One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (24 page)

Trotula ran out ahead with a series of loud, happy barks, enjoying her freedom on the uncommonly warm March day, circling back now and then to ensure that Pippa and Castleton followed. They walked in silence for several minutes—long enough for Pippa to consider her next action. When they were far enough away from the house not to be seen, she stopped, turning to face the man who would be her husband.

“My lord—” she started.

“Do you—” he said at the same time.

They both smiled. “Please,” he said. “After you.”

She nodded. Tried again. “My lord, it’s been more than a year since you began courting me.”

He tilted his head, thinking. “I suppose it has been.”

“And we are to be married. In seven days.”

He smiled. “That I know! My mother cannot seem to stop speaking of it.”

“Women tend to enjoy weddings.”

He nodded. “I’ve noticed. But you don’t seem to be in as much of a state over it, and it’s your wedding.”

Except she was in a state over it. Just not the kind of state he expected. Not the kind of state anyone noticed.

Anyone except Cross. Who was no help at all.

“Lord Castleton, I think it’s time you kissed me.”

If a hedgehog had toddled up and bit him on the toe, she didn’t think that he could have looked more surprised. There was a long silence, during which Pippa wondered if she’d made an enormous mistake. After all, if he decided she was too free with her favors, he could easily march back to the house, give back the land in Derbyshire, and bid farewell to the house of Needham and Dolby.

Would that be so bad?

Yes. Of course it would.

The answer did not matter, however, because he didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he nodded happily, said, “All right then,” and leaned down to kiss her.

His lips were soft and warm and dry, and they pressed against her with not an ounce of passion, settling on hers lightly, as though he were taking care not to startle or infringe upon her. She lifted her hands to the thick wool of his topcoat, clasping his arms, wondering if, perhaps, she should be doing something differently.

They stood like that for a long moment, lips pushed against lips, noses at a rather strange angle—though she blamed her spectacles for that—hands unmoving.

Not breathing. Not feeling anything but awkward discomfort.

When they pulled apart, gasping for air and met each other’s gaze, she pushed the thought away and adjusted her spectacles, straightening them on the bridge of her nose. She looked away to find Trotula, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

The dog did not seem to understand.

“Well,” Pippa said.

“Well,” he agreed. Then, “Shall we try again?”

She considered the offer. After all, the only way to ensure the proper outcome of an experiment was to repeat it. Perhaps they’d done it wrong the first time. She nodded. “That sounds fine.”

He kissed her again. To startlingly similar effect.

This time, when they separated, Pippa was sure. There was absolutely no threat of their entering into the sacrament of marriage for reasons at all relating to carnal lust.

She supposed that should make her feel better.

They returned to the house in silence, retracing their steps through the kitchens and into the foyer beyond the tearoom, where the soft sounds of ladies’ laughter trickled through the open mahogany door. Castleton offered to leave her there, at the party, but Pippa found that she was even less tempted by tea than she had been earlier in the afternoon, and instead, she escorted her fiancé to the main door of the house, where he paused in the open doorway and looked down at her seriously.

“I am looking forward to our marriage, you know.”

It was the truth. “I know.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a little smile. “I don’t worry about the rest. It shall come.”

Should they really have to wait for it to arrive?

She nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

He bowed, straight and serious. “My lady.”

She watched from the top step of the house as his carriage trundled down the drive, leaving her to reflect on their kiss. Castleton hadn’t felt anything. She had seen it in his eyes—in the way they’d remained patient and kind, nothing like Cross’s eyes several evenings prior. No, Cross’s eyes had been storms of gunmetal, full of emotions that she couldn’t read but that she would have spent a lifetime studying.

Emotions she would never have a chance to study.

The ache was back in her chest, and she lifted one hand absently to soothe it, her mind on the tall, grey-eyed man who had showed her pleasure without giving even an inch of himself.

She did not like that ache. She did not like what she thought it was coming to mean.

With a sigh, Pippa removed her spectacles to clean them and closed the main door to the house behind her, leaving Castleton and the rest of the word on the outside as she cleaned the glass.

“Lady Philippa?”

Pippa’s gaze snapped to the blurred shape of a lady halfway down the grand staircase of Dolby House—a tea-party guest who had lost her way.

She raised a hand to halt the lady’s movement, already heading for the stairs to meet the guest as she replaced her spectacles. With a smile she did not feel, she looked up . . . and met the gaze of Lavinia, Baroness Dunblade.

She nearly tripped on the stairs. “Lady Dunblade.”

“I told myself I wouldn’t come,” the baroness replied. “I told myself that I would stay out of whatever it is that you have with Jasper.”

Jasper?

The baroness continued, “But then I received your mother’s invitation—your sister has been very kind to me since she became Marchioness of Bourne. I suppose I should not be surprised.”

There was something in the words, an implication that Pippa should understand their subtext. She didn’t. “Lady Dunblade . . .”

The beautiful woman shifted, leaning into her cane, and Pippa reached toward her. “Would you like to sit?”

“No.” The refusal was instant and unwavering. “I am fine.”

Pippa nodded once. “Very well. I’m afraid you are under the impression that I am closer to Mr. Cross than I am.”

“Mr. Cross.” The baroness laughed, the sound humorless. “I still have trouble believing that name.”

Pippa tilted her head. “Believing it?”

Lavinia’s gaze turned surprised. “He hasn’t told you.”

The words unsettled. Perhaps they were designed to. Either way, Pippa couldn’t resist. “His name is not Mr. Cross?” Pippa was face-to-face with the baroness now, halfway up the wide, curving staircase that marked the center of Dolby House.

“I think you’re the only one who uses the mister.”

Cross. No need for the mister.
“Just Cross then. It’s not his name?”

One side of the baroness’s mouth kicked up. “No. How sweet that you believed that.”

Of course she’d believed it. She’d never had reason not to. He’d never given her reason not to. But the idea that he might have lied—it wasn’t foreign. After all, he’d lied to her from the beginning. The dice, the wagers, the way he’d tempted her and failed to touch her . . . it was all a lie. His name would be one more. Unsurprising.

And somehow, more devastating than all the others.

Her stomach roiled. She ignored it. “What is it you wished to tell me?”

Lavinia paused, clearly surprised by the firmness in Pippa’s tone. “You should be cautious of him.”

A lesson Pippa had already learned.

The baroness continued. “Jasper . . . he loves women. More than he should. But when it comes time for him to follow his word . . . he fails.” She hesitated, then said, “I should hate to see you ruined because you believed him.”

The words were full of sorrow, and Pippa hated the way they made her feel—the tightness and discomfort they brought with them . . . with their meaning. With the knowledge that this woman had known him. Had received promises from him. Had been betrayed by him.

Things Pippa hadn’t warranted.

She stiffened at the thought. She shouldn’t want to be betrayed by him. She shouldn’t want his promises. She shouldn’t want him at all. This was science, was it not? Research. Nothing more. Certainly nothing emotional.

A memory flashed—the Earl of Castleton’s lips dry and warm against hers.

Nothing emotional.

She shook her head. “There is nothing between us.”

One of the baroness’s auburn brows rose in a familiar gesture. “You came through a secret passageway into his office.”

Pippa shook her head. “He didn’t know I would find it. He never expected me there. Never wanted me there.” She hesitated. “It’s clear he cares deeply for you, Lady Dunblade. I believe he loves you a great deal.”

Not that Pippa knew anything about love, but she recalled the sound of his voice in the darkness . . . muffled by his marvelous secret passageway, and the expression in his grey eyes when Lavinia had battled him, standing strong and firm in his office.

They were as close to love as Pippa could imagine.

That, and he wouldn’t touch her.

A knot formed in her throat, and she swallowed around it, willing it away.

The baroness laughed, and Pippa hated the hollowness of the sound. “He doesn’t know what love is. If he knew what was best for us, he would stay away from us.”

Something tightened in Pippa’s chest at the words. “That may be so,” she said, “but no matter what happened in the past, it’s clear you were a very important piece of it . . . a very important . . .” She hesitated. What did one call a paramour in polite company? She was certain that her mother would insist that one did
not
call a paramour in polite company. But she and Lady Dunblade were here, and there was no one else in hearing distance, so Pippa did not mince words. “ . . . lover.”

Lady Dunblade’s blue eyes went wide. “He is not my lover.”

Pippa kept on. “At any rate, it does not matter. I have no hold whatsoever on the gentleman. He was to assist me in some research. It is now complete.”

The baroness interjected. “Jasper is not my lover.”

Pippa waved one hand. “Perhaps not now, but at one time. Again, it’s irrel—”

“Lady Philippa.” Lavinia’s tone was unyielding, urgent. “Dear heaven. He is not my lover.” She paused, and the look on her face was a mix of panic and despair and not a small amount of horror. “He is my
brother.
”

Chapter Thirteen

C
ross stood in the owner’s suite of The Fallen Angel, watching as half of London gambled on the floor below. The very wealthy half of London.

The floor was packed with people: women in vibrant silks and satins, their identities hidden by elaborate masks designed for this very occasion; men with thousands of pounds burning in their pockets—eager to play, and win, and savor this moment when they might outsmart the Angel.

For five years, since the first Pandemonium, men had fallen victim to the Angel’s temptation and wagered everything they had on her tables, on their own luck. And every year, a subset of those men had lost. And the owners of the Angel had won.

Chase liked to say that they won because none of them had enough riding on the night to lose. Most nights, Cross knew better. They won because they could do nothing less. They’d sold their collective souls, and their gift was fleecing the gentlemen of London.

Tonight, however, Cross doubted them. Doubted their keen, unwavering ability to win.

Doubted himself.

Too much was riding on Pandemonium tonight. Too much that he couldn’t control. Too much that made him desperate to win.

And desperation was not good for winning, not even when the plan was working.

He braced one hand against the stained glass, his wide, flat palm on Satan’s thigh as he watched the tables below.
Vingt-et-un
and roulette, hazard and piquet, the movement of the club was a blur of tossed cards and rolled dice and turned wheels and lush green baize.

On a normal night, Cross would have been calculating winnings—one thousand from hazard, twenty-two hundred from roulette, half again from
vingt-et-un
. But tonight, he was focused on the fifty who marked his fate.

Fifty of Knight’s biggest players were dispersed across the floor below—fifty men who would never have been allowed to wager at this club if not for their special invitations. Fifty men who did not deserve to play here but played nonetheless.

At Cross’s will.

Sally had kept her promise, delivering the gentlemen to the floor of the Angel, and now it was the Angel’s task to keep them there. The employees of the hell had their orders. If a man had a wager in one hand, he had a full glass in the other. If a gamer appeared lonely, or bored, it was not long before he would be joined by another masked reveler—someone who had been paid handsomely to ensure that all in attendance left with light spirits and lighter pockets.

The Angel was known for delivering on gamers’ fantasies, and tonight . . . it would deliver well.

And Knight would know that he could not beat the Angel.

That he could not beat Cross.

The door to the suite opened and closed behind him, but Cross did not turn to face his new companion. Only a handful of people were allowed access to the owner’s suite—any one of them someone whom Cross would trust with his life.

Instead, he watched the roulette table below, the spinning wheel, the ivory ball rolling along the mahogany edge, around and around as the bettors leaned in. On one end of the roulette field, a young man no more than twenty-five lifted his mask and watched the roll of the ball with wild eyes—eyes that Cross had seen countless times over the years. Ordinarily, Cross would see nothing but profit in the young man’s demeanor, but tonight, for a moment, he saw more.

“Lowe,” Temple said, quietly, at his shoulder, following the line of his gaze.

Cross looked to his friend. “Did you know he was one of them?”

Temple shook his head once, firmly. “I did not. I wouldn’t have allowed him inside the club.”

“He’s not after you,” Cross said. “Anyone can see that.”

The ball dropped into the roulette wheel, and the young man winced, turning away from the table as though in pain. In seconds, he had collected himself and returned his attention to the field, already reaching for money to wager again.

Temple shook his head. “He can’t stop himself.”

“We could stop him.”

“He’d just go back to Knight’s. Might as well have him lose to us tonight. As long as he causes no trouble.”

Cross cut Temple a look. “What trouble would he cause? We’d defend you to the death.”

One of Temple’s massive shoulders lifted in a great shrug. “Defend me or no, a boy who has been wronged so well is a danger indeed.”

Cross returned his gaze to Christopher Lowe, now watching as the ball rolled in the roulette track once more. “Is that why you’re up here? In hiding?”

Temple rolled his shoulders back into his black jacket. “No. I’m here for you.”

“What about me?”

“It looks like your plan is working.”

Cross pressed his hand against the cool glass, savoring the wide, smooth pane against his palm. “We shan’t know until we get proof that Knight’s is empty of real gamers tonight.”

“It will come,” Temple said before going quiet for a long moment, then adding, “I hear the daughter arrived on time, this morning.”

Cross had heard the same, that Meghan Margaret Knight had been set up in a lavish town house on the edge of Mayfair. “She won’t stay long. Not with us pulling Knight’s strings.”

Temple didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Instead, he watched the gaming below. “Bourne and Penelope are here.”

Cross’s gaze flickered to the far end of the room, where his partner sat—unmasked—happily next to his wife, watching as she knocked firmly against the baize to request another card for her hand of
vingt-et-un.
Penelope smiled at the flop and turned to her husband, lifting her face to his for a kiss. “She’s winning, as usual, I see.”

There was a smile in Temple’s tone. “I’m certain he fixes the games.”

Cross raised a brow. “If I ever get proof of that, he and I shall have a talk.”

Temple laughed. “Be careful with that judgment, friend. Someday, it will be the lady
you
wish to impress.”

Cross did not find the words amusing. “There are no doubt many things that might happen,” he said, scanning the floor. “But my being laid low by a lady is not one of them.”

He couldn’t be.

Even if he did touch them—even if they were an option—a future with a woman was not. He owed Lavinia too much. He owed
Baine
too much.

He couldn’t bring either of them back . . . couldn’t return them to the lives they deserved. But he could ensure that Lavinia’s children got everything Baine’s should have had. He could be certain that they never knew the gnawing disappointment of want.

He would leave them a kingdom. Built from sin, but a kingdom nonetheless.

A crowded hazard table erupted in cheers, drawing the attention of half a dozen others nearby. At one end of the table, smug as ever, was Duncan West, owner of three major newspapers and a half dozen scandal sheets. West was rich as Croesus and lucky as sin. More importantly, he was on the roll, and would take everyone nearby with him.

Cross remembered that pleasure keenly—the knowledge that he would win.

It had been a long time since he’d taken such pleasure.

“I would have bothered Bourne with this,” Temple said casually, as though they were anywhere but the owners’ suite of the most legendary gaming hell in London, “but since he is so busy with his lady, I thought perhaps you might step in.”

Cross heard the amusement in Temple’s tone. “I’m a little busy for your games, Temple.”

“Not my games. Chase’s. I am simply the messenger.”

The words sent a tremor of unease through him. With a soft curse, Cross scanned the floor of the club, looking for the founder of the Angel, who, of course, was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t need Chase’s games either.”

Temple chuckled. “It might be too late for that.”

The words had barely been spoken when Cross’s gaze settled on the lone figure at the center of the casino floor below, the only person in the entire room who was not moving. Of course.

She was always on a separate course from the rest of the universe—the planet that orbited in reverse, the sun that rose in the west. And now she stood at the center of his hell, surrounded by debauchery—in its thrall. He did not have to see her face to know that.

Just as he did not have to see her unmasked to know that she was stunning. Not as stunning as she had been in that chair in his office a week earlier, bared to him, finding her pleasure, tempting him with her shape and her sounds and her scent, but stunning nonetheless.

After she’d left him that night, he’d sat on the floor of his office, staring at that chair for hours, reliving the way she’d writhed against it, straining to hear the echoes of her gorgeous sounds, and finally, finally placing his forehead to the cool leather seat with a foul curse and vowing to stay away from her.

She was too much for him to resist.

She had returned, swathed in sapphire, hair like spun silk, porcelain skin, standing at the center of his club, under threat of sin and vice and wickedness. And him. From this vantage point, he had an unparalleled view of the swell of her beautiful breasts, all lovely curves and dark, promising shadows. Enough to send a grown man to his knees.

The hand on the glass clenched in a tight fist. “What in hell is she doing here?”

“Ah,” Temple said, “you’ve noticed our guest.”

Of course he’d noticed her. Any man with eyes would notice her. She was the most fascinating thing in the room. “Don’t make me ask again.”

“Asriel tells me she had an invitation.”

No doubt she did. No doubt Chase found this entire scenario amusing. Chase deserved a sound beating. “She is no more suited to that room than she is to fly.”

“I don’t know.” Temple paused, considering her. “I rather like the way she looks in that room.”

Cross snapped his attention to his massive partner. “Stop liking it.”

Temple smirked and rocked back on his heels. “I could like it very much.”

Cross resisted the urge to put a fist into the larger man’s face. Fighting with Temple was futile, as he was enormous and unbeatable, but it would feel good to try. It would feel good to lose himself to the physical when he had spent so much of the last week resisting just that. Cross felt confident that he could draw blood. Or blacken an eye. “Stay away from Philippa Marbury, Temple. She’s not for you.”

“But she is for you?”

Yes, goddammit.
He bit back the words. “She’s not for any of us.”

“Chase disagrees.”

“She’s most definitely not for Chase.”

“Shall I tell Bourne she’s here, then?” Cross heard the teasing in Temple’s voice. The knowledge that Cross would not be able to resist action. “Penelope could take her home.”

He should let it happen. Should let Bourne and Penelope handle their errant sister. Should let someone else tend to Pippa Marbury before she ruined herself and half of London besides.

A month ago, he could have. A week ago.

But now. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Temple’s amusement grated.

Cross cut him a look. “You deserve a sound thrashing.”

One side of Temple’s mouth kicked up in a wicked smirk. “You think you’re the one to deliver it?”

“No, but you’ll get it before long. And we shall all have a good long laugh.”

Something flickered in Temple’s black gaze at that. “Such promises tease, friend.” He put a hand to his chest dramatically. “They tease.”

Cross did not waste more words on his idiot partner. Instead, he left the room, long strides eating up the dark corridor that led to the back stairwell of the Angel, then soaring down the stairs to reach his quarry, his heart pounding, eager to find her. To capture her before someone else did.

If another touched her, he’d kill him.

He pushed out a private door, into one of the small, private antechambers on one side of the casino floor and out onto the floor, filled with laughing masked revelers. Not that he would have any trouble finding her . . . he could find her among thousands.

But he didn’t have to look very hard.

She gave a little squeak as they collided, and he reached out to capture her, hands coming to her shoulders to hold her steady. A mistake. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and this dress appeared to have a shocking lack of fabric. Her skin was soft and warm—so warm it fairly singed him.

And made him want to linger.

He did not release her, not even when her hands came to his chest to brace herself, her sapphire skirts swirling around them both, tangling in his legs as surely as the scent of her tangled in his mind, bright and fresh and utterly out of place in this dark, wicked world.

Instead, he pulled her back into the alcove from which he’d come, and said harshly, “Why aren’t you wearing gloves?”

The question surprised them both, but she recovered first. “I don’t like them. They eliminate a sense.”

It was hard to imagine losing any sensation when she was about . . . consuming his. He ignored the answer and tried again. “What are you doing here?” His voice was soft in the darkness—too soft. He meant to scold her. To scare her.

“I was invited.”

Nothing scared Pippa Marbury. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“No one can see me. I’m masked.”