in a way she knew she should not. In a way she knew she should want another. A man destined to be her husband. To be the father of her children.
And yet, she wanted Cross.
This angel.
Was it only desire?
Her heart began to pound—the physical manifestation of a thought she had been unprepared to face. One that overwhelmed and ached and enticed.
“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”
The words were spoken close and soft, and Pippa spun toward the sound, finding a tall, lithe lady inches away, seated at a card table. She wore the most beautiful gown Pippa had ever seen, a deep, royal purple that fairly glowed against her warm, golden skin. A large topaz hung from a fine gold chain, drawing the attention of all who looked to the decadent plunge of the dress’s bodice. She wore a feathered black mask, too elaborate to see most of her face, but her brown eyes glittered from their frames, and her lips, wine-dark, curved in a wide smile.
The smile was filled with unspoken promise.
The kind of promise Pippa had seen on Miss Tasser’s lips one week prior.
When she did not immediately reply, the woman pointed one long, straight well-manicured finger toward the mural. “The angel.”
Pippa found her voice, nerves and excitement making the words come faster than she’d planned. “It’s beautiful. And very lavish. So much red glass. And violet.”
The lady’s smile broadened. “And the colors mean something?”
Pippa nodded. “To make red glass, they add gold dust. They do it for violet, as well.”
Brown eyes went wide. “How clever of you to know that.”
Pippa looked away; clever was rarely a compliment among women. “I read it once.”
“It’s no wonder Cross enjoys your company, Lady P.”
Pippa’s gaze snapped back to the woman, seeing the knowledge in her gaze. “How did you—”
The lady waved one hand. “Women talk, my lady.”
Sally. Pippa wondered if she should be concerned. Probably.
The woman was still speaking, “He’s a lovely promise, don’t you think?”
“Promise?”
The smile deepened. “Of wickedness. If you’re willing to ask.”
Pippa’s mind spun. How did this woman know what had happened? What they’d done? Had they been spied upon? “Cross?”
She laughed, the sound bright and friendly. “I was referring to the Angel, honestly.” She indicated a chair to her left. “Do you play?”
Grateful for a change of topic, Pippa considered the field of green baize, cards arranged in front of the woman and the four men seated to her right. She shook her head. “I don’t.”
“You should.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s Cross’s favorite.”
She might not have agreed to the game, but the moment the beautiful woman mentioned him, Pippa could not have stopped herself for anything in the world. She sat. “Perhaps I shall watch a round or two.”
The lady smirked. “I suppose understanding the game is important to some.”
Pippa laughed. “I don’t have a great fortune to wager.”
“My guess is that you have more than you think.”
Pippa did not have a chance to reply, as the dealer carefully distributed two cards to the group, one facedown, the second faceup.
“The goal is twenty-one,” the woman said, turning her cards—nine of hearts faceup—to face Pippa and carefully lifting a corner to reveal an eight of clubs. “Knaves, queens, and kings are worth ten,” she said, raising her voice a touch to ensure that the rest of the table heard the reference.
Pippa understood the bluff instantly. “And aces?” she asked, helping her new acquaintance.
“Aces are the best in the deck. Ones or elevens. The card of second chances.”
“Ah. So a good start,” Pippa said, nodding sagely.
“I surrender.”
One of the gentlemen at the table stood, taking half their wagers, and left the table. The mystery woman leaned in to Pippa, and said, “Well done. The man closest to us lacks skill, and the farthest lacks luck.”
“And in the middle?”
The lady made a show of considering the handsome man at the center of the table. “That’s Duncan West. Owns most of the London papers.”
Pippa’s heart began to race. If she were discovered by the newspaperman, she would be ruined. Olivia as well.
Perhaps that would not be so bad. She ignored the thought. “He’s so young,” she whispered, doing her best not to look at the man in question.
“Young and royal-rich. There’s little he lacks. Except, it seems, a night with a good woman.”
Pippa heard the desire in the lady’s tone. “You, I take it?”
The woman turned to her, eyes glittering. “A woman can hope.”
Pippa watched as the gentlemen at the table added cards to the stacks in front of them, quickly learning the simple rules of the game.
When it came time for her companion to wager, the woman turned her shielded gaze to Pippa, and said, “What say you, my lady? Do I hit or hold?”
Pippa considered the table. “You should take a card.”
The other woman inclined her head to the dealer. “The lady suggests I hit.”
Five.
Lips the color of Bordeaux pursed in a perfect moue. “Well, that’s pretty. I shall stay.”
The cards were revealed. Pippa’s companion won. Collecting her winnings, she turned her smile on the rest of the table. “The luck of the novice, don’t you think?”
Two gentlemen grumbled their congratulations, as Duncan West nodded his appreciation in their direction, his gaze fairly burning as it settled on the other woman. Pippa watched for a moment as one long, porcelain arm reached for her winnings, deliberately brushing against Mr. West’s hand, lingering for a second, maybe less. Long enough for West’s gaze to turn hot. He looked as though he might devour her if they were alone.
The look was familiar.
It was the look Cross gave her when they were alone.
She blushed, looking away, hoping that her new acquaintance would not notice. If she did, it was not obvious when she returned her attention to Pippa. “How did you know I should hit?”
Pippa lifted one shoulder. “A guess.”
“Mere luck?”
Pippa shook her head. “Not lucky, really. The cards on the table were all high. The odds were that you would pull a low one.”
There’s no such thing as luck.
The other woman smiled. “You sound like Cross.”
That the woman gave voice to Pippa’s thoughts did not bother her. That she spoke Cross’s name as though she knew him intimately did. “You have gambled with Cross?” She tried to sound casual. Failed.
The lady turned back to the dealer, indicating that he should deal another round. “Will you play this time, my lady?”
Pippa nodded absently, reaching into her reticule and retrieving a handful of coins. “Please.”
Are you friends with Cross? she wanted to ask. Has he touched you? Kissed you? Have you lain with him? She hated her curiosity. Hated her reticence more.
The cards were dealt. Pippa looked at hers. Ace and three. She and the other woman watched as the dealer attended to the gentlemen at the end of the table for a long moment before her companion said, “I have gambled with him.” The woman asked for a second card. “Hold. But you needn’t worry.”
“I wasn’t—” Pippa stopped. “Hit.”
Six made twenty.
“I shall hold, please. Worry about what?”
The cards were revealed. “Twenty wins.”
The woman clapped politely as two men groaned, and Mr. West raised his glass in their direction. “The student surpasses the teacher.” The woman leaned in. “Cross does not frequent women’s beds.”
Pippa coughed, blindsided by the flood of sensation that coursed through her at the words. She paused, trying to identify it. Relief? No. She didn’t believe it. His reputation preceded him. But hope . . . it might be hope. One could not stop oneself from that errant, unflagging emotion, it seemed.
But even she knew that she should not hope. Not about this.
In fact she should do the opposite of hope. She should . . . unhope. Her winnings slid across the table toward her. “That does not keep him from inviting women to his,” she said, dryly.
The woman laughed. “No, but I’ve never seen that happen either.”
Pippa thought of Sally Tasser. “You haven’t looked hard enough.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. Cross is a fair catch. And it’s not just me who thinks it. A dozen I know would have happily joined him there. Most of them for free. Everyone in London wants a piece of Cross. Have for years.”
Pippa stared at her winnings, counting the coins, pretending not to hear. Not to notice the ache in her chest at the thought of other women knowing him. Touching him. Kissing him.
She disliked every one of them.
Irrationally.
She did not like being irrational.
The woman was still talking. “All those long limbs and thick ginger hair. But he’s too good to treat us like the rest. Not one of us has been there—you shouldn’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise.” Pippa’s cheeks warmed, and she was grateful for the mask. Her new acquaintance seemed to notice the flush anyway. “But you have been there, haven’t you?”
God, yes. And it was wonderful.
She shook her head, her body resisting the betrayal in the movement. The lie there. “I am engaged.”
Not that it had mattered an hour earlier.
She started at the thought. At the emotion that came with it.
Guilt.
“That’s not an answer.” Red lips turned up, unaware of her thoughts. “And besides, engaged is not married.”
It was close, though, wasn’t it? It was the closest thing to marriage that there was. Her throat began to tighten.
“You don’t have to admit it, but I think Cross likes you very much, my lady. After all, it is not every day one meets a woman as brilliant as he is.”
She liked him, too.
She shook her head, emotion clouding thought. “I’m not as brilliant as he is.”
If she were, she wouldn’t have landed herself in this moment.
In this mess.
Desperately wanting a man she should not want. Whom she could not have. Not in the long run.
Not unless . . .
She stopped the thought before it could form. She’d made a promise. She would marry Castleton. She had to.
She ignored the ache in her chest at the thought.
She had made a promise.
“If I had to wager, I’d place bets on your being smarter.” The woman turned back to the dealer. “Will you play another round?”
“She will not.”
It was as though they’d conjured him. Pippa turned toward him—unable to stop herself, drawn to his deep voice and his sandalwood scent.
She had the unreasonable desire to toss herself into his arms and press her lips against his and beg him to take her to his office or some dark corner and finish what he’d started earlier in the evening. To make her forget everything else—all of her well-laid plans, all of her carefully constructed research, the fact that she only had six days before she married another man.
A man who was nothing like Cross.
And then she noticed his unmasked grey eyes trained on her companion, the corded muscle in his neck and jaw taut, his lips pressed into a thin, straight line.
He was angry.
“Cross.” The woman laughed his name, apparently fearless. “You should join us. She counts the cards as well as you do.”
His gaze narrowed. “No.”
“So much for Cross and his kindness.” The woman turned back to the baize, lifting a glass of champagne. “I was merely keeping the lady company.”
His fists clenched. “Find other company to keep.”
The woman smiled at Mr. West, dismissing them. “With pleasure.”
Cross turned his grey gaze on her, and his teeth clenched. “My lady,” he intoned, “the tables are no place for you.”
He was angry with her as well.
And, strangely, that made Pippa angry, for certainly she had reason to be. More reason than he did. After all, he wasn’t about to be forced into marriage with a perfectly ordinary, perfectly imperfect for him kind of person. He wasn’t about to have his entire life thrown into disarray. In six days, he would remain fully ensconced in this remarkable existence, all sin and vice and money and beautiful women and food cooked by a chef with more talent than any one man deserved.
And she would be married to another.
No, if someone was going to be angry, it was going to be her.
“Nonsense,” she said, pulling herself straight. “There are women at every one of the tables in this room. And if I were not meant to gamble tonight, I daresay I would not have been invited.”
He leaned close, his words harsh at her ear. “You should not have been invited at all.”
She hated the way the words made her feel, as though she were a small child being punished. “Why not?”
“This place is not for you.”
“As a matter of fact,” she said, allowing her irritation to sound, “I believe I will play another round.”
The woman she’d been speaking to turned back at that, her jaw going lax for an instant before she caught herself and smiled wide. “Excellent.”
He leaned close, his voice lowering to a whisper that only she could hear. “I will not have you here. Not now.”
“I am simply playing cards,” she said, hating the way his words stung, bringing tears to her eyes. She refused to look at him. Refused to risk his seeing the way he moved her.
He sighed, soft and irritated and somehow tempting, the feel of his breath against her shoulder. “Pippa,” he said, the name more breath than sound. “Please.”
There was something in the plea that stopped her. She turned to face him once more, searching his grey eyes, finding something there—pain. Gone so fast she was almost unsure it had been there to begin with. Almost.
She placed one hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles beneath his sleeve flinch at the touch, and whispered back, “Jasper.”
She had no idea where the given name came from; she did not think of him as such. But for the rest of her life, she would remember the way his beautiful grey eyes went wide, then shuttered, as though she’d delivered him a powerful blow. He stepped back, out of her reach, and she couldn’t stop herself from following, coming out of her chair and moving toward him, wanting to take it back—whatever it was she’d done.
For she had absolutely done something.
Something that would change everything. “Wait,” she said, not caring that half of London was in earshot.
He stopped, his hands coming to her shoulders, holding her at a distance. “Go home. Your research is finished.”
Pain shot through her, even as she knew that it was for the best. He had been right, of course. It wasn’t research. It never had been. It had been fear and panic and frustration and nerves, but it had never been research.
And then it had been desire. Temptation. Want.
More.
And if it did not end soon, she might never be able to end it.
Except, she did not want to end it. She wanted it to remain. She wanted to talk and laugh and share with him. She wanted to learn from him. To teach him. She wanted to be with him.
She wanted the impossible.
She shook her head, refusing his request. “No.”
“Yes,” he said once more, the word like ice, before turning and plunging into the crowd. Leaving her. Again.
Infuriating man. God knew she’d had enough of that.
She followed him, tracking his movements above the crowd, where his marvelous hair stood out against the rest of London. Where he stood out against the rest of London. She pushed and elbowed and knocked and strained to catch him, and finally, she did, reaching out for his hand—adoring the fact that neither of them wore gloves, loving the way their skin came together, the way his touch brought wonderful heat in a lush, irresistible current.
He felt it, too.
She knew it because he stopped the instant they touched, turning to face her, grey eyes wild as Devonshire rain. She knew it because he whispered her name, aching and beautiful and soft enough for only her to hear.
And she knew it because his free hand rose, captured her jaw and tilted her face up to him even as he leaned down and stole her lips and breath and thought in a kiss that she would never in her lifetime forget.
The kiss was like food and drink, like sleep, like breath. She needed it with the same elemental desire, and she cared not a bit that all of London was watching. Yes, she was masked, but it did not matter. She would have stripped to her chemise for this kiss. To her skin.
Their fingers still intertwined, he wrapped their arms behind her back and pulled her to him, claiming her mouth with lips and tongue and teeth, marking her with one long, luscious kiss that went on and on until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it. Her free hand was in his hair then, tangling in the soft locks, loving their silky promise.
She was lost, claimed, fairly consumed by the intensity of the kiss, and for the first time in her life, Pippa gave herself up to emotion, pouring every bit of her desire and her passion and her fear and her need into this moment. This caress.
This man.
This man, who was everything she had never allowed herself to dream she would find.
This man, who made her believe in friendship. In partnership.
In love.
Shocked by the thought, she pulled back, breaking the kiss, loving the way his breath came harsh and heavy against her cheek as a collection of whistles and applause sounded around them.
She didn’t care about the onlookers. She cared only for him. For his touch. For this moment.
She hadn’t wanted to stop him—to stop it—but she hadn’t a choice. She had to tell him. Immediately. And she couldn’t tell him while he was kissing her, though she did hope to get back to kissing as soon as possible.
She moved to doff her mask, thinking of nothing but him. “Cross—”
He grabbed her hands, holding them tight. “You’ll be ruined.” He shook his head, urgency coming off him in waves. “You have to leave. Now. Before—”
He was utter confusion—pushing her away even as he held her close. She started to deny him. To tell him what she was feeling, to explain these strange, brave, new emotions. It was there, on her tongue.
I love you.
She was going to say it.
She was going to love him.
And in the wake of her confession, she would resolve the rest.
But before she could speak, a snide voice interrupted. “It seems everyone has been invited to Pandemonium this year. Lady Soon-to-be-a-countess, what a pleasure it is to see you again. And so scandalous now.”
If the voice hadn’t been familiar, the horrid nickname would have identified Digger Knight, suddenly at Pippa’s shoulder. Pippa closed her mouth, turning to face Knight, who had a pretty, unmasked girl in tow, too young and prim to be one of his women.
“Mr. Knight,” Pippa said, unaware of the way she moved, away from the brightly colored man and toward Cross, who stood behind her, warm and firm and right.
Knight smiled, an impressive number of straight white teeth in his head. “You remember me. I’m honored.”
“I don’t imagine you’re easily forgotten,” Pippa said coolly.
He ignored the quip. “You have a particular pleasure this evening, Lady Soon . . .” He trailed off, letting Pippa’s mind go to the kiss, letting her cheeks flush. “. . . You shall be the first to congratulate Cross.”
“Digger,” Cross said, and Pippa realized that he hadn’t spoken since Knight arrived. She looked to him, but he was deliberately not looking at her. “This isn’t part of it.”
“Considering what half of London just witnessed, Cross, I think it is,” Knight said, tone dry and unmoved as he turned to face Pippa.
At the same time, Cross pinned her with his beautiful grey gaze. “Go home,” Cross said urgently. “Hurry. Now.”
His gaze was filled with worry—so much that Pippa was almost willing to agree, her weight shifting, beginning the move to the exit.
Knight cut in. “Nonsense. She can’t leave until she’s heard your news.”
Pippa turned a curious gaze on Cross. “Your news?”
He shook his head, perfectly serious, and a weight dropped in her stomach. Something was wrong. Terribly so.
She looked from him to Knight, to the despondent girl with him. “His news?”
Knight laughed, the sound loud and grating, as though he’d heard a joke that only he found amusing. “I’m afraid I can’t wait for him to tell you himself. I’m too excited. I can’t resist stealing his thunder.”
Her gaze narrowed behind mask and spectacles, and she was grateful for the shield to keep her thoughts from showing. “I don’t imagine I could stop you.”
His eyes went wide. “Oh, I do like a lady with a sharp tongue.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his waistcoat and rocked back on his heels. “You see, darling, you’re not the only one soon-to-be-a-countess . . . the Earl here has asked my daughter to marry him. She has, of course, agreed. I thought you might like to congratulate the pair.” He indicated the couple, neither looking worthy of congratulations. “You have the honor of being the first.”
Her mouth dropped open. It wasn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be.
She looked up at Cross, his grey eyes deliberate in their focus. On anything but her.
She’d misheard. She had to have. He wouldn’t marry another. He’d told her . . . marriage was not in his cards.
But she saw the truth in his distant gaze. In the way he did not turn to her. In the way he did not speak. In the way he did not rush to deny the words—words that stung like the worst kind of accusation.
Panicked, Pippa looked to the other woman—black curls and blue eyes and porcelain skin and pretty red lips in a perfect little bow. She looked like she might cast up her accounts. Nothing like a bride.
She looks like you feel whenever you think of marrying Castleton.
She didn’t need to ask, but she couldn’t stop herself. “You are marrying him?”
Black ringlets bobbed.
“Oh.” Pippa looked to Cross, unable to find another word. “Oh.”
He did not look at her when he spoke, voice so soft she would not have heard it if she had not been watching his lips . . . those lips that had changed everything. This man who had changed everything. “Pippa . . .”
Marriage is not for me.
Another lie. One of how many?
Pain shot through her, sharp and almost unbearable, her chest tightening, making it difficult to breathe. He was marrying another.
And it hurt.
She lifted one hand, rubbing at the spot closest to the ache, as though she could massage it away. But as she looked from the man she loved to his future wife, she realized that this pain wouldn’t be so easily assuaged.
Her whole life, she’d heard of it, laughed at it. Thought it a silly metaphor. The human heart, after all, was not made of porcelain. It was made of flesh and blood and sturdy, remarkable muscle.
But there, in that remarkable room, surrounded by a laughing, rollicking, unseeing collection of London’s brightest and wickedest, Pippa’s knowledge of anatomy expanded.
It seemed there was such a thing as a broken heart.