One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (16 page)

And because he seemed genuinely intrigued, she said, “I would have gone to university. I would join the Royal Horticultural Society. Or maybe the Royal Astronomical Society—then I would know the difference between Polaris and Vega.”

He laughed.

She continued, enjoying the way she could be free with him. “I would marry someone I liked.” She paused, instantly regretting the way the words sounded on her tongue. “I mean—I don’t dislike Castleton, he is a nice man. Very kind. It’s just . . .” She trailed off, feeling disloyal.

“I understand.”

And for a moment, she thought he might.

“But all that is silly, you see? Natterings of an odd young lady. I was born into certain rules, and I must follow them. Which is why I think it is likely easier for those who live outside of society.”

“There you are, seeing in black and white again.”

“Are you saying it’s not easier for you?”

“I am saying that we all have our crosses to bear.”

There was something in the words—an unexpected bitterness that made her hesitate before she said, “I suppose you speak from experience?”

“I do.”

Her mind spun with the possibilities. He’d said once that he did not think on marriage. That it was not for him. Perhaps at one time, it had been. Had he wanted to marry? Had he been refused? Because of his name, or his reputation, or his career? Title or no, he was an impressive specimen of man—clever and wealthy and powerful and rather handsome when one considered all factors.

What lady would refuse him?

The mystery lady in the garden had.

“Well, either way, I am happy that you are not a peer.”

“If I were?”

You would be like none I have ever met.
She smiled. “I would never have asked you to be my research associate. I have compiled a list, by the way. Of my questions.”

“I expected nothing less. But you don’t think it would make everything easier if I were a peer? No skulking about in gaming hells.”

She smiled. “I rather like skulking about in gaming hells.”

“Perhaps.” He stepped closer, blocking out the light from the house. “But perhaps it is also because when you complete your research, you can walk away and forget it ever happened.”

“I would never forget it,” she said, the truth coming quick and free. Pippa flushed at the words, grateful for the shadows that kept the color from him.

But she wouldn’t forget this. In fact, she had no doubt that she would harken back to this night when she was Lady Castleton, rattling around in her country estate with nothing but her hothouse and her dogs to keep her company.

And she certainly would not forget
him.

They were quiet for a long moment, and she wondered if she’d said too much. Finally, he said, “I brought you something.” He extended a brown-paper-wrapped package toward her.

Her breath quickened—a strange response to a small box, no doubt—and she took the parcel, pushing away Trotula’s inquisitive wet nose and quickly unwrapping it to discover a domino mask on a bed of fine paper. She lifted the wide swath of black silk, heart pounding.

She looked up at him, unable to read his gaze in the darkness. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “You will need it.” He turned away from her then, moving quickly across the gardens.

Trotula followed.

Pippa did not wish to be left behind. She hurried to keep up with man and beast.

“Are we . . . we are going somewhere public?”

“Of a sort.”

“I thought . . .” She hesitated. “That is, I was under the impression that the instruction would be in private.” She lifted her reticule. “I cannot ask you about the specifics in
public.
”

He turned back, and she nearly plowed into him. “Tonight is not about specifics. It is about temptation.”

The word slid through her, and Pippa wondered, fleetingly, if it was possible that language was somehow made more powerful in the absence of light. It was a silly question, of course. Obviously, the senses were heightened when one was removed. She couldn’t see him, so she heard him all the more.

It had nothing to do with the word itself.

Temptation.

He began walking once more, adding, “To understand how to tempt a man, you must first understand temptation yourself.”

She followed, hurrying to catch up. “I understand temptation.”

He slid her a look.

“I do!”

“What tempts you?” They had arrived at a black carriage, and Mr. Cross reached up to open the door and lower the stepping block. The spaniel leapt into the carriage happily, surprising them both into laughter.

She snapped her fingers. “Trotula, out.”

With a sad sigh, the dog did as she was bid.

Pippa pointed to the house. “Go home.”

The hound sat.

Pippa pointed again. “Home.”

The hound refused to move.

Cross smirked. “She’s somewhat unbiddable.”

“Not usually.”

“Perhaps it’s me.”

She cut him a look. “Perhaps so.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re rather unbiddable around me as well.”

She feigned shock. “Sirrah, are you comparing me to a hound?”

He smiled, flashing eyes and white teeth causing a strange little flutter to take up residence in her stomach. “Maybe.” Then, “Now. Let’s return to the task at hand. What tempts you, Pippa?”

“I—” She hesitated. “I care a great deal for meringue.”

He laughed, the sound bigger and bolder than she expected.

“It’s true.”

“No doubt you do. But you may have meringue anytime you like.” He stood back and indicated that she should enter the carriage.

She ignored the silent command, eager to make her point. “Not so. If the cook has not made it, I cannot eat it.”

A smile played on his lips. “Ever-practical Pippa. If you want it, you can find it. That’s my point. Surely, somewhere in London, someone will take pity upon you and satisfy your craving for meringue.”

Her brow furrowed. “Therefore, I am not tempted by it?”

“No. You desire it. But that’s not the same thing. Desire is easy. It’s as simple as you wish to have meringue, and meringue is procured.” He waved a hand toward the interior of the carriage but did not offer to help her up. “In.”

She ascended another step before turning back. The additional height brought them eye to eye. “I don’t understand. What is temptation, then?”

“Temptation . . .” He hesitated, and she found herself leaning forward, eager for this curious, unsettling lesson. “Temptation turns you. It makes you into something you never dreamed, it presses you to give up everything you ever loved, it calls you to sell your soul for one, fleeting moment.”

The words were low and dark and full of truth, and they hovered in the silence for a long moment, an undeniable invitation. He was close, protecting her from toppling off the block, the heat of him wrapping around her despite the cold. “It makes you ache,” he whispered, and she watched the curve of his lips in the darkness. “You’ll make any promise, swear any oath. For one . . . perfect . . . unsoiled taste.”

Oh, my.

Pippa exhaled, long and reedy, nerves screaming, thoughts muddled. She closed her eyes, swallowed, forced herself back, away from him and the way he . . .
tempted her.

Why was he so calm and cool and utterly in control?

Why was he not riddled with similar . . . feelings?

He was a very frustrating man.

She sighed. “That must be a tremendous meringue.”

A beat followed the silly, stupid words . . . words she wished she could take back.
How ridiculous.
And then he chuckled, teeth flashing in the darkness. “Indeed,” he said, the words thicker and more gravelly than before.

Before Pippa could wonder at the sound, he added, “Trotula, go home.”

The dog turned and went as he returned his attention to Pippa, and said, “Get in.”

She did. Without question.

T
he alley behind the Angel looked different at night. More ominous.

It did not help that he punctuated the slowing of the carriage with, “It is time for the mask,” before he opened the door and leapt down from the conveyance without aid of step or servant.

She did not hesitate to do his bidding, extracting the slip of fabric and lifting it to her face, filled with excitement—she’d never had cause to mask her identity before.

The mask promised equal parts excitement and edification.

Her first foray incognito. Her first moment as more than just the oddest Marbury sister.

In the mask, she imagined herself not odd, but mysterious. Not only scientific, but also scandalous. She would be a veritable Circe in the making.

But now, as she attempted to affix the mask to her head, she realized that imagination was not reality. And that masks were not made for spectacles.

On the first attempt, she tied the ribbons too loosely, and the mask gaped and slipped, sliding down over the lenses of the glasses, blocking her view and threatening to fall past her nose and to the floor of the carriage if she moved too quickly.

On the second try, she tied the ribbons with a much firmer hand, wincing as she captured a few stray hairs in the messy knot. The result was not much better, the mask now forced the spectacles against her eyes, warping the thin gold rims until the nose and earpieces dug into her skin, and making her feel decidedly
un-
Circe-like.

Committed to soldiering on, she slid across the seat to exit to the carriage, where Mr. Cross stood waiting for her. She would not allow a little thing like poor eyesight to ruin the evening. The mask perched haphazardly on her spectacles, she stepped blindly from the carriage, her slipper finding the top step by some miracle other than peripheral vision.

Not so, the second step.

Pippa stumbled, emitting a loud squeak and throwing her arms wide to somehow regain her balance. She failed, toppling to the left, directly into Mr. Cross, who caught her to his chest with a soft grunt.

His warm, firm chest.

With his long, capable arms.

He sucked in a breath, clutching her tightly and for a moment—not even a moment, barely an instant—the length of her was pressed to the length of him, and she was looking directly into his eyes. Well, not precisely
directly,
as the dratted mask had of course shifted during the journey, and she was left with a fraction of her usual visibility.

But had she full use of her faculties, she was certain she would discover him laughing. And there it was again, embarrassment, hot and unavoidable in the instant before he set her down.

Once on terra firma, Pippa lifted one hand from where it had been desperately clutching his wool coat and attempted to right the mask. She succeeded in upsetting both it and her spectacles, which tumbled from their perch.

He caught the frames in midair.

She looked from the spectacles to his face, its angles stark in the light from the exterior of the carriage. “This was not how I expected the evening to proceed.”

He was not laughing, she would give him that. Instead, he seemed to consider her carefully for a long moment before he stepped back and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “Nor I, I assure you,” he said, cleaning the glasses carefully before returning them to her.

She put them on quickly and huffed a little sigh. “I cannot wear the mask. It will not fit.” She hated the pout in her voice. She sounded like Olivia.

She wrinkled her nose and met his gaze.

He did not speak, instead reaching out to straighten the glasses on her nose without touching her. They hovered there, in silence, for a long moment before he said, softly, “I should have thought of that.”

She shook her head. “I’m sure you’ve never had such a problem before . . .” A vision of Sally Tasser flashed, the beautiful, perfectly sighted woman who would have no difficulty whatsoever wearing a mask and achieving flawless mystery.

The only thing Pippa achieved flawlessly was peculiarity.

And suddenly, she was keenly aware that this world, this night, this
experience
was not for her. It was a mistake. Orpheus looking back into Hell.

“I should not be here,” she said, meeting his gaze, expecting to see satisfaction there—relief that she had finally given up.

But she did not see relief. Instead, she saw something else. Something firm and unyielding. “We shall just have to be careful in a different way.” He started for the club, the expectation that she should follow clear.

As they approached the great steel door that marked the rear entrance to the hell, a second carriage came trundling down the alleyway, stopping several yards from the conveyance in which they had arrived. A servant stepped down as the carriage door swung open from within on a collection of feminine laughter.

Pippa stopped at the sound, turning toward it.

Mr. Cross swore, low and wicked and grabbed her by the hand before she could resist, spinning her back against the outer wall of the club and blocking her from view with his looming frame.

She tried to move, and he pressed her to the wall, preventing her from seeing the women who had descended from the carriage and were now giggling and chattering as they made their way to the wall. She craned her neck to see them, curiosity making her careless, but he predicted her movements and shifted closer, crowding her back, making it impossible for her to see anything.

Anything but him.

He was so very tall. She’d never known anyone as tall as him. And when he was so close, it was difficult to think of anything but him. Him, and his warmth, the way his unbuttoned coat fell open around them, bringing her closer to a man in shirtsleeves than she’d ever been before.

Her thoughts were interrupted by another burst of laughter, followed by a hushing sound. “Look!” a woman said loudly. “We’re disturbing the lovers!”

“Someone couldn’t wait until she was inside!” Another feminine voice said.

“Who is it?” a third whispered.

Pippa’s eyes went wide, and she spoke to his chest. “Who are they?”

“None you need worry about.” He crowded closer, grimacing as he lifted one hand and placed it flat on the wall above her head, obscuring her face with his long arm and the lapel of his coat.