Avenues for investigation have become severely limited, as has time.
In the name of proper enquiry, I have made adjustments to my research.
Secret Serious adjustments.
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 21, 1831; fifteen days prior to her wedding
Seven years later
The lady was mad.
He would have realized it five minutes earlier if he hadn’t been half-asleep, shocked as hell to find a young, blond, bespectacled female seated at his desk, reading his ledger.
He might have realized it three minutes earlier if she hadn’t announced, all certainty, that he’d miscalculated column F, ensuring that his understanding of her madness was preempted by shock at her pluck and admiration for her mathematical skill. Or perhaps the reverse.
And he most definitely would have realized that the woman was utterly insane sixty seconds earlier if he hadn’t been rather desperately attempting to clothe himself. For long moments, his shirt had appeared to lose a rather critical opening, which was a distraction indeed.
Now, however, he was quite awake, had closed the (correctly accounted) ledger, and was fully (if not appropriately) clothed. The universe had righted itself, and rational thought had returned, right around the time she’d explained what it was she wanted.
And there, in the silence that followed her announcement, Cross had understood the truth.
There was no doubt about it: Lady Philippa Marbury, daughter to the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, sister-in-law to the Marquess of Bourne and lady of excellent ton, was barking mad.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, impressed with his ability to remain civil in the face of her utter insanity. “I am certain I did not hear you correctly.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did,” the lady said simply, as though commenting on the weather, big blue eyes unsettling and owl-like behind thick spectacles. “I might have given you a shock, but your hearing is quite sound, I should think.”
She advanced on him, navigating a path between a half dozen towering stacks of books and a bust of Medusa he’d been meaning to move. The hem of her pale blue skirts brushed against one long serpent’s body, and the sound of the fabric rustling against bronze sent a thread of awareness through him.
Wrong.
He was not aware of her. He would not be aware of her.
It was too dark in this damned room. He moved to light a lamp a good distance away, near the door. When he looked up from the task, it was to find that she had altered her course.
She came closer, crowding him back toward the heavy mahogany, throwing him off-kilter. For a moment, he considered opening the door just to see if she might charge through, leaving him in the office, alone and free from her. From what she represented. Able to close the portal firmly behind her, pretend this encounter had never happened, and restart his day.
He knocked into a large abacus, and the rattle of ebony yanked him from his thoughts.
He stopped moving.
She kept coming.
He was one of the most powerful men in Britain, part-owner of London’s most notorious gaming hell, easily ten inches taller than she, and rather fearsome when he wanted to be.
She was neither the kind of woman he was conditioned to notice nor the kind of woman who expected to receive his notice. And she was certainly not the kind of woman who rattled his control.
Pull yourself together, man.
“Stop.”
She stopped, the word hanging harsh and defensive between them. He did not like it. Did not like what the strangled sound said about the way this strange creature had instantly affected him.
But she didn’t see any of that, thank God. Instead, she tilted her head the way a puppy might, curious and eager, and he resisted the temptation to take a good long look at her.
She was not for looking at.
Certainly not for looking at by him.
“Shall I repeat myself?” she asked when he said nothing else.
He did not reply. Repetition was unnecessary. Lady Philippa Marbury’s request was fairly burned into his memory.
Nevertheless, she lifted one hand, pushed her spectacles back on her nose, and took a deep breath. “I require ruination.” The words were as simple and unwavering now as they had been the first time she’d spoken them, devoid of nervousness.
Ruination. He watched the way her lips curved around the syllables, caressing consonants, lingering on vowels, turning the experience of hearing the word into something startlingly akin to its meaning.
It had become quite warm in his office.
“You’re mad.”
She paused, clearly taken aback by the statement. Good. It was time someone other than he was surprised by the events of the day. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You ought to seriously consider the possibility,” he said, edging past her, increasing the space between them—a difficult endeavor in the cluttered office, “as there is no additional rational explanation for why you would be unchaperoned in London’s most notorious gaming hell, asking to be ruined.”
“It’s not as though a chaperone would have been rational,” she pointed out. “Indeed, a chaperone would have made this whole scenario impossible.”
“Precisely,” he said, taking a long step over a stack of newspapers, ignoring the scent of fresh linen and sunlight that curled around her. Around him.
“Indeed, bringing a chaperone to ‘London’s most notorious gaming hell’ would have been rather more mad, don’t you think?” She reached out and ran one finger along the massive abacus. “This is beautiful. Do you use it often?”
He was distracted by the play of her long, pale fingers over the black rounds, by the way the tip of her index finger canted slightly to the right. Imperfect.
Why wasn’t she wearing gloves? Was there nothing normal about this woman?
“No.”
She turned to him, her blue eyes curious. “No, you don’t use the abacus? Or no, you don’t think that coming with a chaperone would have been mad?”
“Neither. The abacus is unwieldy—”
She pushed one large disc from one side of the frame to the other. “You can get things done more quickly without it?”
“Precisely.”
“The same is true of chaperones,” she said, serious. “I am much more productive without them.”
“I find you much more dangerous without them.”
“You think me a danger, Mr. Cross?”
“Cross. No need for the mister. And yes. I think you a danger.”
She was not insulted. “To you?” Indeed, she sounded pleased with herself.
“Mainly to yourself, but if your brother-in-law should find you here, I imagine you’d be something of a danger to me, as well.” Old friend, business partner, or no, Bourne would have Cross’s head if Lady Philippa were discovered here.
She seemed to accept the explanation. “Well then, I shall be quick about it.”
“I’d rather you be quick about leaving.”
She shook her head, her tone rising just enough to make him aware of it. Of her. “Oh no. I’m afraid that won’t do. You see, I have a very clear plan, and I require your assistance.”
He had reached his desk, thank God. Lowering himself into the creaking chair, he opened the ledger and pretended to look over the figures there, ignoring the fact that her presence blurred the numbers to unintelligible grey lines. “I am afraid, Lady Philippa, that your plan is not a part of my plans. You’ve come all this way for nothing.” He looked up. “How did you come to be here, anyway?”
Her unwavering gaze wavered. “The usual way, I imagine.”
“As we’ve established, the usual way involves a chaperone. And does not involve a gaming hell.”
“I walked.”
A beat. “You walked.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“In broad daylight.” There was an edge of defensiveness in her tone.
“You walked across London—”
“Not very far. Our home is—”
“A half mile up the Thames.”
“You needn’t say it as though it’s Scotland.”
“You walked across London in broad daylight to the entrance of The Fallen Angel, where I assume you knocked and waited for entry.”
She pursed her lips. He refused to be distracted by the movement. “Yes.”
“On a public street.”
“In Mayfair.”
He ignored the emphasis. “A public street that is home to the most exclusive men’s clubs in London.” He paused. “Were you seen?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Mad. “I assume you know that ladies do not do such things?”
A tiny wrinkle appeared between her brows. “It’s a silly rule, don’t you think? I mean, the female sex has had access to bipedal locomotion since . . . well . . . Eve.”
Cross had known many many women in his lifetime. He’d enjoyed their company, their conversation, and their curiosity. But he’d never once met a woman as strange as this one. “Nevertheless, it is 1831. In the present day, females such as you use carriages. And they do not frequent gaming hells.”
She smiled. “Well, not precisely such as me, as I walked, and here I am. In a gaming hell.”
“Who let you in?”
“A man. He appeared eager to do so when I announced myself.”
“No doubt he was. Bourne would take pleasure in destroying him if your reputation had suffered.”
She considered the words. “I hadn’t thought of that. Indeed, I’ve never had a protector.”
He could protect her.
Where had that come from?
No matter. “Lady Philippa, it appears that you require an army of protectors.” He returned his attention to the ledger. “Unfortunately, I have neither the time nor inclination to enlist. I trust you can see yourself out.”
She advanced, ignoring him. He looked up, surprised. People did not ignore him. “Oh, there’s no need to Lady Philippa me, really. Not considering my reason for being here. Please, call me Pippa.”
Pippa. It suited her. More so than the fuller, more extravagant version of the name. But he had no intention of calling her such a thing. He had no intention of calling her at all. “Lady Philippa”—he let the name stretch between them purposefully—“it is time for you to leave.”
She took another step in his direction, one hand coming to rest on the large globe to the side of his desk. He slid his gaze to the place where her flat palm smothered Britain and resisted the urge to draw cosmic meaning from the gesture.
“I am afraid I cannot leave, Mr. Cross. I require—”
He didn’t think he could bear her saying it again. “Ruination. Yes. You’ve made your purpose clear. As I have similarly made my refusal.”
“But . . . you can’t refuse.”
He returned his attention to the ledger. “I’m afraid I have.”
She did not reply, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers—those strange, improper fingers, trailing the edge of his ebony desk. He waited for them to stop. To still. To go away.
When he looked up, she was staring down at him, blue eyes enormous behind the round lenses of her spectacles, as though she would have waited a lifetime for him to meet her gaze. “I selected you, Mr. Cross. Quite carefully. I have a very specific, very clear, very time-sensitive plan. And it requires a research associate. You, you see, are to be that associate.”
A research associate?
He didn’t care. He didn’t.
“What research?”
Damn.
Her hands came together, tightly clasped. “You are quite legendary, sir.”
The words sent a chill through him.
“Everyone talks about you. They say you are an expert in the critical aspects of ruination.”
He gritted his teeth, hating her words, and feigned disinterest. “Do they?”
She nodded happily and ticked items off on her fingers quickly as she spoke. “Indeed. Gaming, spirits, pugilism, and—” She stopped. “And—”
Her cheeks were awash in red, and he wanted her to consider the rest. To hear its absurdity. To stop this madness. “And . . . ?”
She righted herself, spine straight. He would have wagered everything he had on her not replying.
He would have lost.
“And coitus.” The word was soft, and came on a firm exhale, as though she’d finally said what she’d come to say. Which couldn’t be possible. Surely he’d misheard her. Surely his body was responding incorrectly to her.
Before he could ask her to repeat herself, she took another breath and continued. “That’s the bit at which you are purported to be the most proficient. And, honestly, that’s the bit I require.”
Only years of playing cards with the most skilled gamers in Europe kept Cross from revealing his shock. He took a good, long look at her.
She did not look like a lunatic.
In fact, she looked rather ordinary—hair an ordinary blond, eyes an ordinary blue, slightly taller than average, but not too tall as to draw attention to herself, dressed in an ordinary frock that revealed a perfectly ordinary expanse of plain, pure skin.
No, there was nothing at all to suggest that Lady Philippa Marbury, daughter of one of the most powerful peers in Britain, was anything other than a perfectly ordinary young woman.
Nothing, that was, until she opened her mouth and said things like, bipedal locomotion.
And coitus.
She sighed. “You are making this very difficult, you know.”
Not knowing quite what to say, he tried for, “I apologize.”
Her gaze narrowed slightly behind her spectacles. “I am not certain I believe your contrition, Mr. Cross. If the gossip in ladies’ salons across London is to be believed—and I assure you, there is a great deal of it—you are a proper rake.”
Lord deliver him from ladies and their flapping tongues. “You should not believe everything you hear in ladies’ salons.”
“I usually do not, but when one hears as much about a particular gentleman as I have heard about you . . . one tends to believe there is a kernel of truth in the gossip. Where there is smoke, there is flame and all that.”
“I cannot imagine what you have heard.”
It was a lie. Of course he knew.
She waved one hand. “Well, some of it is utter nonsense. They say, for example, that you can relieve a lady of her clothing without the use of your hands.”
“Do they?”
She smiled. “Silly, I know. I definitely do not believe that.”
“Why not?”
“In the absence of physical force, an object at rest remains at rest,” she explained.
He couldn’t resist. “Ladies’ clothing is the object at rest in this particular scenario?”
“Yes. And the physical force required to move said object would be your hands.”
Did she have any idea what a tempting picture she’d painted with such precise, scientific description? He didn’t think so. “I am told they are very talented.”
She blinked. “As we have established, I have been told the same. But I assure you, sir, they do not defy the laws of physics.”
Oh, how he wanted to prove her wrong.
But she had already moved on. “At any rate. This one’s maid’s sister, that one’s cousin’s friend, the other’s friend’s cousin or maid’s cousin . . . women talk, Mr. Cross. And you should be aware that they are not ashamed to reveal details. About you.”
He raised a brow. “What kind of details?”
She hesitated, and the blush returned. He resisted the pleasure that coursed through him at the pretty pink wash. Was there anything more tempting than a woman flushed with scandalous thoughts?
“I am told you are the kind of gentleman who has a keen understanding of the . . . mechanics . . . of the act in question.” She was utterly, completely matter-of-fact. As though they were discussing the weather.
She had no idea what she was doing. What beast she was tempting. What she did have, however, was courage—the kind that was bound to drive fine, upstanding ladies directly into trouble.
And he knew better than to be a party to it.
He placed both hands on the top of his desk, stood and, for the first time that afternoon, spoke the truth. “I am afraid you were told wrong, Lady Philippa. And it is time for you to leave. I shall do you a service and neglect to tell your brother-in-law that you were here. In fact, I shall forget you were here at all.”
She stilled for a long moment, and he realized that her lack of movement was out of character. The woman had not been still since he’d woken to the soft sound of her fingertips sliding over the pages of the ledger. The fact that she was still now unnerved him; he steeled himself for what came next, for some logical defense, some strange turn of phrase that would tempt him more than he was willing to admit.
“I suppose it will be easy for you to forget me.”
There was nothing in the tone to suggest that she angled for a compliment or a refusal. Nothing he would have expected from other women. Though he was coming to realize that there was nothing about Lady Philippa Marbury that was at all like other women.
And he was willing to guarantee that it would be impossible to forget her.
“But I’m afraid that I cannot allow it,” she pressed on, frustration clear in her tone as he had the impression that she was speaking to herself rather than to him. “I have a great deal of questions, and no one to answer them. And I’ve only fourteen days to learn.”
“What happens in fourteen days?”
Dammit. He didn’t care. He shouldn’t have asked.
Surprise flashed at the question, and he had the sense that she had forgotten him. She tilted her head again, brow furrowed as though his query was ridiculous. Which, of course, it was.
“I am to be married.”
That, he knew. For two seasons, Lady Philippa had been courted by Lord Castleton, a young dandy with little between his ears. But Cross had forgotten her future husband the moment she’d introduced herself, bold, brilliant and not a little bit bizarre.
There was nothing about this woman to indicate that she would make an even-halfway-decent Countess of Castleton.
It’s not your problem.
He cleared his throat. “My very best wishes.”
“You don’t even know who my husband is to be.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Her brows shot up. “You do? How?”
“Aside from the facts that your brother-in-law is my business partner, and that the double wedding of the final sisters Marbury is the talk of the ton, you will find that there are few things that happen at any level of society about which I do not know.” He paused. “Lord Castleton is fortunate indeed.”
“That’s very gracious of you.”
He shook his head. “Not grace. Truth.”
One side of her mouth twitched. “And me?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. She’d be bored of Castleton within twenty-four hours of their marriage. And then she’d be miserable.
It’s not your problem.
“Castleton is a gentleman.”
“How diplomatic,” she said, spinning the globe and letting her fingers trail across the raised topography on the sphere as it whirled around. “Lord Castleton is indeed that. He is also an earl. And he likes dogs.”
“And these are the qualities women seek in husbands these days?”
Hadn’t she been about to leave? Why, then, was he still speaking to her?
“They’re better than some of the lesser qualities with which husbands might arrive,” she offered, and he thought he heard an edge of defensiveness in her tone.
“For example?”
“Infidelity. Tendency toward drink. Interest in bull-baiting.”
“Bull-baiting?”
She nodded once, curtly. “A cruel sport. For the bull and the dogs.”
“Not a sport at all, I would argue. But more importantly, are you familiar with a great deal of men who enjoy it?”
She pushed her glasses high on the bridge of her nose. “I read quite a bit. There was a very serious discussion of the practice in last week’s News of London. More men than you would think seem to enjoy its barbarism. Thankfully, not Lord Castleton.”
“A veritable prince among men,” Cross said, ignoring the way her gaze narrowed at the sarcasm in his tone. “Imagine my surprise, then, to find his future countess at my bedside this very morning, asking to be ruined.”
“I did not know you slept here,” she said. “Nor did I expect you to be asleep at one o’clock in the afternoon.”
He raised a brow. “I work quite late.”
She nodded. “I imagine so. You really should purchase a bed, however.” She waved a hand toward his makeshift pallet. “That cannot be comfortable.”
She was steering them away from the topic at hand. And he wanted her out of his office. Immediately. “I am not interested, nor should you be, in aiding you in public ruination.”
Her gaze snapped to his, shock in her eyes. “I am not requesting public ruination.”
Cross liked to think he was a reasoned, intelligent man. He was fascinated by science and widely considered to be a mathematical genius. He could not sit a vingt-et-un game without counting cards, and he argued politics and the law with quiet, logical precision.
How was it, then, that he felt so much like an imbecile with this woman?
“Have you not, twice in the last twenty minutes, requested I ruin you?”
“Three times, really.” She tilted her head to the side. “Well, the last time, you said the word ruination, but I think it should count as a request.”
Like a complete imbecile.
“Three times, then.”
She nodded. “Yes. But not public ruination. That’s altogether different.”
He shook his head. “I find myself returning to my original diagnosis, Lady Philippa.”
She blinked. “Madness?”
“Precisely.”
She was silent for a long moment, and he could see her attempting to find the right words to sway him toward her request. She looked down at his desk, her gaze falling to a pair of heavy silver pendula sitting side by side. She reached out and set them in gentle motion. They watched the heavy weights sway in perfect synchrony for a long moment.
“Why do you have these?” she asked.
“I like the movement.” Their predictability. What moved in one direction would eventually move in the other. No questions. No surprises.
“So did Newton,” she said, simply, quietly, speaking more to herself than to him. “In fourteen days, I shall marry a man with whom I have little in common. I shall do it because it is what I am expected to do as a lady of society. I shall do it because it is what all of London is waiting for me to do. I shall do it because I don’t think there will ever be an opportunity for me to marry someone with whom I have more in common. And most importantly, I shall do it because I have agreed to, and I do not care for dishonesty.”
He watched her, wishing he could see her eyes without the shield of thick glass from her spectacles. She swallowed, a ripple of movement along the delicate column of her throat. “Why do you think you will not find someone with whom you have more in common?”
She looked up at him and said simply, “I’m odd.”
His brows rose, but he did not speak. He was not certain what one said in response to such an announcement.
She smiled at his hesitation. “You needn’t be gentlemanly about it. I’m not a fool. I’ve been odd my whole life. I should count my blessings that anyone is willing to marry me—and thank heavens that an earl wants to marry me. That he’s actually courted me.
“And, honestly, I’m quite happy with the way the future is shaping up. I shall move to Sussex and never be required to frequent Bond Street or ballrooms again. Lord Castleton has offered to give me space for my hothouse and my experiments, and he’s even asked me to help him manage the estate. I think he’s happy to have the assistance.”
Considering Castleton was a perfectly nice, perfectly unintelligent man, Cross imagined the earl was celebrating the fact that his brilliant fiancée was willing to run the family estate and save him the complications. “That sounds wonderful. Is he going to give you a pack of hounds as well?”
If she noticed the sarcasm in his words, she did not show it, and he found himself regretting the tone. “I expect so. I’m rather looking forward to it. I like dogs quite a bit.” She stopped, tilting her chin to the side, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before saying, “But I am concerned about the rest.”
He shouldn’t ask. Marriage vows were not a thing to which he’d ever given much thought. He certainly wasn’t going to start now. “The rest?”
She nodded. “I feel rather unprepared, honestly. I haven’t any idea about the activities that take place after the marriage . . . in the evening . . . in the bed of the marriage,” she added, as though he might not understand.
As though he did not have a very clear vision of this woman in her marriage bed.
“And to be honest, I find the marriage vows rather specious.”
His brows rose. “The vows?”
She nodded. “Well, the bit before the vows, to be specific.”
“I sense that specificity is of great importance to you.”
She smiled, and the office grew warmer. “You see? I knew you would make an excellent research associate.” He did not reply, and she filled the silence, reciting deliberately, “Marriage is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly.”
He blinked.
“That is from the ceremony,” she explained.
It was, without a doubt, the only time someone had quoted the Book of Common Prayer in his office. Possibly, in the entire building. Ever. “That sounds reasonable.”
She nodded. “I agree. But it goes on. Neither is it to be enterprised, nor taken in hand to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding.”
He couldn’t help himself. “That’s in the ceremony?”
“Strange, isn’t it? I mean, if I were to refer to carnal lust in conversation over, say, tea, I should be tossed out of the ton, but before God and London in St. George’s, that’s fine.” She shook her head. “No matter. You can see why I might be concerned.”
“You are overthinking it, Lady Philippa. Lord Castleton may not be the sharpest of wits, but I have no doubt he’ll find his way in the marriage bed.”
Her brows snapped together. “I do have a doubt.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I don’t think you understand,” she said. “It is critical that I know what to expect. That I am prepared for it. Well. Don’t you see? This is all wrapped up in the single most important task I shall have as wife.”
“Which is?”
“Procreation.”
The word—scientific and unemotional—should not have called to him. It should not have conjured long limbs, and soft flesh, and wide, bespectacled eyes. But it did.
He shifted uncomfortably as she went on. “I quite like children, so I’m sure that bit will be fine. But you see, I require the understanding in question. And, since you are purported to be such an expert on the topic, I could not imagine anyone better to assist me in my research.”
“The topic of children?”
She sighed her frustration. “The topic of breeding.”
He should like to teach her everything he knew about breeding.
“Mr. Cross?”
He cleared his throat. “You don’t know me.”
She blinked. Apparently the thought had not occurred to her. “Well. I know of you. That is enough. You shall make an excellent research associate.”
“Research in what?”
“I have done a great deal of reading on the subject, but I would like to better understand it. So that I might happily enter into marriage without any concerns. To be honest, the brute-beast bit is rather unnerving.”
“I imagine it is,” he said dryly.
And still, she talked, as though he weren’t there. “I also understand that for women who are . . . untried . . . sometimes the act in question is not entirely . . . pleasant. In that particular case, the research will help, I should think. In fact, I hypothesize that if I have the benefit of your vast experience, both Castleton and I will have a more enjoyable time of it. We’ll have to do it several times before it takes, I’m guessing, so anything you can do to shed light on the activity . . .”
For some reason, it was growing difficult for Cross to hear her. To hear his own thoughts. Surely she hadn’t just said . . .
“They’re coupled pendula.”
What?
He followed the direction of her gaze, to the swaying metal orbs, set in motion in the same direction, now moving in opposition to each other. No matter how precisely they were set along the same path, one of the large weights would ultimately reverse its position. Always.
“They are.”
“One impacts the movement of the other,” she said, simply.
“That is the theory, yes.”
She nodded, watching the silver orbs swing toward each other, and away. Once. Twice. She looked up at him, all seriousness. “If I am to take a vow, I should like to understand all the bits and pieces of it. Carnal lust is no doubt something I should understand. And do you know why marriage might appeal to men as brute beasts?”
A vision flashed, crooked fingertips on flesh, blue eyes blinking up at him, wide with pleasure.
Yes. He absolutely knew. “No.”
She nodded once, taking him at his word. “It obviously has something to do with coitus.”
Dear God.
She explained. “There’s a bull in Coldharbor, where my father’s estate is. I am not as green as you think.”
“If you think that a bull in a pasture is anything like a human male, you are absolutely as green as I think.”
“You see? That is precisely why I require your assistance.”
Shit. He’d walked right into her trap. He forced himself not to move. To resist her pull.
“I understand you’re very good at it,” she continued, unaware of the havoc she was quietly wreaking. Or, perhaps entirely aware. He could no longer tell. Could no longer trust himself. “Is that true?”
“No,” he said, instantly. Perhaps it would make her leave.
“I know enough about men to know that they wouldn’t admit a lack of faculty in this area, Mr. Cross. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.” She laughed, the sound bright and fresh and out of place in this dark room. “As an obvious man of science . . . I should think you would be willing to assist me in my research.”
“Your research in the mating habits of bulls?”
Her smile turned amused. “My research in carnal lust and appetites.”
There was only one option. Terrifying her into leaving. Insulting her into it. “You’re asking me to fuck you?”
Her eyes went wide. “Do you know, I’ve never heard that word spoken aloud.”
And, like that, with her simple, straightforward pronouncement, he felt like vermin. He opened his mouth to apologize.
She beat him to it, speaking as though he were a child. As though they were discussing something utterly ordinary. “I see I wasn’t clear. I don’t want you to perform the act, so to speak. I would simply like you to help me to better understand it.”
“Understand it.”
“Precisely. Per the vows and the children and the rest.” She paused, then added, “A lecture of sorts. In animal husbandry. Of sorts.”
“Find someone else. Of another sort.”
Her gaze narrowed at his mocking tone. “There is no one else.”
“Have you looked?”
“Who do you think would explain the process to me? Certainly not my mother.”
“And what of your sisters? Have you asked them?”
“First, I’m not certain that Victoria or Valerie have much interest in or experience with the act itself. And Penelope . . . She turns absurd when asked about anything to do with Bourne. On about love and whatnot.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s no place for love in research.”
His brows rose. “No?”
She looked appalled. “Certainly not. You, however, are a man of science with legendary experience. I’m sure there are plenty of things you are able to clarify. For example, I’m very curious about the male member.”
He choked. Then coughed.
When he regained his ability to speak, he said, “I’m sure you are.”
“I’ve seen drawings of course—in anatomical texts—but perhaps you could help with some of the specifics? For example—”
“No.” He cut her off before she elaborated with one of her straightforward, scientific questions.
“I am happy to pay you,” she announced. “For your services.”
A harsh, strangled sound cut through the room. It came from him. “Pay me.”
She nodded. “Would, say, twenty-five pounds do?”
“No.”
Her brows knit together. “Of course, a person of your—prowess—is worth more. I apologize for the offense. Fifty? I’m afraid I can’t go much higher. It’s quite a bit of money.”
She believed that it was the amount of money that made the offer offensive? She didn’t understand that he was half a tic from doing it for free. From paying her for the chance to show her everything for which she asked.
In all his life, there had never been anything Cross had wanted to do more than throw this strange woman down on his desk and give her precisely that for which she was asking.
Desire was irrelevant. Or perhaps it was the only thing that was relevant. Either way, he could not assist Lady Philippa Marbury.
She was the most dangerous female he’d ever met.
He shook his head and said the only words he trusted himself to say. Short. To the point. “I am afraid I am unable to accommodate your request, Lady Philippa. I suggest you query another. Perhaps your fiancé.” He hated the suggestion even as he made it. Bit back the urge to rescind it.
She was quiet for a long moment, blinking up at him from behind her thick spectacles, reminding him that she was untouchable.
He waited for her to redouble her efforts. To come at him again with her straight looks and her forthright words.
Of course, there was nothing predictable about this woman.
“I do wish you’d call me Pippa,” she said, and with that, she turned and left.