“Inquiry reveals that the human tongue is not one muscle, but rather eight unique muscles, half of which are anchored to bone—the glossus muscles—and half of which are integral to the shape and function of the larger organ.
While this additional research has cast an impressive light on an area of human anatomy of which I had been previously unaware, I remain unclear on the value of the muscle in question in activities unrelated to eating and articulation.
I may have to ask Olivia to elaborate. Solution not ideal.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 24, 1831; twelve days prior to her wedding
I want him punished.”
Cross watched as Temple leaned low over the billiards table at the center of the owner’s suite of The Fallen Angel and took a clear shot, the white cue knocking into its red sister and rebounding against the rail to hit a third, spotted ball.
“Are you certain? Vengeance has never been in your bailiwick. Particularly not with Knight.” Bourne stepped forward and considered the playing field. “Damn your luck, Temple.”
“At least give me billiards,” Temple replied. “It’s the only game in which I’ve a chance of taking you both.” He stepped back and leaned one hip against a nearby chair, returning his attention to Cross. “There are ways of disappearing him.”
“Leave it to you to suggest killing the man,” Bourne said, taking his own shot, missing the second ball by an impressive margin, and swearing roundly.
“It’s quick. And final.” Temple shrugged one massive shoulder.
“If anyone outside of this room heard you say that, they’d believe the stories about you,” Cross said.
“They believe the stories about me already. All right, no killing. Why not just pay the debt?”
“It’s not an option.”
“Probably for the best. Dunblade would just run up more and we’d be back where we started in a month.” Bourne turned for the sideboard, where Chase kept the best scotch in the club. “Drink?”
Cross shook his head.
“Then what?” Temple asked.
“He wants his daughter married.”
“To you?”
Cross did not reply.
Temple whistled long and low. “Brilliant.”
Cross’s gaze flew to Temple’s. “Marriage to me is not even close to brilliant.”
“Why not?” Bourne interjected, “You’re an earl, rich as Croesus, and—even better—in the family business. Gaming-hell royalty.”
“One of you should marry her, then.”
Temple smirked, accepting a tumbler of scotch from Bourne. “We both know Digger Knight would no more let me near his daughter than fly. It’s you, Cross. Bourne is married, my reputation is forever ruined, and Chase is . . . well . . . Chase. Add to it the fact that you’re the only one of us he respects, and you’re the perfect choice.”
He was no such thing. “He’s misjudged me.”
“He’s not the first,” Bourne said. “But I’ll admit that if he had my sister in his clutches, I’d consider doing his bidding. Digger Knight is ruthless. He’ll get what he wants any way he can.”
Cross turned away from the words, ignoring the thread of guilt they brought with them. After all, Bourne’s sister-in-law had been in Knight’s clutches a day earlier. Tall, slim Pippa caught in Knight’s strong arms, pressed against his side as he whispered God knew what in her ear. The image made him furious.
Bourne’s sister. Then his own.
He set his cue aside and paced the length of the dark room until he reached the far wall, where a mosaic of stained glass overlooked the main floor of the casino. The window was the centerpiece of The Fallen Angel; it depicted the fall of Lucifer in glorious detail—the great blond angel tumbled from Heaven to the floor of the hell, six times the size of the average man, useless wings spread out behind him, chain around one ankle, glittering jeweled crown clasped in his massive hand.
The window was a warning to the men below—a reminder of their place, of how close they were to their own fall. It was a manifestation of the temptation of sin and the luxury of vice.
But for the owners of the Angel, the window was something else.
It was proof that those banished into exile could become rulers in their own right, with power to rival those they’d once served.
Cross had spent the last six years of his life proving that he was more than a reckless boy cast from society, that he was more than his title. More than the circumstances of his birth. More than the circumstances of his brother’s death. More than what came after.
And he would be damned if he would let Digger Knight resurrect that boy.
Not when Cross had worked so hard to keep him at bay.
Not when he had sacrificed so much.
His gaze flickered over the men on the floor of the hell. A handful at the hazard tables, another few playing ecarte. The roulette wheel spun in a whir of color, a fortune laid out across the betting field. He was too far away to see where the ball fell or to hear the call of the croupier, but he saw the disappointment on the faces of the men at the table as they felt the sting of loss. He saw, too, the way hope rallied, leading them into temptation, urging them to place another wager on a new number . . . or perhaps the same one . . . for certainly luck was theirs tonight.
Little did they know.
Cross watched a round of vingt-et-un directly below, the cards close enough to see. Eight, three, ten, five. Queen, two, six, six.
The deck was high.
The dealer laid the next cards.
King. Over.
Jack. Over.
There was no such thing as luck.
His decision made, he turned back to his partners. “I won’t let him ruin my sister.”
Bourne nodded once, understanding. “And you won’t let Temple kill him. So . . . what? Marry the daughter?”
Cross shook his head. “He threatens mine; I threaten his.”
Temple’s brows shot up. “The girl?”
“He doesn’t care an ounce for the girl,” Cross said. “I mean the club.”
Bourne propped one arm on the end of his cue. “Knight’s.” He shook his head. “You’ll never convince his membership to leave him. Not without inviting them to join us.”
“Which won’t happen,” Temple said.
“I don’t need them all to leave him for good,” Cross said, several steps ahead. “I need them to leave him for one night. I need to prove that his kingdom exists only because of our benevolence. That if we had the mind to do so, we could destroy him.” He turned back to the floor of the club. “She arrives in six days. I need the upper hand before then.”
I need control.
“Six days?” Temple repeated, grinning when Cross nodded. “Six days makes it March the twenty-ninth.”
Bourne whistled. “There’s the upper hand.”
“Pandemonium.” The word hovered in the dark room, a solution that could not have been better devised if the devil himself had done it.
Pandemonium—held every year on the twenty-ninth of March—was the one night of the year when the Angel opened its doors to nonmembers. An invitation provided its bearer with access to the casino floor from sundown to sunup. With one, a man could steep himself in sin and vice and experience the clandestine, legendary world that was The Fallen Angel.
Each member of the club received three invitations to Pandemonium—small, square cards so coveted that they were worth thousands of pounds to men desperate to join the club’s ranks. Desperate to prove their worth to the owners of the Angel. Certain that if they wagered enough, they might leave with a permanent membership.
They rarely did.
Most often, they left with pockets thousands of pounds lighter and a tale with which to regale their friends who had not been so lucky to receive an invitation.
Cross met Temple’s gaze. “Every man who gambles regularly at Knight’s is desperate for access to the Angel.”
Bourne nodded once. “It’s a good plan. One night without his biggest gamers will prove we can take them whenever we like.”
“There are how many . . . thirty of them?”
“Fifty, more like,” Bourne said.
Cross returned his attention to the floor of the club, his mind racing to formulate a plan, to set the gears in motion. He would save his family.
This time.
“You’ll need someone on the inside to identify the men.”
“I have her,” he said, watching the wagers below.
“Of course,” Temple said, admiration in his tone. “Your women.”
“They aren’t mine.” He made sure of it. Not one of them had ever come close to being his.
“Irrelevant,” Bourne said. “They adore you.”
“They adore what I can do for them.”
Temple’s tone turned wry. “I’ll bet they do.”
“What of your sister?” Bourne asked. “The only way the threat works is if she stays away from him. Dunblade as well.”
Cross watched the men below, absently calculating their bets—how much they usually wagered, how much the take was when their hand was lost. How much was risked when they won. “I shall speak with her.”
There was a long silence that he did not misunderstand. The idea that he might speak to his sister—to any member of his family—was a surprise. Ignoring his partners’ shock, Cross turned to meet Bourne’s gaze. “Why are there so few members here tonight?”
“The Marbury betrothal ball,” Bourne said, his words punctuated by the crack of ivory on ivory. “I understand my mother-in-law has invited the entire peerage. I’m surprised the two of you did not receive invitations.”
Temple laughed. “Lady Needham would run for her smelling salts were I to darken her doorstep.”
“That does not say much. The lady runs for her smelling salts more often than most.”
The Marbury betrothal ball. Pippa Marbury’s betrothal ball.
Guilt flared again. Perhaps he should tell Bourne everything.
Don’t tell Bourne, please. The lady’s plea echoed through him, and he gritted his teeth. “Lady Philippa is still for Castleton?” Cross asked, feeling like an idiot, certain that Bourne would see through the query, would recognize his curiosity. Would question it.
“She’s been given every opportunity to end it,” Bourne said. “The girl is too honorable, she’ll be bored with him in a fortnight.”
Less than that.
“You should stop it. Hell, Needham should stop it,” Cross said. Lord knew the Marquess of Needham and Dolby had stopped engagements before. He’d nearly ruined all five of his daughters’ chances for proper marriages by ending a legendary engagement years ago.
“It’s my fault, dammit. I should have put an end to it before it even began,” Bourne said bitterly, no small amount of regret in his words. “I’ve asked her to end it—Penelope, too. We’ve both told her we’d protect her. Hell, I’d find her a proper groom tonight if I thought it would help. But Pippa doesn’t want it stopped.”
I shall do it because I have agreed to, and I do not care for dishonesty. He heard the words, saw her serious blue gaze as she defended her choice to marry Castleton—a man so far beneath her in intellect, it was impossible to believe the impending marriage was not a farce.
Nevertheless, the lady had made a promise, and she intended to keep it.
And that, alone, made her remarkable.
Unaware of Cross’s thoughts, Bourne straightened and adjusted his coat sleeves with a wicked swear. “It is too late now. She’s at her betrothal ball in front of all the ton as we speak. I must go. Penelope will have my head if I do not appear.”
“Your wife has you right where she wants you,” Temple said dryly, the carom balls clacking together as he spoke.
Bourne did not rise to the bait. “She does indeed. And someday, if you are lucky, you will take the same pleasure I do in the location.” He turned to leave, heading for his other life—a newly returned aristocrat.
Cross stopped him. “Most of the peerage is there?”
Bourne turned back. “Is there someone specific you seek?”
“Dunblade.”
Understanding flared in Bourne’s brown eyes. “I imagine he will attend. With his baroness.”
“Perhaps I will pay Dolby House a visit.”
Bourne raised a brow. “I do enjoy operating beneath my father-in-law’s notice.”
Cross nodded.
It was time he see his sister. Seven years had been too long.
Half of London was in the ballroom below.
Pippa peered down from her hiding place in the upper colonnade of the Dolby House ballroom, pressed flat against one massive marble column, stroking the head of her spaniel, Trotula, as she watched the swirling silks and satins waltz across the mahogany floor. She pushed back a heavy drape of velvet curtain, watching her mother greet an endless stream of guests at this—what might be the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby’s greatest achievement.
It was not every day, after all, that mothers of five daughters have the opportunity to announce the marriage of her final offspring. Her final two offspring. The marchioness was fairly weak from glee.
Sadly, not weak enough to forgo a double betrothal ball large enough to accommodate an army. “Just a selection of dear friends,” Lady Needham had said last week, when Pippa had questioned the sheer volume of replies that had arrived piled high on a silver tray one afternoon, threatening to slide off the charger and onto the footman’s shiny black boot.
Dear friends, Philippa recalled wryly, her gaze scanning the crowd. She’d have sworn she’d never even met the greater share of people in the room below.
Not that she did not understand her mother’s excitement. After all, this day—when all five of the Marbury girls were officially and publicly matched—was a long time coming, and not without its hesitations. But finally, finally, the marchioness was to have her due.
Weddings were nothing if not for mothers, were they not?
Or, if not weddings, at least betrothal balls.
That went doubly so when the betrothal ball was to celebrate two daughters.
Pippa’s gaze slid from her mother’s flushed face and effusive movements to settle on the youngest Marbury sister, holding a court of her own on the opposite end of the ballroom, in a crush of well-wishers, smiling wide, one bejeweled hand on the arm of her tall, handsome fiancé.
Olivia was the prettiest and most ebullient of the quintet, she had seemed to get all the best bits from the rest of the family. Was she utterly self-involved and filled with more than her fair allotment of confidence? Certainly. But it was difficult to judge the traits harshly, as Olivia had never once met a person she could not win.
Including the man who was predicted to soon become one of the most powerful in Britain, for if there were two things a politician’s wife required, they were a bold smile and a desire to win—things Olivia had in spades.
Indeed, all of London was abuzz with the news of the couple’s impending marriage, Pippa rather thought that no one downstairs would even notice she was gone.
“I thought I might find you here.”
Pippa let the curtain drop and spun to face her eldest sister, the recently minted Marchioness of Bourne. “Shouldn’t you be at the ball?”
Penelope leaned down to pay Trotula some attention, smiling when the hound groaned and leaned into the caress. “I could ask you the same thing. After all, now that I’m married off, Mother is far more interested in you than she is me.”
“Mother doesn’t know what she’s missing,” Pippa replied. “You’re the one married to the legendary scoundrel.”
Penelope grinned. “I am, aren’t I?”
Pippa laughed. “So proud of yourself.” She turned back to the ball, scanning the crowd below. “Where is Bourne? I don’t see him.”
“Something kept him at the club.”
The club.
The words echoed through her, a reminder of two days earlier. Of Mr. Cross.
Mr. Cross, who would have been as out of place in the world below as Pippa felt. Mr. Cross, with whom she had wagered. To whom she had lost.
She cleared her throat, and Penelope mistook the sound. “He swore he’d be here,” she defended her husband. “Late, but here.”
“What happens at the club at this hour?” Pippa could not keep herself from asking.
“I—wouldn’t know.”
Pippa grinned. “Liar. If your hesitation had not revealed the untruth, your red face would have.”
Chagrin replaced embarrassment. “Ladies are not supposed to know about such things.”
Pippa blinked. “Nonsense. Ladies who are married to casino owners may certainly know such things.”
Penelope’s brows rose. “Our mother would disagree.”
“Our mother is not my barometer for how women should and should not behave. The woman lunges for her smelling salts every thirty minutes.” She pushed back the curtain to reveal the marchioness far below, deep in conversation with Lady Beaufetheringstone—one of the ton’s greatest gossips. As if on cue, Lady Needham released an excited squeak that carried high into the rafters.
Pippa looked to Penelope knowingly. “Now, tell me what happens at the club.”
“Gaming.”
“I know that, Penny. What else?”
Penelope lowered her voice. “There are women.”
Pippa’s brows went up. “Prostitutes?” She supposed there would be. After all, in all the texts she’d read, she’d come to discover that men enjoyed the company of women—and rarely their wives.
“Pippa!” Penny sounded scandalized.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t even know that word.”
“Why on earth not? The word is in the Bible, for heaven’s sake.”
“It is not.”
Pippa thought for a long moment before leaning back against the colonnade. “I think it is, you know. If it isn’t, it should be. The profession is not a new one.”
She paused.
Prostitutes would have eons of institutional knowledge to address her concerns. To answer her questions.
Have you asked your sisters? The echo of Mr. Cross’s words from the previous afternoon had Pippa turning to her eldest sister. What if she did ask Penny?
“May I ask a question?”
Penelope raised a brow. “I doubt I could stop you.”
“I’m concerned about some of the . . . logistics. Of marriage.”
Penelope’s gaze grew sharp. “Logistics?”
Pippa waved one hand in the air. “The . . . personal bits.”
Penelope went red. “Ah.”
“Olivia told me about tongues.”
The eldest Marbury’s brows rose. “What does she know about them?”
“More than I think either of us imagined,” Pippa replied, “but I couldn’t ask her to elaborate—I couldn’t bear taking lessons from my youngest sister. You, on the other hand . . .”
There was a pause as the words sank in, and Penelope’s eyes went wide. “Surely you don’t expect me to school you!”
“Just on a few critical issues,” Pippa said urgently.
“For example?”
“Well, tongues, for one.”
Penelope put her hands over her ears. “No more! I don’t want to think of Olivia and Tottenham doing . . .” She trailed off.
Pippa wanted to shake her. “Doing what?”
“Doing any of it!”
“But don’t you see? How can I be prepared for all this if I don’t understand it? Bulls in Coldharbor are not enough!”
Penelope gave a little laugh. “Bulls in Coldharbor?”
Pippa went red. “I’ve seen . . .”
“You think it’s like that?”
“Well, I wouldn’t if someone would tell me . . . I mean, are men’s . . . are their . . .” She waved a hand in a specific direction. “Are they so large?”
Penelope clapped a hand over her mouth to stem her laughter, and Pippa found herself growing irritated. “I am happy I’m giving you such a laugh.”
Penny shook her head. “I’m—” She giggled again, and Pippa cut her a look. “I’m sorry! It’s just . . . no. No. They have little in common with the bull in Coldharbor.” There was a pause. “And thank God for that.”
“Is it . . . frightening?”
And, like that, Penelope’s gaze filled with doe-eyed sentimentality. “Not at all,” she whispered, all treacle, and while the honest answer was comforting, Pippa nevertheless resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“And, like that, I’ve lost you.”
Penelope smiled. “You’re curious, Pippa. I understand. But it will all become clear.”
Pippa did not like the idea of relying on the promise of clarity. She wanted it now.
Damn Mr. Cross and his idiot wager.
Damn herself for taking it.
Penelope was still speaking, voice all soft and saccharine. “And if you’re lucky, you shall discover . . .” She sighed. “Well, you shall enjoy it quite a bit, I hope.” She shook her head, coming out of her dream, and laughed again. “Stop thinking about bulls.”
Pippa scowled. “How was I to know?”
“You’ve a library full of anatomy texts!” Penny whispered.
“Well, I question the scale of the illustrations in several of those texts!” Pippa whispered back.
Penny started to say something and thought better of it, changing tack. “Conversations with you always take the strangest turns. Dangerous ones. We should go downstairs.”
Sisters were useless. Pippa would be better off talking to one of the prostitutes.
The prostitutes.
She adjusted her spectacles. “Back to the ladies, Penny. Are they prostitutes?”
Penny sighed and looked to the ceiling. “Not in so many words.”
“It is only one word,” Pippa pointed out.
“Well, suffice to say, they come with the gentlemen, but they are certainly not ladies.”
Fascinating.
Pippa wondered if Mr. Cross associated with the ladies in question. She wondered if they lay with him on that strange, small pallet in his cluttered, curious office. At the thought, something flared heavy and full in her chest. She considered the feeling, not quite nausea, not quite breathlessness.
Not quite pleasant.
Before she could assess the sensation further, Penelope continued. “At any rate, no matter what is happening at the club this evening, Bourne is decidedly not consorting with prostitutes.”
Pippa couldn’t imagine her brother-in-law doing anything of the sort. Indeed, she couldn’t imagine her brother-in-law doing much but dote on his wife these days. Theirs was a curious relationship—one of the rare marriages built on something more than a sound match.
In fact, most rational people would agree that there was absolutely nothing about Penelope and Bourne that would make for a sound match.
And somehow, they’d made just that.
Another curiosity.
Some might call it love, no doubt. And perhaps it was, but Pippa had never given much credence to the sentiment—with so few love matches in society, they were rather like mythological figures. Minotaurs. Or unicorns. Or Pegasuses.
Pegasii?
Neither, presumably, as there was only one Pegasus, but, as with love matches, one never knew.
“Pippa?” Penelope prodded.
Pippa snapped back to the conversation. What had they been discussing? Bourne. “Well, I don’t know why he would come,” Pippa pointed out. “No one expects him to stand on ceremony for society.”
“I expect him to do so,” Penelope said simply, as if that were all that mattered.
And apparently, it was. “Really, Penny. Leave the poor man alone.”
“Poor man,” Penny scoffed. “Bourne gets everything he wants, whenever he wants it.”
“It’s not as though he doesn’t pay a price,” Pippa retorted. “He must love you fiercely if he is coming. If I could avoid tonight, I would.”
“You are doing an excellent job of it as it is, and you cannot avoid tonight.”
Penny was right, of course. Half of London was below, and at least one of them was waiting for her to show her face.
Her future husband.
It was not difficult to find him among the throngs of people. Even dressed in the same handsome black frock coat and trousers that the rest of the peerage preferred, the Earl of Castleton seemed to stand out, something about him less graceful than a normal aristocrat.
He was at one side of the ballroom, leaning low as his mother whispered in his ear. Pippa had never noticed it before, but the ear in question also stood out at a rather unfortunate angle.
“You could still beg off,” Penelope said quietly. “No one would blame you.”
“The ball?”
“The marriage.”
Pippa did not reply. She could. She could say any number of things ranging from amusing to acerbic, and Penny would never judge her for them. Indeed, it would very likely make her sister happy to hear that Pippa had an opinion one way or another about her betrothed.
But Pippa had committed herself to the earl, and she would not be disloyal. He did not deserve it. He was a nice man, with a kind heart. And that was more than could be said about most.
Dishonesty by omission remains dishonest.
The words echoed through her, a memory of two days earlier, of the man who had questioned her commitment to truth.
The world is full of liars. Liars and cheats.
It wasn’t true, of course. Pippa wasn’t a liar. Pippa didn’t cheat.
Trotula sighed and leaned against her mistress’s thigh. Pippa idly stroked the dog’s ears. “I made a promise.”
“I know you did, Pippa. But sometimes promises . . .” Penelope trailed off.
Pippa watched Castleton for a long moment. “I dislike balls.”
“I know.”
“And ballrooms.”
“Yes.”
“He’s kind, Penny. And he asked.”
Penelope’s gaze turned soft. “It’s fine for you to wish for more than that, you know.”
She didn’t. Did she?
Pippa fidgeted inside her tightly laced corset. “And ball gowns.”
Penelope allowed the change in topic. “It is a nice gown, nonetheless.”
Pippa’s gown—selected with near-fanatical excitement by Lady Needham—was a beautiful pale green gauze over white satin. Cut low and off the shoulder, the gown followed her shape through the bodice and waist before flaring into lush, full skirts that rustled when she moved. On anyone else, it would look lovely.
But on her . . . the gown made her look thinner, longer, more reedy. “It makes me look like the Ardea cinerea.”
Penelope blinked.
“A heron.”
“Nonsense. You are beautiful.”
Pippa ran her palms over the perfectly worked fabric. “Then I think it’s best I stay here and keep that illusion intact.”
Penelope chuckled. “You are postponing the inevitable.”
It was the truth.
And because it was the truth, Pippa allowed her sister to lead them down the narrow stairs to the back entrance of the ballroom, where they released Trotula onto the Dolby House grounds before inserting themselves, unnoticed, into the throngs of well-wishers, as though they’d been present for the entire time.
Her future mother-in-law found them within moments. “Philippa, my dear!” she effused, waving a fan of peacock feathers madly about her face. “Your mother said it would be just a little fête! And what a fête it is! A fête to fête my young Robert and his soon-to-be-bride!”
Pippa smiled. “And do not forget Lady Tottenham’s young James and his soon-to-be-bride.”
For a moment, it seemed that Countess of Castleton did not follow. Pippa waited. Understanding dawned, and her future mother-in-law laughed, loud and high-pitched. “Oh, of course! Your sister is lovely! As are you! Isn’t she, Robert?” She swatted the earl on his arm. “Isn’t she lovely!”
He leapt to agree. “She is! Er—you are, Lady Philippa! You are! Lovely!”
Pippa smiled. “Thank you.”
Her mother bore down upon them, the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby eager to compete for the most-excited-mother award. “Lady Castleton! Are they not the most handsome of couples!”
“So very handsome!” Lady Castleton agreed, maneuvering her son to stand close to Pippa. “You simply must dance! Everyone is desperate to see you dance!”
Pippa was virtually certain that there were only two people in the room with any interest whatsoever in watching them dance. In fact, anyone who had ever seen Pippa dance knew not to expect much in the way of grace or skill, and her experience with Castleton indicated similar failings on his part. But, unfortunately, the two in question were mothers. And unavoidable.
And, dancing would limit the number of exclamations in her proximity by a good amount.
She smiled up at her fiancé. “It seems we are required to dance, my lord.”
“Right! Right!” Castleton leapt to attention, clicking his heels together and giving her a small bow. “Would you afford me the very great honor of a dance, my lady?”
Pippa resisted the urge to laugh at the formality of the question and instead took his hand and allowed him to lead her into the dance.
It was a disaster.
They all but stumbled across the floor, creating a devastating spectacle of themselves. When they were together, they trod on each other’s toes and tripped over each other’s feet—at one point, he actually clutched her to him, having lost his balance. And when they were apart, they tripped over their own feet.
When he was not counting his steps to keep time with the orchestra, Castleton kept up conversation by fairly bellowing across the dance floor.
The couples nearby did their best not to stare, but Pippa had to admit, it was near impossible when Castleton announced from ten feet away on the opposite side of the line, “Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you! I’ve a new bitch!”
He was discussing his dogs, of course—a topic in which they had a shared interest—but Pippa imagined it was something of a shock to Louisa Holbrooke when Castleton hurled the announcement right over her perfectly coiffed head.
Pippa could not help it. She began to snicker, drawing a strange look from her own partner. She lifted a hand to hide her twitching lips when Castleton added, “She’s a beauty! Brindled fur! Brown and yellow . . . yellow like yours!”
Eyes around them went wide at the comparison of her blond hair to the golden fur of Castleton’s most recent four-legged acquisition. And that’s when the snicker became a laugh. It was, after all, the strangest—and loudest—conversation she’d ever had while dancing.
She laughed through the final steps of the quadrille, her shoulders shaking as she dipped into the curtsy ladies were required to make. If there was one thing she would not miss upon her marriage, it was dancing.
She rose, and Castleton came instantly to her side, shepherding her to one end of the room, where they stood in awkward silence for a long moment. She watched the other attendees fall gracefully into the party, keenly aware of Castleton beside her. Robert.
How many times had she heard Penny refer to her husband as Michael in that tone of utter devotion?
Pippa turned to look up at Castleton. She could not imagine ever calling him Robert.
“Would you like some lemonade?” He broke their silence.
She shook her head, returning her gaze to the room. “No, thank you.”
“I should have waited to tell you about the dog until we were through dancing,” he said, drawing her attention once more. Color rose on his cheeks.
She did not like the idea that he was embarrassed. He did not deserve it. “No!” she protested, grateful for the return of the topic. It was easy to talk about dogs. “She sounds lovely. What do you call her?”
He smiled, bright and honest. He did that a lot. It was another good quality. “I thought perhaps you would have an idea.”
The words set her back. It would never occur to her to ask Castleton for his opinion on such a thing. She’d simply name the hound and announce her as part of the family. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because he added, “After all, we are to be married. She will be our hound.”
Our hound.
The hound was Castleton’s ruby ring. A living, breathing chromium-filled crystal.
Suddenly, it all seemed very serious.
They were to be married. They were to have a hound. And she was to name it.
A hound was much more than betrothal balls and trousseaus and wedding plans—all things that seemed utterly inconsequential when it came right down to it.
A hound made the future real.
A hound meant a home, and seasons passing and visits from neighbors and Sunday masses and harvest festivals. A hound meant a family. Children. His children.
She looked up into the kind, smiling eyes of her fiancé. He was waiting, eager for her to speak.
“I—” She stopped, not knowing what to say. “I haven’t any good ideas.”
He chuckled. “Well, she doesn’t know the difference. You are welcome to think about it.” He leaned low, one blond lock falling over his brow. “You should meet her first. Perhaps that would help.”
She forced a smile. “Perhaps it would.”
Perhaps it would make her want to marry him more.
She liked dogs. They had that in common.
The thought reminded her of her conversation with Mr. Cross, during which she’d told him the same as proof of her compatibility with the earl. He’d scoffed at her, and she’d ignored it.
It was all they’d said of the earl . . . until Mr. Cross had refused her request and sent her home, with a comment that echoed through her now, as she stood awkwardly beside her future husband. I suggest you query another. Perhaps your fiancé?
Perhaps she should query her fiancé. Surely he knew more than he revealed about the . . . intricacies of marriage. It did not matter that he’d never once given her even the slightest suggestion that he cared a bit for those intricacies.
Gentlemen knew about them. Far more than ladies did.
That this was a horrendously unequal truth was not the point, currently.
She peered up at Castleton, who was not looking at her. Instead, he appeared to be looking anywhere but her. She took the moment to consider her next step. He was close, after all—close enough to touch. Perhaps she ought to touch him.
He looked down at her, surprise flaring in his warm brown gaze when he discovered her notice. He smiled.
It was now or never.
She reached out and touched him, letting her silk-clad fingers slide over his kid-clad hand. His smile did not waver. Instead, he lifted his other arm and patted her hand twice, as he might do a hound’s head. It was the least carnal touch she could imagine. Not at all reminiscent of the wedding vows. Indeed, it indicated that he had no trouble with the bit about not entering into marriage like a brute beast.
She extricated her hand.
“All right?” he asked, already returning his attention to the room at large.
It did not take a woman of great experience to know that her touch had had no effect on him. Which she supposed was only fair, as his touch was absent an effect on her.
A lady laughed nearby, and Pippa turned toward the sound, light and airy and false. It was the kind of laugh she’d never perfected—her laughs were always too loud, or came at the wrong time, or not at all.
“I think I would like some lemonade, if the offer remains,” she said.
He jolted to attention at the words, “I shall fetch it for you!”
She smiled. “That would be lovely.”
He pointed to the floor. “I shall return!”
“Excellent.”
And then he was gone, pushing through the crowd with an eagerness that one might associate with something more exciting than lemonade.
Pippa planned to wait, but it was something of a bore, and with the pressing heat of the room and the hundreds of people, it might take Castleton a quarter of an hour to return, and waiting alone, rather publicly, felt strange. So instead, she slipped away to a darker, quieter edge of the room where she could stand back and observe the crowd.
People appeared to be having a lovely time. Olivia was holding court on the far end of the room, she and Tottenham surrounded by a throng of people who wanted the ear of the next prime minister. Pippa’s mother and Lady Castleton had collected Tottenham’s mother and a clutch of doyennes who were no doubt engaged in a round of scathing gossip.
As she scanned the crowd, her attention was drawn to an alcove directly across from her, where a tall, dark-haired gentleman leaned too close to his companion, lips nearly touching her ear in a manner that spoke clearly of a clandestine assignation. The couple appeared to care not a bit for their public locale, and were no doubt causing tongues to wag throughout the ballroom.
Not that such a thing was out of the ordinary for those two.
Pippa smiled. Bourne had arrived and, as ever, had eyes only for her sister.
Few understood how Penny had landed the cold, aloof, immovable Bourne—Pippa rarely saw the marquess smile or show any emotion whatsoever outside of his interactions with his doting wife—but there was no doubt that he had been landed, and was utterly smitten.
Penny swore it was love, and that was the bit that Pippa did not understand. She never liked the idea of love matches—there was too much about them that could not be explained. Too much that was ethereal. Pippa did not believe in ethereal. She believed in factual.
She watched as her proper sister placed her hands on her husband’s chest and pushed him away, laughing and blushing like a newly out debutante. He caught her close once more, pressing a kiss to her temple before she pulled away and dove back into the crowd. Bourne followed, as if on a string.
Pippa shook her head at the strange, unlikely sight.
Love, if it were a thing, was an odd thing, indeed.
A draft of cold air rustled her skirts, and she turned to find that a set of great double doors behind her had been opened—no doubt to combat the stifling heat in the room—and one had blown wide. She moved to close it, leaning out onto the great stone balcony to reach the door’s handle.
That’s when she heard it.
“You need me.”
“I need no such thing. I have taken care of myself without you for some time.”
Pippa paused. Someone was out there. Two someones.
“I can fix this. I can help. Just give me time. Six days.”
“Since when are you interested in helping?”
Pippa’s hand closed on the edge of the glass-paneled door, and she willed herself to close it. To pretend she had heard nothing. To return to the ball.
She did not move.
“I’ve always wanted to help.” The man’s voice was soft and urgent. Pippa stepped out onto the balcony.
“You certainly haven’t showed it.” The lady’s voice was steel. Angry and unwavering. “In fact, you have never helped. You have only hindered.”
“You’re in trouble.”
“It is not the first time.”
A hesitation. When the man spoke, his whispered words were clipped and filled with concern. “What else?”
She laughed quietly, but there was no humor in the sound—only bitterness. “Nothing you can repair now.”
“You shouldn’t have married him.”
“I didn’t have a choice. You didn’t leave me with one.”
Pippa’s eyes went wide. She’d stumbled into a lover’s quarrel. Well, not current lovers by the sound of it . . . past lovers. The question was, who where the lovers in question?
“I should have stopped it,” he whispered.
“Well, you didn’t,” she shot back.
Pippa pressed against a great stone column that provided a lovely shadow in which to hide, and edged her head to one side, holding her breath, unable to resist her attempt to discover their identity.
The balcony was empty.
She poked her head out from behind the column.
Totally empty.
Where were they?
“I can repair the damage. But you must stay away from him. Far away. He mustn’t have access to you.”
In the gardens below.
Pippa moved quietly toward the stone balustrade, curiosity piqued in the extreme.
“Oh, I am to believe you now? Suddenly, you are willing to keep me safe?”
Pippa winced. The lady’s tone was scathing. The gentleman in question—who was no gentleman at all, if Pippa had to guess—had most definitely wronged her in the past. She increased her pace, nearly to the edge, almost able to peer over the side of the balcony and identify the mysterious ex-lovers below.
“Lavinia . . .” he began softly, pleading, and excitement coursed through Pippa. A name!
That’s when she kicked the flowerpot.
They might not have heard the little scrape that came as she made contact with the great, footed beast of a thing . . . if only she hadn’t cried out in pain. It did not matter that her hand immediately flew to cover her mouth, turning her very loud “Oh!” into a very garbled “Oof.”
But the instant silence from below was enough to prove that they’d heard her quite clearly.
“I shouldn’t be here,” the lady whispered, and Pippa heard a rustle of skirts fading away.
There was a long moment of silence, during which she remained still as stone, biting her lip against the throbbing pain in her foot before he finally spoke, cursing in the darkness. “Goddammit.”
Pippa crouched low, feeling for her toes, and muttered, “You no doubt deserved that,” before realizing that taunting an unidentified man in the darkened gardens of her ancestral home was not a sound idea.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked quietly, no longer whispering.
She should return to the ball. Instead, she said, “It does not sound as though you have been very kind to the lady.”
Silence. “I haven’t been.”
“Well then, you deserve her desertion.” She squeezed her smallest toe and hissed in pain. “Likely more than that.”
“You hurt yourself.”
She was distracted by the pain, or she wouldn’t have responded. “I stubbed my toe.”
“Punishment for eavesdropping?”
“No doubt.”
“That will teach you.”
She smiled. “I hardly think so.”
She couldn’t be sure, but she was almost positive that he chuckled. “You had best be certain that your partners do not tread upon your toes when you return.”
A vision of Castleton flashed. “I am afraid it is very likely that at least one of them will do just that.” She paused. “It seems you gravely wronged the lady. How?”
He was quiet for so long that she thought he might have left. “I was not there for her when she needed me.”
“Ah,” she said.
“Ah?” he asked.
“One need not read romantic novels as frequently as my sister does to understand what happened.”
“You don’t read romantic novels, of course.”
“Not often,” Pippa said.
“I imagine you read books on more important things.”
“I do, as a matter of fact,” she said, proudly.
“Tomes on physics and horticulture.” Pippa’s eyes went wide. “Those are the purview of Lady Philippa Marbury.”
She shot to her feet and peered over the edge of the balcony, into the pit of darkness below. She couldn’t see anything. She heard the swipe of wool as his arms shifted, or perhaps his legs. He was right there. Directly beneath her.
She moved without thinking, reaching for him, arms extending toward him as she whispered, “Who are you?”
Even through the silk of her gloves, his hair was soft—like thick sable. She let her fingers sink into the strands until they rested on his scalp, the heat of it a stark contrast against the cold March air.
It was gone before she could revel in it, replaced by one large, strong hand, no more than a shadow in the yawning blackness, capturing both of hers with ease.
She gasped and tugged.
He did not let go.
What had she been thinking?
Her spectacles were slipping, and she stilled, afraid they would topple off her nose if she moved too much.
“You should know better than to reach into the darkness, Pippa,” he said softly, the sound of her name familiar on his lips. “You never know what you might find.”
“Release me,” she whispered, risking movement to look over her shoulder to the still-open door to the ballroom. “Someone will see.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” His fingers tangled with hers, the heat of his grasp nearly unbearable. How was he so warm in the cold?
She shook her head, feeling the wire frames of her glasses slip more. “No.”
“Are you certain?” His grip shifted, and suddenly, it was she holding him, not the other way around.
She forced herself to release him. “Yes.” She put both hands safely on the stone railing, straightening, but not before her glasses dropped into the darkness. She reached for them, knocking them off course with her fingertips, sending them shooting through the night. “My spectacles!”
He disappeared, the only sign of him the whisper of fabric as he moved away from her. And she didn’t know how, but she could feel the loss of him. The top of his head came into view, a few inches of blurred, burnt orange gleaming in the candlelight loosed from the ballroom.
Recognition surged on a tide of excitement. Mr. Cross.
She pointed toward him. “Do not move.”
She was already heading for the far end of the balcony, where a long staircase led down to the gardens.
He met her at the base of the stone steps, the dim light from the house casting his face into wicked shadows. Extending her spectacles to her, he said, “Return to the ballroom.”
She snatched the glasses and put them on, his face becoming clear and angled once more. “No.”
“We agreed you would relinquish your quest for ruination.”
She took a deep breath. “Then you should not have encouraged me.”
“Encouraged you to eavesdrop and hobble yourself?”
She tested her weight on the foot, wincing at the pinch of pain in the toe. “I think at the worst it is a minor phalangeal fracture. It will heal. I’ve done it before.”
“Broken your toe.”
She nodded. “It’s just the smallest toe. A horse once stepped on the same toe on the opposite side. Needless to say, ladies’ footwear does not provide much in the way of protection from those so far better shod than we.”
“I suppose anatomy is another one of your specialties?”
“It is.”
“I am impressed.”
She was not certain he was telling the truth. “In my experience, ‘impressed’ is not the usual reaction to my knowledge of human anatomy.”
“No?”
She was grateful for the dim light, as she could not seem to stop speaking. “Most people find it odd.”
“I am not most people.”
The response set her back. “I suppose you’re not.” She paused, thinking of the conversation she’d overheard. She ignored the thread of discomfort that came with the memory. “Who is Lavinia?”
“Go back to your ball, Pippa.” He turned away from her and started along the edge of the house.
She could not let him leave. She might have promised not to approach him, but he was in her gardens. She followed.
He stopped and turned back. “Have you learned the parts of the ear?”
She smiled, welcoming his interest. “Of course. The exterior portion is called the pinna. Some refer to it as the auricle, but I prefer the pinna, because it’s Latin for feather, and I’ve always rather liked the image. The inner ear is made up of an impressive collection of bones and tissue, beginning with—”
“Amazing.” He cut her off. “You seem to know so much about the organ in question, and yet you fail so miserably at using it. I could have sworn I told you to return to your ball.”
He turned away again. She followed.
“My hearing is fine, Mr. Cross. As is my free will.”
“You are difficult.”
“Not usually.”
“Turning over a new leaf?” He did not slow.
“Do you make it a practice to force the ladies of your acquaintance to run to keep up with you?”
He stopped, and she nearly ran into him. “Only those whom I would like to lose.”
She smiled. “You came to my location, Mr. Cross. Do not forget that.”
He looked to the sky, then back at her, and she wished that she could see his eyes. “The terms of our wager were clear; you are not to be ruined. If you remain here, with me, you will be missed, and sought. And if you are discovered, you will be ruined. Return. Immediately.”
There was something very compelling about this man—about the way he seemed so calm, so controlled. And she had never in her life wanted to do something less than leave him. “No one will miss me.”
“Not even Castleton?”
She hesitated, something akin to guilt flaring. The earl was likely waiting for her, lemonade warming in hand.
Mr. Cross seemed to read her mind. “He is missing you.”
Perhaps it was the darkness. Or perhaps it was the pain in her foot. Or perhaps it was the way the quick back-and-forth of their conversation made her feel as though she had finally found someone with a mind that worked the way hers did. She would never know why she blurted out, “He wants me to name his hound.”
There was a long moment of silence during which she thought he might laugh.
Please don’t laugh.
He didn’t laugh. “You are marrying the man. It is a rather innocuous request in the grand scheme of things.”
He did not understand. “It’s not innocuous.”
“Is there something wrong with it?”
“The dog?”
“Yes.”
“No, I think she’s probably quite a nice dog.” She lifted her hands, then dropped them. “It just seems so . . . So . . .”
“Final.”
He did understand. “Precisely.”
“It is final. You’re marrying him. You’re going to have to name his children. One would think the dog would be the easy bit.”
“Yes, well, it seems the dog is the much harder bit.” She took a deep breath. “Have you ever considered marriage?”
“No.” The reply was quick and honest.
“Why not?”
“It is not for me.”
“You seem sure of that.”
“I am.”
“How do you know?”
He did not reply, saved from having to by the arrival of Trotula, who came careening around the corner of the house with a happy, excited woof. “Yours?” he asked.
She nodded as the spaniel barreled to a stop at their feet, and Cross crouched low to pet the dog, who sighed and leaned into the caress.
“She likes that,” Pippa said.
“Name?”
“Trotula.”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a small, knowing smile. “Like Trotula de Salerno? The Italian doctor?”
Of course he would know she’d named the dog for a scientist. Of course he would guess. “Doctoress.”
He shook his head. “That’s a terrible name. Perhaps you shouldn’t name Castleton’s dog after all.”
“It is not! Trotula de Salerno is an excellent namesake!”
“No. I shall allow you ‘excellent example for young women’ or ‘excellent scientific hero,’ but I will not allow you ‘excellent namesake.’ ” He paused, scratching the spaniel’s ear. “Poor beast,” he said, and Pippa warmed to the kindness in his tone. “She’s mistreated you abominably.”
Trotula turned over onto her back, displaying her underside with an alarming lack of shame. He scratched her there, and Pippa was transfixed by his strong, handsome hands—the way they worked in her fur. After a long moment of observation, she said, “I’d rather stay outside. With you.”
His hand stilled on the dog’s stomach. “What happened to your aversion to dishonesty?”
Her brows snapped together. “It remains.”
“You are attempting to escape your betrothal ball with another man. I would say that’s the very portrait of dishonesty.”
“Not another man.”
He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
She hurried to rephrase. “That is, you are another man, of course, but you aren’t a real man. I mean, you are not a threat to Castleton. You are safe.” She trailed off . . . suddenly feeling not at all safe.
“And the fact that you’ve asked me to assist you in any number of activities that might destroy your reputation and summarily end your engagement?”
“It still doesn’t make you a man,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Quickly enough to have to take it back. “I mean. Well. You know what I mean. Not in the way you mean.”
He exhaled on a low laugh and stood. “First you offer to pay me for sex, then you throw my masculinity into question. A lesser man would take those words to heart.”
Her eyes went wide. She’d never meant to imply . . . “I didn’t . . .” She trailed off.
He stepped toward her, close enough for her to feel his heat. His voice turned low and quiet. “A lesser man would attempt to prove you wrong.”
She swallowed. He was intimidatingly tall when he was so close. So much taller than any other man of her acquaintance. “I—”
“Tell me, Lady Philippa.” He raised a hand, one finger lingering at the indentation of her upper lip, a hairsbreadth from touching her. “In your study of anatomy, did you ever learn the name of the place between the nose and the lip?”
Her lips parted, and she resisted the urge to lean toward him, to force him to touch her. She answered on a whisper. “The philtrum.”
He smiled. “Clever girl. It is Latin. Do you know its meaning?”
“No.”
“It means love potion. The Romans believed it was the most erotic place on the body. They called it Cupid’s bow, because of the way it shapes the upper lip.” As he spoke, he ran his finger along the curve of her lip, a temptation more than a touch, barely there. His voice grew softer, deeper. “They believed it was the mark of the god of love.”
She inhaled, low and shallow. “I did not know that.”
He leaned down, closer, his hand falling away. “I’d be willing to wager that there are any number of things about the human body that you do not know, my little expert. All things that I would happily teach you.”
He was so close . . . his words more breath than sound, the feel of them against her ear, then her cheek, sending a riot of sensation through her.
This is what it should feel like with Castleton. The thought came from nowhere. She pushed it aside, promised to deal with it later.
But for now . . . “I would like to learn,” she said.
“So honest.” He smiled, the curve of his lips—his philtrum—so close, and as dangerous as the weapon for which it was named. “This is your first lesson.”
She wanted him to teach her everything.
“Do not tempt the lion,” he said, the words brushing across her lips, parting them with their touch. “For he most certainly will bite.”
Dear God. She welcomed it.
He straightened, stepping back and adjusting the cuffs of his coat casually, utterly unmoved by the moment. “Go back to your ball and your betrothed, Pippa.”
He turned away, and she sucked in a long breath, feeling as though she had been without oxygen for a damaging length of time.
She watched him as he disappeared into the darkness, willing him back.
Failing.