One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (5 page)

Her brows knit together in protest. “That’s an enormous wager.”

He tilted his head. “It is the only way you have a chance at gaining my participation.”

Pippa considered the words, calculating the probability of the roll in her head. “I don’t like my odds. I only have a twenty-two and two-tenths chance of winning.”

He raised a brow, clearly impressed.
Ha
.
Not a muttonhead after all.

“That’s where luck comes in,” he said.

“That force in which you do not believe?”

He lifted one shoulder in a lanky shrug. “I could be wrong.”

“What if I choose not to wager?”

He crossed his arms. “Then you force me to tell Bourne everything.”

“You cannot!”

“I can, indeed, my lady. I had planned not to, but the reality is this: You cannot be trusted to keep yourself safe. It falls to those around you to do it for you.”

“You could keep me safe by agreeing to my proposal,” she pointed out.

He smiled, and the flash of his white teeth sent a very strange sensation spiraling through her—as though she were in a carriage that had taken a turn too quickly. “It’s much easier for Bourne to accomplish the task. Besides, I like the idea of his locking you in a tower until your wedding day. It would keep you away from here.”

From him.
She found she didn’t care much for the thought.

She narrowed her gaze on him. “You are making this my only choice.”

“You are not the first gamer to feel that way. You won’t be the last.”

She rattled the dice. “Fine. Anything other than a seven or an eleven, and I shall go home.”

“And you shall refrain from propositioning other men,” he prompted.

“It was not nearly so salacious as you make it out to be,” she said.

“It was salacious enough.”

He
had
been nearly naked. That bit had been fantastically salacious. She felt her cheeks warm and nodded once. “Very well. I will refrain from asking any other men to assist in my research.”

He seemed satisfied with the vow. “Roll.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the moment, her heart pounding as she tossed the ivory dice, watching as one knocked into the curved mahogany bumper at the opposite end, bouncing back to land near its sister on a large, white C—the beginning of the word
Chance
, curling down the table in extravagant script.

Nine.

Chance, indeed.

She had lost.

She put her hands to the cool wood of the table, leaning in, as though she could will one die to keep turning until the game was hers.

She lifted her gaze to her opponent’s.

“
Alea iacta est,
” he said.

The die is cast.
The words Caesar had spoken as he marched to war with Rome. Of course, Caesar’s risk had won him an empire; Pippa’s had lost her this last, fleeting opportunity for knowledge.

“I lost,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

“You did.”

“I wanted to win,” she added, disappointment coursing through her, harsh and unfamiliar.

“I know.” He lifted one hand to her cheek, the movement distracting her from the dice, suddenly making her desperate for something else altogether. She caught her breath at the rushing sensation—a flood of something indescribable in her chest.

His long fingers tempted but didn’t touch, leaving a trail of heat where they almost were. “I am collecting, Lady Philippa,” he said, softly.
Collecting.
The word was more than the sum of its letters. She was suddenly, keenly aware that he could name his price. That she would pay it.

She met his grey eyes in the dim light. “I only wished to know about marriage.”

He tilted his head, one ginger lock falling over his brow. “It’s the most common thing in the world. Why does it worry you so?”

Because she didn’t understand it.

She kept quiet.

After a long moment, he said, “It is time for you to go home.”

She opened her mouth to speak, to try to convince him that the wager had been silly, to convince him to let her stay, but at the precise moment, his hand moved, tracing the column of her neck, the nearly-there touch an undelivered promise. Her plea was lost in a strange, consuming desire for contact. She caught her breath, resisting the urge to move toward him.

“Pippa,” he whispered, and there was a hint of something there in the name . . . something she could not place. She was having trouble thinking at all. He was so close. Too close and somehow not close enough.

“Go home, darling,” he said, his fingers finally,
finally
settling, featherlight, on the place where her pulse pounded. Somehow giving her everything and nothing she wanted all at once. She leaned into the caress without thought, wanting more. Wanting to refuse.

He removed his hand instantly—before she could revel in the brush of his fingers—and for a mad, fleeting moment, she considered reaching for him and returning his touch to her person.

How fascinating.

How terrifying.

She took a deep breath and stepped back. A foot, two. Five, as he crossed his arms in a tightly controlled movement she was coming to identify as specific to him. “This is not the place for you.”

And as she watched him, feeling an unsettling, nearly irresistible pull to remain in the club, she realized that this place was far more than she had bargained.

Chapter Four

“The roses have sprouted—two perfect pink buds, right off the stalk of a red bush, as hypothesized. I would be deeply proud of the accomplishment if I had not failed so thoroughly in avenues of non-botanical research.

It seems I’ve a keener understanding of horticulture than humans.

Unfortunately, this is not a surprising discovery.”

The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

March 23, 1831; thirteen days prior to her wedding

R
eally, Pippa”—Olivia Marbury sighed from the doorway of the Dolby House orangery—“one would think that you would have something better to do than fiddle about with your plants. After all, we’re to be married in twelve days.”

“Thirteen,” Pippa corrected, not looking up from where she cataloged that morning’s floral observations. She knew better than to explain to Olivia that her work on the roses was far more interesting and relevant to science than
fiddling about.

Olivia didn’t know science from sailing.

“Today doesn’t count!” The second—or first—bride in what was purported to be “the double wedding of the century” (at least, by their mother) replied, the excitement in her voice impossible to miss. “It’s practically over!”

Pippa resisted the urge to correct her younger sister, supposing that if one were looking forward to the event in question, today would not, in fact, count. But as Pippa remained uncertain and anxious when it came to the event in question, today did indeed count. Very much.

There were fourteen hours and—she looked to a nearby clock—forty-three minutes left of today, March the twenty-third, and Pippa had no intention of relinquishing the twelfth-to-the-last day of her premarital life before she’d used every single minute of it.

Olivia was now on the opposite side of Pippa’s worktable, leaning well over the surface, a wide smile on her pretty face. “Do you notice anything different about me, today?”

Pippa set down her pen and looked at her sister. “You mean, aside from the fact that you’re about to sprawl into a pile of soil?”

Olivia’s perfect nose wrinkled in distaste, and she straightened. “Yes.”

Pippa pushed her spectacles up on her nose, considering her sister’s twinkling eyes, secret smile, and generally lovely appearance. She did not notice anything different. “New coiffe?”

Olivia smirked. “No.”

“New dress?”

The smirk became a smile. “For a scientist, you’re not very observant, you know.” Olivia draped one hand across her collarbone, and Pippa saw it. The enormous, glittering ruby. Her eyes went wide, and Olivia laughed. “Ah-ha! Now you notice!”

She thrust the hand in question toward Pippa, who had to lean back to avoid being hit with the jewel. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”

Pippa leaned over to assess the jewel. “It is.” She looked up. “It’s enormous.”

Olivia grinned. “My future husband adores me.”

“Your future husband spoils you.”

Olivia waved away the words. “You say that like I don’t deserve to be spoiled.”

Pippa laughed. “Poor Tottenham. He hasn’t any idea what he’s getting himself into.”

Olivia cut her a dry look. “Nonsense. He knows precisely what he’s getting himself into. And he loves it.” She returned her attention. “It’s so beautiful and
red.
”

Pippa nodded. “That’s the chromium.”

“The what?”

“Chromium. It is an additive in the crystal that turns it red. If it were anything else added . . . it wouldn’t be a ruby. It would be a sapphire.” Olivia blinked, and Pippa continued, “It’s a common misconception that all sapphires are blue, but that’s not the case. They can be any color . . . green or yellow or pink, even. It depends on the additive. But they’re all called sapphires. It’s only if they’re red that they’re called something else. Rubies. Because of the chromium.”

She stopped, recognizing the blank stare on Olivia’s face. It was the same stare that appeared on most people’s faces when Pippa talked too much.

Not everyone’s, though.

Not Mr. Cross’s.

He’d seemed interested in her. Even as he called her mad. Right up until the moment he cast her out of his club. And his life. Without telling her anything she wished to know.

Olivia looked back to the ring. “Well, my ruby is red. And lovely.”

“It is.” Pippa agreed. “When did you receive it?”

A small, private smile flashed across Olivia’s pretty face. “Tottenham gave it to me last night after the theater.”

“And mother didn’t mention it at breakfast? I’m shocked.”

Olivia grinned. “Mother wasn’t there when he did it.”

There was a twinge of something in the words—an awareness that Pippa almost didn’t notice. That she might not have noticed if not for Olivia’s knowing blue gaze. “Where was she?”

“I imagine she was looking for me.” There was a long pause, in which Pippa knew she should draw meaning. “She was not with us.”

Pippa leaned in, across the table. “Where were you?”

Olivia grinned. “I shouldn’t tell.”

“Were you
alone
?” Pippa gasped, “With the viscount?”

Olivia’s laugh was bright and airy. “Really, Pippa . . . you needn’t sound like a shocked chaperone.” She lowered her voice. “I was . . . not for long. Just long enough for him to give me the ring . . . and for me to thank him.”

“Thank him how?”

Olivia smiled. “You can imagine.”

“I really can’t.” The truth.

“Surely, you’ve had a reason or two to
thank
Castleton.”

Except she hadn’t. Well, she had certainly said the words,
thank you,
to her betrothed, but she’d never had cause to be alone with him while doing so. And she was certain that he’d never imagined giving her such a lavish present as the Viscount Tottenham had bestowed upon Olivia. “How, precisely, did you thank him, Olivia?”

“We were at the theater, Pippa,” Olivia said, all superiority. “We couldn’t do very much. It was just a few kisses.”

Kisses.

In the plural.

Pippa jerked at the words, knocking over her inkpot, sending a pool of blackness across the tabletop toward a young potted lemon tree, and Olivia leapt back with a squeal. “Don’t get it on my dress!”

Pippa righted the inkwell and mopped at the liquid with a nearby rag, desperate for more information. “You’ve been”—she glanced at the door of the orangery to assure herself that they were alone—“kissing Tottenham?”

Olivia stepped backward. “Of course I have. I cannot very well marry the man without knowing that we have a kind of . . . compatibility.”

Pippa blinked. “Compatibility?” She looked to her research journal, lying open on the table, filled with notes on roses and dahlias and geese and human anatomy. She’d trade all of it for a few sound pages of notes from Olivia’s experience.

“Yes. Surely you’ve wondered what it would be like—physically—with Castleton . . . once you are married?”

Wonder
was a rather bland word for how Pippa felt about the physical nature of her relationship with Castleton. “Of course.”

“Well, there you have it,” Olivia said.

Except Pippa didn’t have it. Not at all. She resisted the urge to blurt just such a thing out, casting about for another way to discuss Olivia’s experience without making it seem as though she were desperate for knowledge. Which, of course, she was. “And you . . . like the kissing?”

Olivia nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes. He’s very good at it. I was surprised at first by his enthusiasm—”

In that moment, Pippa loathed the English language and all its euphemisms. “Enthusiasm?”

Olivia laughed. “In only the very best way . . . I’d kissed a few boys before—”
She had?
“—but I was a bit surprised by his . . .” She trailed off, waving her bejeweled hand in the air as if the gesture held all relevant meaning.

Pippa wanted to strangle her little sister. “By his . . .” she prompted.

Olivia lowered her voice to a whisper. “His expertise.”

“Elaborate.”

“Well, he has a very clever tongue.”

Pippa’s brow furrowed. “
Tongue?
”

At her shocked reply, Olivia pulled up straight. “Oh. You and Castleton haven’t kissed.”

Pippa frowned. What on earth did a man do with his tongue in such a situation? The tongue was an organ designed for eating and speaking. How did it play into kissing? Though, logically, mouths touching would make for tongues being rather near each other . . . but the idea was unsettling, honestly.

“ . . . I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, of course,” Olivia went on.

Wait.

Pippa looked to her sister. “What?”

Olivia waved that rubied hand again. “I mean, it is
Castleton.
”

“There’s nothing wrong with Castleton,” Pippa defended. “He’s a kind, good man.” Even as she said the words, she knew what Olivia meant. What Mr. Cross had meant the day before, when he’d suggested that Castleton was a less-than-superior groom.

Castleton was a perfectly nice man, but he was not the kind who inspired kissing.

Certainly not with tongues.

Whatever that meant.

“Of course he is,” Olivia said, unaware of Pippa’s rioting thoughts. “He’s rich, too. Which helps.”

“I am not marrying him because he’s rich.”

Olivia’s attention snapped to Pippa. “Why
are
you marrying him?”

The question was not outrageous. “Because I have agreed to.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Pippa did know it, and there were any number of reasons why she was marrying him. All the things she’d told Olivia and Mr. Cross were true. The earl was good and kind and liked dogs. He appreciated Pippa’s intelligence and was willing to allow her full access to his estate and its inner workings. He might not be intelligent or terribly quick or very amusing, but he was better than most.

No, he was not what most women would deem a catch—not a viscount destined for prime minister like Olivia’s fiancé, and not a self-made marquess with a gaming hell and a wicked reputation like Penelope’s Bourne—but neither was he old like Victoria’s husband or absent like Valerie’s.

And he’d asked her.

She hesitated at the thought.

That, as well.

Philippa Marbury was odd, and Lord Castleton didn’t seem to mind.

But she didn’t want to say that aloud. Not to Olivia—the most ideal bride that ever there was, on the cusp of a love match with one of the most powerful men in Britain. So, instead, she said, “Perhaps he’s an excellent kisser.”

Olivia’s expression mirrored Pippa’s feelings on the matter. “Perhaps,” she said.

Not that Pippa would test the outlandish theory.

She couldn’t test it. She’d agreed to Mr. Cross’s wager. She’d promised.

A vision flashed, dice rolling across green baize, the warm touch of strong fingers, serious grey eyes, and a deep, powerful voice, insisting,
You shall refrain from propositioning other men
.

Pippa Marbury did not renege.

But this was something of an emergency, was it not? Olivia was kissing Tottenham, after all. No doubt kissing one’s fiancé was not within the bounds of the wager.

Was it?

Except she didn’t want to kiss her fiancé.

Pippa’s gaze fell to the rosebush on which she’d been so focused prior to her sister’s arrival . . . the lovely scientific discovery that paled in comparison to the information Olivia had just shared.

It was irrelevant that she did not wish to proposition Castleton.

And it was irrelevant that it was another man, altogether, whom she wished to proposition—especially so, considering the fact that he’d tossed her out of his club with utter disinterest.

As for the tightness she felt in her chest, Pippa was certain that it was not in response to the memory of that tall, fascinating man, but instead, normal bridal nervousness.

All brides were anxious.

“Twelve days cannot pass quickly enough!” Olivia pronounced, bored with their conversation and oblivious to Pippa’s thoughts.

All brides were anxious, it seemed, but Olivia.

T
wenty-eight hours.” Digger Knight lazily checked his pocket watch before grinning smugly. “I confess, my blunt was on fewer than twelve.”

“I like to keep you guessing.” Cross shrugged out of his greatcoat and folded himself into an uncomfortable wooden chair on the far side of Knight’s massive desk. He tossed a pointed look over his shoulder at the henchman who had guarded his journey to Digger’s private offices. “Close the door.”

The pockmarked man closed the door.

“You are on the wrong side of it.”

The man sneered.

Knight laughed. “Leave us.” When they were finally alone, he said, “What can I say, my men are protective of me.”

Cross leaned back in the small chair, folding one leg over the other, refusing to allow the furniture to accomplish its goal—intimidation. “Your men are protective of their cut.”

Knight did not disagree. “Loyalty at any price.”

“A fine rule for a guttersnipe.”