One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (The Rules of Scoundrels 2)
To hear their mutual cries of pleasure.
But he was not Castleton.
He was Cross.
And this was thoroughly, completely wrong.
He took a step back, his thoughts making him guilty—making him look around the dim casino floor in sudden fear that someone might see them. Might hear them.
Why was it that she was always where ladies should never be?
“Last night, I attempted to indicate to him that I was happy for him to touch me. Kiss me, even.”
He hated the earl with a wicked, visceral intensity.
She was still talking. “But he didn’t even seem to notice me. Granted, it was just a touch on the hand, but . . .”
Cross would pay good money for her to touch him so simply.
Her big blue eyes were trained on him again. “Do you know why he hasn’t attempted to seduce me?”
“No.” Again, sainthood seemed the only logical answer.
“You needn’t feel that you must protect me from the truth.”
“I don’t.” Except he did. He didn’t want her to know the truth of his own thoughts. Their sordid nature.
“It’s because I am odd.” And then she looked up at him with those enormous blue eyes, and said, “I can’t help it.”
God help him, he wanted to kiss her senseless, odd or not. He wanted to kiss her senseless because she was odd.
“Pippa—” he said, knowing he shouldn’t speak.
She cut him off. “Don’t tell me it’s not true. I know it is. I’m strange.”
“You are.”
Her brows knit together. “Well, you don’t have to tell me it is true either.”
He couldn’t help it. He smiled. “It is not a bad thing.”
She looked at him as though it was he—and not she—who was mad. “Of course it is.”
“No. It’s not.”
“You’re a good man.”
He was nothing of the sort. And there were several key parts of his body that wanted to prove that to her. One of them in particular.
“It’s fine that he is not interested in seducing me,” she said, “but it cannot go on forever.”
“Perhaps he is trying to be a gentleman.”
She did not believe it. “That hasn’t stopped Tottenham.”
A thread of fire shot through him. “Tottenham has attempted to seduce you?” He’d murder him, next prime minister or not.
She looked at him as though he’d sprouted a second head. “No. Why would Tottenham seduce me?”
“You said it.”
“No. I said he’d tried to seduce Olivia.”
She hadn’t said any such thing, but he let it go.
“Not tried to,” she pressed on, “did. Has done.” She closed her eyes. “I’m the only Marbury daughter who has not been seduced.”
He could rectify this tragic wrong.
Except he couldn’t.
She looked up at him. “Can you believe it?”
He did not know what to say. So he said nothing.
“You can, I see.” She took a deep breath. “This is why I required your help from the beginning, Mr. Cross. I need you to show me how to do it.”
Yes.
He swallowed back the word. Surely he was misunderstanding. “How to do what?”
She sighed, frustrated. “How to attract him.”
“Whom?”
“Are you even listening? Castleton!” She turned away, heading for the nearest table, where a roulette wheel stood quiet in its thick oak seat. She spoke to the wheel. “I didn’t know that he should be attempting to seduce me now. Before our wedding. I didn’t know that was a part of it.”
“It’s not. He shouldn’t be doing any such thing.”
“Well, you’ve clearly never been engaged because it seems that this is precisely the kind of thing that happens between to-be-married couples. I thought I had two weeks. Apparently, I don’t.”
There was a roar in his ears that made it difficult to understand her, but when she turned to face him again, shoulders back, as though she were about to do battle, he knew he was done for. “My research must begin immediately.”
He was being punished. That was the only explanation.
“I need someone”—she paused, then reframed the statement—“I need you to teach me how to be normal.”
What a travesty that would be.
“Normal.”
“Yes. Normal.” She lifted her hands helplessly. “I realize now that my original request—for the experience of ruination?” she asked as though he might have somehow forgotten the request in question. As though he might ever forget it. He nodded, nonetheless. “Well, I realize now that it is not at all a strange request.”
“It’s not?”
She smiled. “No. Indeed. In fact, it seems that there are plenty of women in London who fully experience those things that I am interested in before their wedding night—including my sisters. That bit is between us, I hope?”
Finally, a question to which he knew the reply. “Of course.”
She was already moving on. “You see, I thought I would require a certain amount of knowledge on the night in question because Lord Castleton might not have the knowledge himself. But now, I realize . . . well . . . I require it because it’s ordinary.”
“It’s ordinary.”
She tilted her head and considered him curiously. “You do a great deal of repeating me, Mr. Cross.”
Because listening to her was like learning a second language. Arabic. Or Hindi.
She was still talking. “It’s ordinary. After all, if Olivia has it, and Lord Tottenham is quite the gentleman, well then, many must have it, don’t you think?”
“It.”
“Knowledge of the inner workings of the marital . . .” She hesitated. “Process.”
He took a long breath and let it out. “I’m still not certain why you need a prostitute to teach you such . . . workings.”
“It’s no different, really. I continue to require a research partner. Only, it seems now I require research on normalcy. I need to know how it is that ordinary females behave. I need help. Rather urgently. Since you refused, Miss Tasser will do.”
She was killing him. Slowly. Painfully.
“Sally Tasser is no ordinary female.”
“Well, I understand that she is a prostitute, but I assume she has all the required parts?”
He choked. “Yes.”
She hesitated, and something flashed across her face. Disappointment? “You’ve seen them?”
“No.” Truth.
“Hmm.” She did not seem to believe him. “You do not frequent prostitutes?”
“I do not.”
“I am not entirely certain that I support the profession.”
“No?” Thank God. He would not put it past Pippa to simply pronounce a newfound desire to explore all aspects of the world’s oldest profession.
“No.” She shook her head. “I am concerned that the ladies are ill-treated.”
“The ladies who frequent The Fallen Angel are not ill-treated.”
Her brows knit together. “How do you know?”
“Because they are under my protection.”
She froze. “They are?”
He was suddenly warm. “They are. We do all we can to ensure that they are well treated and well paid while under our roof. If they are manhandled, they call for one of the security detail. They file a complaint with me. And if I discover a member is mistreating ladies beneath this roof, his membership is revoked.”
She paused for a long moment, considering the words, and finally said, “I have a passion for horticulture.”
He wasn’t certain how plants had anything to do with prostitutes, but he knew better than to interrupt.
She continued, the words quick and forthright, as though they entirely made sense. “I’ve made a rather remarkable discovery recently,” she said, and his attention lingered on the breathlessness of the words. On the way her mouth curved in a small, private smile. She was proud of herself, and he found—even before she admitted her finding—that he was proud of her. Odd, that. “It is possible to take a piece of one rosebush and affix it to another. And when the process is completed properly . . . say, a white piece on a red bush . . . an entirely new rose grows . . .” She paused, and the rest of the words rushed out, as though she were almost afraid of them. “A pink one.”
Cross did not know much about horticulture, but he knew enough about scientific study to know that the finding would be groundbreaking. “How did you—”
She raised a hand to stop the question. “I’ll happily show you. It’s very exciting. But that’s not the point.”
He waited for her to arrive at the point in question.
She did. “The career . . . it is not their choice. They’re not red or white anymore. They’re pink. And you’re why.”
Somehow, it made sense that she compared the ladies of the Angel to this experiment in roses. Somehow, this woman’s strange, wonderful brain worked in a way that he completely understood.
And as he considered that odd, remarkable truth, she prodded, “Aren’t you?”
It was not the simplest of questions. Nor was it the easiest of answers. “It is not always their choice, no. In many cases, girls fall into it. But here, they are well treated. Well fed. Well paid. And the moment they want to stop their work, we find them other places.”
Her brows rose. “Where?”
He smiled. “We are very powerful men, Pippa. Our membership has need of servants; our vendors require shopgirls. And, if not that, then there are always safe houses far from London, where girls can begin anew.” After a long silence, he added, “I would never force a girl into this life.”
“But some of them choose it?”
It was an incomprehensible truth for some. “The white branch.”
She nodded. “Like Miss Tasser.”
“Like Sally.”
“Well, all the more reason for me to mine her expertise.” She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “If she chooses it, she must enjoy it to a certain extent. And there’s no one else. It’s not as though Castleton has offered his assistance.”
As it should be.
No. Not as it should be. Of course Castleton should be offering his assistance. He should be doing much more than that.
The thought made Cross more murderous.
She pursed her lips. “Do you think I ought to ask him? Perhaps that’s how these things are done?”
No! “Yes.”
She blushed, tempting him. “I’m not sure I could.”
“But you can ask me?”
She blinked up at him. “You are different. You are not the kind of man one marries. It’s easier to . . . well . . . engage in a candid discussion of my research with you.” She smiled. “You are a man of science, after all.”
There it was, again. That certainty that he would keep her safe.
That he was in control. Always.
You should tell her.
Sally’s words echoed through him, mocking and correct.
He should tell her. But it wasn’t precisely the kind of thing one told a young, beautiful woman standing by and begging for lessons in ruination.
At least, not an ordinary young woman in such a situation.
But Philippa Marbury was nothing close to ordinary.
Telling her the truth would push her away. And that would be best. For all involved.
Especially him.
Pippa shook her head. “He’ll say no. Don’t you see? There’s no one. No one but Miss Tasser.”
She was wrong, of course.
“There is me,” he said, the words out before he knew they were coming. Her eyes went wide, and she met his gaze.
There was a beat as she heard the words. Their meaning. “You,” she said.
He smiled. “Now it is you repeating me.”
She matched his smile, and he felt the expression deep in his gut. “So I am.”
Perhaps he could do this.
Lord knew he owed it to her, owed it to her for allowing her into the clutches of Knight and Sally and Temple and God knew whoever else she’d met while inside the casino. He owed it to Bourne to keep her safe.
Excuses.
He paused at the thought. Perhaps they were excuses. Perhaps he just wanted a reason to be near her. To talk to her, this bizarre, brilliant woman who threw him off axis every chance she got.
It would be torture, yes.
But Lord knew he deserved torture.
He had to move. Away from her.
He crossed to a hazard table, lifting a pair of dice and testing their weight in his hand. She followed without prompting, moving past him in a cloud of softness scented with fresh linens. How was it that she smelled like sunshine and fresh air even here in darkness? Surrounded by sin and vice?
She had to leave. She was too much temptation for him to bear.
Unaware of his thoughts, she turned her open, fresh face up to him. “I have a number of questions. For example, Madame Hebert has committed to making me nightclothes that she swears will tempt Castleton into seducing me. Can nightclothes do the trick?”
The words were an assault, consuming him with the idea of blond, lithe Pippa in a silk-and-lace creation designed to send men completely over the edge. Something with a devastating number of ribbons, each one in a perfect little bow that, when untied, revealed a patch of soft, warm skin—a luxurious, unbearable present.
A present worthy of the wrapping.
“I don’t think they will be enough,” she said, distracted.
He was certain they would be too much.
“And what of Miss Tasser’s smolder? Can you teach me to do that? It seems like it will help. With the tempting.”
He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. But he also couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You don’t need to smolder.”
She paused. “I don’t?”
“No. You are tempting in a different way.”
“I am?”
You should tell her.
Before she tempted him anymore.
But he couldn’t.
He met her gaze. “You are.”
Her eyes were wide as saucers behind those maddening spectacles. “I am?”
He smiled. “You are repeating me again.”
She was quiet for a moment. “You won’t change your mind, will you?”
“No.” The idea of her finding another was altogether unacceptable.
Not when it could be him. Not when he could show her pleasure that would shatter her innocence and thoroughly, completely ruin her. He wanted to give her everything for which she asked.
And more.
Like that, the decision was made. “No. I shan’t renege.”
She let out a long breath, and the sound slid through him in the quiet room, making him wonder what else would tempt that little exhalation.
“I should have known that. Gentlemen do not renege.”
“In this case, neither do scoundrels.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The rules of gentlemen insist that honor keep them from reneging, even during a bad bet,” he explained, tempted to smooth the furrow on her brow, resisting it. “The rules of scoundrels insist one only wager if one can win.”
“Which—” She hesitated. “Which are you?”
He could give her the knowledge without giving in to his own desires. Without relinquishing his own commitments. Without relinquishing his own control.
He stepped forward, crowd
ing her. “Which do you think?”
She stepped back. “A gentleman.”
Without touching her.
Because he knew, without a doubt, that after six years of celibacy, if he touched Philippa Marbury, he would not survive it.
Scoundrel.
“Tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”
Chapter Eight
“Astronomy has never been my forte, but I find myself considering the scope of the universe today. If our Sun is one of millions of stars, who is to say that Galileo was not right? That there is not another Earth far away on the edge of another Galaxy? And who is to say there is not another Philippa Marbury, ten days before her wedding, waiting for her knowledge to expand?
It’s irrelevant, of course. Even if there were a duplicate Earth in some far-off corner of the universe, I’m still to be married in ten days.
And so is the other Pippa.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 26, 1831; ten days prior to her wedding
The next evening, Pippa sat on a small bench perched just outside a collection of cherry trees in the Dolby House gardens, cloak wrapped tightly about her, Trotula at her feet, stargazing.
Or, at least, attempting to stargaze.
She’d been outside for more than an hour, having finally given up on feigning illness and escaping the house once supper had been officially served, preferring outside to inside, even on this cold March night.
She was too excited.
Tonight, she would learn about seduction.
From Cross.
She took a deep breath and released it, then another, hoping they would calm her racing thoughts. They did not. They were clouded with visions of Mr. Cross, of the way he looked as he glowered at her across the floor of his gaming hell, the way he smiled at her in the darkness, the way he crowded her in his office.
It wasn’t him, of course. She would feel this way if anyone had promised her the lesson he’d promised.
Liar.
She exhaled long and loud.
The breathing was not helping.
She looked over her shoulder at the dim light trickling down from the Dolby House dining room. Yes, it was best that she spend the time leading up to their meeting alone in the cold rather than going mad at a meal with her parents and Olivia, who would no doubt be discussing the particulars of “The Wedding” at that exact moment.