One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (36 page)

But there was nowhere to go. Everywhere he looked were angry throngs of gamblers, desperate for their winnings, frustration and greed and his and Temple’s attacks turning them into a terrifying, raging horde.

Moving as quickly as he could, he crouched and pushed Pippa beneath the hazard table where Castleton had started it all, taking a boot to the ribs with a wince before climbing into the space with her, covering her with his body and wrapping his arms about her head to keep her from errant blows.

“Temple—” she said, struggling beneath him.

“Will be fine,” he assured her, adoring the way that she cared for his friend. “He’s a professional fighter—he shall love every minute of this. At least until I have a moment to tear him limb from limb for allowing you to carry out this utterly insane scheme.” He stroked her hair back. “Let me look.”

“It was not insane!” she protested, turning her wound toward him, one hand coming up to test the swelling at her eye. “Ow.”

He ran his fingers over the red welt once more, hating the way she winced. “Gorgeous girl . . .” he whispered, removing her glasses and pressing a kiss to her temple, the corner of her lips, the soft skin at the side of her neck. She was safe. He let out a ragged breath, and said, “I should thrash you.”

“Why me?” she said, eyes wide.

He shot a look at thundering boots beyond the table. “You started a riot.”

“Not on purpose,” she defended, turning to look. “I hypothesized that they would
leave
, not stampede.”

At another time, when he was less worried for her safety, he would have smiled at the words. Not now. “Well, your hypothesis was incorrect.”

“I see that now.” She paused. “And technically,
you
started the riot.”

“I thought you were—” He stopped, a chill racing through him. “Pippa, if anything had happened to you . . . You could have been killed,” he thundered, his muscles trembling under the strain of his worry and his desire to do something—to return to the fray and fight until the fear was gone, until she was safe.

“I was with Temple,” she whispered.

“Temple isn’t enough. Temple cannot keep you safe,” he said into her hair, letting himself feel gratitude that he’d found her before all this happened, before Knight or half a dozen other nefarious characters discovered her. “Temple doesn’t love you,” he said.

She stilled beneath him, raising one hand to his cheek. “And you do?”

He wouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t even think it. It would only make things worse. Worse than being trapped in the middle of a riot, alone, beneath a hazard table for God knew how long with the most irresistible woman in Britain. In Europe. On Earth.

Yes. Yes, I love you. Yes, I want you.

“You are a troublesome woman.”

When he opened his eyes, she was beaming at him. “I always have been.”

Before he could reply, Maggie fell to her knees several yards away, pushed over by what looked like another battalion of gamblers. She caught herself on her hands and Pippa gasped, and Cross hesitated, knowing he should go to the other woman and protect her, but not wanting to leave Pippa here. “She’ll be trampled!” she cried, and Cross had just started to move when another came to Maggie’s aid, strong arms sheltering her as the gentleman helped her to safety beneath a nearby table.

It was Castleton.

Cross raised a brow. “It looks as though your fiancé is more than any of us imagined.”

Pippa smiled at the other man, sending Cross’s gut twisting unpleasantly. “He’s a good man.”

I’m better
.

How he wanted to say it, but it was false.

He wasn’t better, and now Castleton was proving it with his heroics.

She would be safe with him.

Pippa turned blue eyes on him. “You kissed her.”

“I did.”

Her gaze narrowed. “I did not care for that.”

“I had to.”

She nodded. “I know. But I still did not care for it.” And with that, she reached up and kissed him, pressing her soft, pink lips to his, stroking her tongue across his firm bottom lip until he groaned and tilted his head and took control of the caress. One last moment. One last kiss. One last taste of Pippa before he lived out the rest of his days without her.

She pulled away when they were both breathless. “I love you, Jasper,” she whispered against his lips, and the words were weapons against his coiled, steeled strength.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “I’m not for you. My life, my history, my world . . . none of it is for you. Loving me will only get you ruined.”

He should have known better than to believe that his impassioned plea would change anything. Instead, his perfect Pippa rolled her eyes, and said, “You idiot man. I’m already ruined. You ruined me for all others that morning in your office. I’m not marrying Castleton; I’m going to marry you.”

Yes.
Every ounce of him wanted to scream assent.

Every ounce but the shred of decency he found hidden deep in his core. “For a woman with legendary sense, you seem to be struggling not a small amount to come to it. Can you not see that I would make you a terrible husband? Worse than Castleton ever would.”

“I don’t care,” she said, firm and full of those convictions he’d come to adore. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes at the words, at the way they rocketed through him, all honesty and promise. And perfection.

“No you don’t,” he said again, even as a part of him longed to pull her into his arms and reciprocate again and again, over and over, forever. He’d live here, under this hazard table, if he could guarantee she would live here with him.

But look at what he’d done to her.

She was here. In a gaming hell—a lower hell, designed for people and things far more base than anything she’d ever dreamed. He hated that she was here, only slightly less than he hated himself for being the reason she was here. She’d run the tables on one of the longest-standing gaming hells in the city, as though she were born a cheat and a swindler.

And he loved her more for it.

But he’d turned her into this, and she would come to hate it. Hate him for it. And one day she’d realize it, and he would be too far gone in love with her to suffer it. “This is the most dishonest thing you’ve ever done,” he said. “Orchestrating a run on a casino; stealing from a man; causing a riot, for God’s sake. You once told me that you did not approve of dishonesty . . . Look at what I’ve turned you into. Look at how I’ve ruined you.”

“You’ve done nothing of the sort. You’ve proven to me that black and white are not the only two options. You’ve made me realize that there is more than honest and dishonest, than lies and truth. What he’s done . . . stealing your life, blackmailing you, forcing you into a future you do not want . . . all that is dishonest. What is honest is that I love you. And that I will do anything to keep you from being forced into a life you will hate. I would do it again and again and again without an ounce of regret. Without a moment of it.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Stop telling me what I mean!” she said, strong as steel, her hands on his chest. “Stop telling me what is best for me. What will make me happy . . . I know what will make me happy—you. And you come with this life . . . this fascinating, magnificent life. And it will make me happy, Jasper. It will make me happy because it is yours.”

“Two weeks ago, you wouldn’t have said that. You wouldn’t have dreamed of running the tables of a casino. Of falsifying wins. Of ruining a man.”

“Two weeks ago I was a different woman,” she said. “So simple!”

He’d never once thought her simple.

“And you were a different man,” she added.

Truth.
She’d made him infinitely better. But he remained infinitely worse than what she deserved. She deserved better than him. So much better.

“No,” he lied, wishing he could be away from her. Wishing he were not pressed against her, desperate for her. “I am the same, Pippa. I haven’t changed.”

Her eyes went wide at the words—at the blow in them—and before he could apologize, he saw the change in them. The way she believed him. His lie. The biggest he’d ever told.

After a long moment, she spoke, the words catching in her throat. “Stealing your life. Forcing you into a future you do not want, that’s what I’ve done, isn’t it? That’s what I have done to you. What I would be doing if I forced you to marry me? I’m no worse than Knight.”

He wanted to tell her the truth—that she’d not stolen his life, but made it infinitely better. That she hadn’t forced him into anything except falling for her, a beautiful, brilliant lady. But he knew better. Knew that she deserved someone with more to offer than a gaming hell and a tarnished title. She deserved someone who was right and honorable and who would give her everything she ever wanted. Everything she would ever need.

Everything but love.

No one would ever love her the way he loved her. No one would ever celebrate her the way he celebrated her. No one would ever honor her the way he honored her.

He honored her.

And because of that, he did what he knew was right, instead of the thing he wanted desperately to do.

Instead of grabbing her to him, tossing her over his shoulder, and marching away with her forever . . . he gave her back the life she deserved.

“That’s what you’ve done,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue. “I told you once that marriage was not for me. That love was not for me. I don’t want it.”

Her face fell, and he hated himself for hurting her even as he reminded himself that she was his great work. That this would save her. That this would give her the life she deserved.

It would be the one thing he could be proud of.

Even if it hurt like hell.

“Castleton will marry you tomorrow,” he said, perhaps to her . . . perhaps to himself. “He will protect you.” His gaze flickered to the earl, trapped beneath a nearby table with Maggie, arms wrapped around her head. “He protected you tonight, did he not?”

She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped and shook her head, sadness in her blue eyes. “I don’t want him,” she whispered. “I want you.”

The confession was raw and ragged and, for a moment, he thought it might wreck him with desire and longing and love. But he had spent six years mastering his desires, six years that served him well as he shook his head and drove the knife home, uncertain of whose heart he pierced.

I love you so much, Pippa.

So very much.

But I am not worthy of you.

You deserve so much more. So much better.

“I am not an option.”

She was quiet for a long moment, and tears welled in her beautiful blue eyes—tears that did not fall. Tears she would not let fall.

And then she said precisely what he’d hoped she’d say.

What he’d hoped she wouldn’t say.

“So be it.”

Chapter Nineteen

Discovery:

Logic does not always rule the day.

The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

April 4, 1831; the morning of her wedding

C
ross stood at the window of the owners’ suite at the Angel the next morning, watching as the maids below extinguished candles across the floor of the casino, casting hell into darkness. He often watched this work, enjoying the organized process, the way the great chandeliers were lowered to the floor, the flames extinguished, and the wax replaced in preparation for the evening’s revelry.

There was order to it. Dark followed light inside the hell even as light followed dark in the world beyond. Fundamental truths.

He placed one wide palm against the stained glass, swirling the scotch in the crystal tumbler in his hand. He’d poured the drink an hour earlier, after he’d smuggled Pippa from Knight’s and left her in Temple’s care, trusting his friend to return her home.

Knowing he would never be able to do the same.

He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, staring down into the pit, watching as Justin stacked dice in neat rows along the edge of one hazard table.

She’d saved him that evening, a veritable Boadicea, with her sharp mind and her weighted dice—his weighted dice, he imagined—and her stacked decks and magnetic roulette wheel. As though it were a simple piece of scientific research, she’d controlled the pit of Knight’s with the ease and comfort of a lifelong gamer.

And she’d done it for him.

She loved him.

Not nearly as much as he loved her, he imagined.

He closed his eyes, and a knock came at the door of the suite. He turned toward the already opening door. Chase stood in the shadowy space, and while Cross couldn’t see his partner’s eyes, he could sense the censure in them.

“You’re an idiot.”

He leaned back against the window. “It seems that way. What time is it?”

“Half eight.”

She was to marry in less than two hours. Tightness swelled in his chest.

“Temple is returned.”

Cross moved toward Chase, unable to stop himself. “Is she—”

“Preparing for a wedding to the wrong groom, I would imagine.”

Cross turned away. “She is best with Castleton.”

“That’s shit, and you know it.” When Cross did not reply, Chase continued, “But it’s irrelevant. What’s relevant is that Lady Philippa earned us a new casino tonight.”

There was nothing at all relevant about the casino. Cross cared not a bit about it. Or about the exorbitant sum he’d paid for it. “I had to get her out of there. She could have been hurt. Or worse.”

“And so you bought Knight’s debts.” Chase raised a brow. “Three hundred thousand pounds seems like a great deal of money to spend on a lower hell . . . and a woman.”

He’d have paid five times that. Ten times. “It won’t be a lower hell for long. Not in our hands.”

“We could always give it to Lady Philippa as a wedding gift,” Chase said, casually. “She appears to have a knack for running tables.”

The words stung with memory, and Cross turned away, back to the floor of the hell. “That’s precisely why she’s best with Castleton. I turned her into something dark. Something she will regret.”

“The lady does not strike me as one who makes decisions without considering their consequences.”

Cross wished Chase would leave him in peace. He tossed back the scotch, finally. “She is precisely that kind of lady.”

“And you do not think you would make her happy?”

Her words, spoken over the din of the riot the night before, echoed in his ears.
I know what will make me happy—you.

It couldn’t be true.

He’d never in his life made someone happy.

He’d only ever been a disappointment.

“No.”

There was a long pause, long enough for Cross to wonder if Chase had left. When he turned to look, it was to find the founder of the Angel seated in a low chair nearby. “That’s why you’re an idiot.”

“Who’s an idiot?” Temple had arrived.
Excellent.

“Cross,” Chase said, cheerfully.

“Damn right he is. After last night, I’m half in love with Pippa myself.”

He spun on the other man. “She’s Lady Philippa to you, and I’ll break any part of you that touches her.”

Temple rocked back on his heels. “If you feel that strongly about it, Cross, it strikes me that you
are
an idiot.”

“Is she well?”

“She’ll be sporting a purple eye . . . not exactly the most fitting of accessories for a bride.”

She’d still be beautiful. “I don’t mean the eye. I mean . . .”
What did he mean?

“You mean, did she weep and wail the whole way home?”

Oh God. Had she?
He felt ill.

Temple took pity on him. “No. As a matter of fact, she was grave as granite. Didn’t speak at all.”

He couldn’t have known it, but that was the worst thing Temple could have said. The idea of inquisitive, chatty Pippa without words made Cross ache. “Not at all?” he asked.

Temple met his gaze. “Not a word.”

He’d hurt her.

She’d begged him to stay. To love her. To be with her. And he’d refused, knowing he was not for her. Knowing someone else would make her happy. That she would heal. She had to. “She’ll heal,” he said quietly, as though saying it aloud could make it true.

She would heal, and she would be happy.

And that would be enough for him.

Wouldn’t it?

Chase broke the silence. “She may heal . . . but will you?”

Cross snapped his head up, met first Chase’s gaze, then Temple’s.

And, for the first time in an eternity, he told the truth.

“No.”

He’d actually thought he could resist her pull. He thought back to that first morning in his office, when they’d discussed the coupled pendula, the steel drops moving away from, then toward each other, ever drawn together.

He wanted her. Forever.

He was already headed for the door.

Chase and Temple watched as Cross left the room, desperation propelling him toward the woman he loved before it was too late.

Chase poured two tumblers of scotch and passed one crystal glass to Temple. “To love?”

Temple considered the door for a long moment, and drank without speaking.

“No toast?”

“Not to love,” Temple said wryly. “Women may be warm and welcome . . . but they’re not to be trusted.”

“Now that you’ve said it, you know what that means.” Temple raised a black row as Chase toasted him with a grin. “You’re next.”

C
ross covered half of London that morning, having left the Angel and gone straight to Dolby House, thinking he could catch Pippa before she left for the ceremony.

Before she made the biggest mistake of his life.

When he’d arrived there, a very stern butler pronounced that the entire family was
not at home
. Not,
celebrating the marriage of the young ladies of the house
. Not even,
at church
. Simply, not at home.

If Cross hadn’t been so terrified that he’d missed her, he would have laughed at the ridiculous moment—utterly aristocratic in its understatement. Instead, he’d returned to his curricle with a single goal. Get to the church. Immediately.

Immediately
on London mornings was easier spoken than done, and by the time he turned down Piccadilly into what appeared to be a never-ending throng of traffic, he’d had enough. Did no one in this entire town understand that the woman he loved was marrying another?

And so, he did what any self-respecting gentleman would do: he left the damned carriage in the middle of the street and took off at a dead run.

Thank heavens for bipedal locomotion.

Moments later, he turned the corner to the final peal of church bells, signifying the call to service at St. George’s.

He tore toward the church, stopping traffic with height and determination, and very likely the fact that few ever raced through Mayfair.

Few ever had anywhere so very important to be.

Few ever had anyone so very important to love.

He climbed the stone steps to the church door two at a time, suddenly quite desperate to be quick about it, in case he missed the bit where he was to
now speak, else hereafter forever hold his peace.

Not that he would forever hold his peace if he were too late.

Indeed, he wasn’t leaving this church until he could forever hold Philippa Marbury—soon to be Philippa Arlesey, Countess Harlow if he had anything to do with it.

His hand came to the steel handle, and with a deep breath, he tugged open the door, unlocking the low drone of a minister.

The wedding had begun.

“Dammit,” he said, muscles tensing, ready to carry him straight down the aisle and into Pippa’s arms, damn Castleton, damn the congregation, damn the minister if any of them thought to stop him.

“You shouldn’t curse in church.”

He froze at the words, which came from behind him.

She was several feet away, by one of the great stone columns that marked the exterior gallery of the church.

Not inside.

Not at the altar.

Not marrying Castleton.

The door closed once more, leaving them in the cold, grey quiet, and he couldn’t stop himself. He reached out and pulled her to him, lifting her from the ground, holding her close enough to feel the heat of her through a half dozen layers of clothing, close enough to revel in her smell and her shape and the way she gave herself up to him whenever he touched her. And there, on the steps of St. George’s, in full view of God and London, he kissed her, loving her little sighs and the flexing of her fingers as she threaded them through his hair and forgot that the entire city could see them.

He broke the kiss before it consumed them both and pulled away, cupping her face in his hands. “I love you.” She sucked in a breath at the words, and he ran his thumb gently across the wicked bruise that encircled one of her enormous blue eyes. “My God,” he whispered, consumed by emotion, before he repeated, “I love you so much.”

She shook her head, tears welling. “You never said it.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“You are, rather.”

He gave a little laugh and kissed her again, softly, lingering on her lips, wishing they were anywhere but here, in about the most public place in Mayfair. “I never believed I was worthy,” he said, placing a finger over her lips when she started to speak—to correct him. “I never believed I was worthy of my family . . . of my sister . . . of happiness. And then you came along and made me realize that I am utterly, completely unworthy of you.”

She grabbed his finger, pulled it away. “You’re wrong.”

He smiled. “I’m not. There are a hundred men—many of whom are inside that church right now—who deserve you more. But I don’t care. I’m a greedy bastard, and I want you for myself. I can’t imagine a life without you and your unsettling logic and your beautiful mind and your terribly named hound.”

She smiled at that, and he could breathe again, thinking for a moment that he might win her. That he might succeed. The thought pushed him on. “And I don’t care that I’m unworthy of you. Which probably makes me the worst kind of man . . . precisely the kind of man whom you should not marry. But I vow here and now that I will do everything I can to make myself worthy of you. Of your honesty and your kindness and your love.”

He paused, and she did not speak . . . staring up at him, eyes enormous behind her spectacles.

His salvation. His hope. His love.

“I need you, Pippa . . .” he said, the words soft and ragged. “I need you to be my Orpheus. I need you to lead me out of Hell.”

The tears in her eyes spilled over then, and she threw herself into his embrace. He wrapped her tight in his arms and she whispered in his ear, “Don’t you see? I need you, as well. Two weeks, I’ve struggled under the weight of what you do to me . . . what you make me feel. How you own me, body and soul.” She pulled back, meeting his gaze. “I need you, Cross or Jasper or Harlow or whoever you are. I need you to love me.”

And he would. Forever.

He kissed her again, filling the caress with everything he felt, with everything he believed, with everything he vowed. When it ended, they were both breathing heavily, and he pressed his forehead to hers once more. “You did not marry him.”

“I told you; I couldn’t.” She paused, then, “What were you going to do?”

He wrapped her in his arms again, caring only for being near her. For keeping her close. “Whatever it took.”

“You would have stopped Olivia’s wedding?” She sounded shocked.

“Do you think she would have forgiven me?”

She smiled. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you think
you
would have forgiven me?”

“Absolutely. But I’d already stopped the wedding.” She grimaced toward the door. “There shall be wicked gossip when everyone realizes it . . . but at least Olivia will be a viscountess by then.”

He’d repair it. He’d make Tottenham prime minister and Olivia the most powerful woman in England.