One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Read online

  A vision flashed from the previous afternoon, Olivia resplendent in her wedding gown, glowing with the excitement of prenuptial bliss, Pippa’s reflection in the mirror behind, smaller and dimmer in the wake of her younger, more luminous sister.

  The Wedding would be remarkable. One for the ages. Or, at least the gossips.

  It would be just what the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby had always dreamed—an enormous, formal ceremony designed to showcase the pomp and circumstance befitting the Marbury daughters’ birth. It would erase the memory of the two previous weddings of the generation: Victoria and Valerie’s double wedding to uninspiring mates, performed hastily in the wake of Penelope’s scandalous, broken engagement, and, more recently, Penelope’s wedding, performed by special license in the village chapel near the Needham country estate the day after Bourne had returned from wherever it was he’d gone for a decade.

  Of course, they all knew where Bourne had gone.

  He’d gone to The Fallen Angel.

  With Mr. Cross.

  Fascinating, unnerving Mr. Cross, who was beginning to unsettle her even when she was not near him. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, assessing the change that came over her when she was in proximity—either mental or physical—to the tall, ginger-haired man who had begrudgingly agreed to assist her in her quest.

  Her heart seemed to race, her breath coming more shallowly. More quickly.

  Her muscles tensed and her nerves seemed to hover at attention.

  She grew warm . . . or was that cold?

  Either way, they were all signs of heightened awareness. Symptoms of excitement. Or nervousness. Or fear.

  She was being overly dramatic. There was nothing to fear from this man—he was a man of science. In utter control at all times.

  The perfect research associate.

  Nothing more.

  It did not matter that the research in question was somewhat unorthodox. It was research nonetheless.

  She took another breath and withdrew the watch from her reticule, holding it up to read its face in the dim light seeping through the windows of the ground-floor sitting room.

  “It’s nine o’clock.” The words were soft, rising out of the darkness, and Trotula leapt to her feet to greet the newcomer, giving Pippa a chance to address the thundering of her heart. Later, she would wonder at the fact that she was breathless, but not startled, instead something different. Something more.

  In the moment, however, there was only one thing she could think.

  He had come.

  She smiled, watching him crouch to greet her hound. “You are very punctual.”

  His task completed, he rose and sat next to her, close enough to unsettle, far enough away to avoid contact. Out of the corner of her eye, she realized how long his thighs were—nearly half again the length of her own, pulling the wool of his trousers tight along lean muscle and bone. She should not be considering his thighs.

  Femurs.

  “And yet, you are waiting for me.”

  She turned to him to find him watching the sky, face shadowed in the darkness, leaning back on the bench as though they had been sitting there all night, as though they might sit there still, all night. She followed his gaze. “I’ve been here for more than an hour.”

  “In the cold?”

  “It’s the best time for stargazing, don’t you think? Cold nights are always so much clearer.”

  “There’s a reason for that.”

  She turned to face him. “Is there?”

  He did not look to her. “There are fewer stars in the winter sky. How is your toe?”

  “Right as rain. You are an astronomer as well as a mathematician?”

  He turned to face her, finally, half his face cast into shadowy light from the manor beyond. “You are a horticulturalist as well as an anatomist?”

  She smiled. “We are surprising, aren’t we?”

  His lips twitched. “We are.”

  A long moment stretched out between them before he turned away again, returning his attention to the sky. “What were you looking at?”

  She pointed to a bright star. “Polaris.”

  He shook his head, and pointed to another part of the sky. “That’s Polaris. You were looking at Vega.”

  She chuckled. “Ah. No wonder I was finding it unimpressive.”

  He leaned back and stretched his long legs out. “It’s the fifth brightest star in the sky.”

  She laughed. “You forget I am one of five sisters. In my world, fifth brightest is last. She looked up. “With apologies to the star in question, of course.”

  “And are you often last?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes. It is not a pleasant ranking.”

  “I assure you, Pippa. You are rarely last.”

  He had not moved except to turn his head and look at her, the angles of his face hard and unforgiving in the darkness, sending a shiver of something unfamiliar through her. “Be careful what you say. I shall have to tell Penny that you find her lacking.”

  He turned a surprised look on her. “I didn’t say that.”

  “She’s the only one of my sisters whom you’ve met. If I am not last, then in your mind, she must trail behind.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up. “In that case, let’s not recount this conversation to anyone else.”

  “I can agree to that.” She returned her attention to the sky. “Tell me about this magnificent, fifth-best star.”

  When he spoke, she could hear the laughter in his deep voice, and she resisted the urge to look at him. “Vega belongs to the constellation Lyra, so named because Ptolemy believed it looked like Orpheus’s lyre.”

  She couldn’t resist teasing him, “You’re an expert in the classics, as well, I gather?”

  “You mean you are not?” he retorted, drawing a laugh from her before adding, “Orpheus is one of my favorites.”

  She looked to him. “Why?”

  His gaze was locked on the night sky. “He made a terrible mistake and paid dearly for it.”

  With the words, everything grew more serious. “Eurydice,” she whispered. She knew the story of Orpheus and his wife, whom he loved more than anything and lost to the Underworld.

  He was quiet for a long moment, and she thought he might not speak. When he did, the words were flat and emotionless. “He convinced Hades to let her go, to return her to the living. All he had to do was lead her out without looking back into Hell.”

  “But he couldn’t,” Pippa said, mind racing.

  “He grew greedy and looked back. He lost her forever.” He paused, then repeated, “A terrible mistake.”

  And there was something there in his tone, something that Pippa might not have noticed at another time, in another man. Loss. Sorrow. Memory flashed—the whispered conversation in this very garden.

  You shouldn’t have married him.

  I didn’t have a choice. You didn’t leave me with one.

  I should have stopped it.

  The woman in the garden . . . she was his Eurydice.

  Something unpleasant flared in her chest at the thought, and Pippa couldn’t resist reaching out to touch him, to settle her hand on his arm. He jerked at the touch, pulling away as though she’d burned him.

  They sat in silence for a long moment. Until she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “You made a mistake.”

  He slid his gaze to her fleetingly, then stood. “It’s time to go. Your lesson awaits.”

  Except she did not want to go anymore. She wanted to stay. “You lost your love.” He did not look to her, but she could not have looked away if a team of oxen had driven through the gardens of Dolby House in that moment. “The woman in the gardens. Lavinia,” she said, hating that she could not simply keep quiet. Don’t ask, Pippa. Don’t. “You . . . love her?”

 
The word was strange on her tongue.

  It should not surprise her that he had a paramour, after all, there were few men in London with the kind of reputation that Mr. Cross had as both a man and a lover. But she confessed, he did not seem the kind of man who would be drawn to more serious emotions—to something like love. He was, after all, a man of science. As she was a woman of science. And she certainly did not expect for love to ever make an appearance in her own mind.

  And yet, in this strange moment, she found she was desperate to hear his answer. And there, in the desperation, she discovered that she was hoping that his answer would be no. That there was no unrequited love lurking deep in his breast.

  Or requited love, for that matter.

  She started at the thought.

  Well.

  That was unexpected.

  His lips twisted at the question, as he turned his face from the light and into the darkness. But he did not speak. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Lady Philippa.”

  She rose to face him, keenly aware of how much taller he was than she, keenly aware of him. “I find I cannot help myself.”

  “I have noticed that.”

  “I only ask because I am intrigued by the idea of your loving someone.” Stop it, Pippa. This is not the path down which intelligent young ladies tread. She changed tack. “Not you, that is. Anyone. Loving someone.”

  “You have opposition to love?”

  “Not opposition so much as skepticism. I make it a practice not to believe in things I cannot see.”

  She’d surprised him. “You are no ordinary female.”

  “We have established that. It is why you are here, if you recall.”

  “So it is.” He crossed his long arms over his chest, and added, “So you wish to tempt your husband, whom you do not expect to love.”

  “Precisely.” When he did not immediately respond, she added, “If it helps, I do not think he expects to love me, either.”

  “A sound English marriage.”

  She considered the words. “I suppose it is, isn’t it? It’s certainly like any of the marriages to which I am close.”

  His brows rose. “You doubt the fact that Bourne cares deeply for your sister?”

  “No. But that’s the only one.” She paused, considering. “Maybe Olivia and Tottenham, too. But my other sisters married for much the same reason as I shall.”

  “Which is?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. “It is what we are expected to do.” She met his gaze, unable to read it in the darkness. “I suppose that doesn’t make sense to you, seeing as you are not an aristocrat.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up. “What does being an aristocrat have to do with it?”

  She pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “You may not know this, but aristocrats have a great many rules with which to contend. Marriages are about wealth and station and propriety and position. We cannot simply marry whomever we wish. Well, ladies can’t at least.” She thought for a moment. “Gentlemen can weather more scandal, but so many of them simply flop over and allow themselves to be dragged into uninspired marriages anyway. Why do you think that is?”

  “I wouldn’t like to guess.”

  “It is amazing what power men have and how poorly they use it. Don’t you think?”

  “And if you had the same powers?”

  “I don’t.”

  “But if you did?”

  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?”