One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Read online

“No.”

  “You’re ruining my fun,” she said.

  “That is not uncommon.”

  Cross resisted the urge to laugh. Pippa would not be the first to attempt to engage Asriel in conversation, and he was willing to wager that she also would not be the first to succeed.

  She tried, nonetheless, with a wide, friendly smile. “I do hope we shall meet again. Perhaps we could have a reading club of sorts. I’ve read that one.” She leaned in. “Have you reached the part where Mr. Darcy proposes?”

  Asriel narrowed his gaze on Cross. “She did that on purpose.”

  Pippa shook her head. “Oh, I did not ruin it. Elizabeth refuses.” She paused. “I suppose I did ruin that. Apologies.”

  “I find I like your sister much more.”

  Pippa nodded, all seriousness. “That is not uncommon.”

  At the repetition of Asriel’s words, Cross did laugh, and when he tried to hold it back, it came out in a strangled mess—one Asriel correctly identified with a scowl. Cross took his cue, pushing aside the heavy velvet curtain and taking care that they would not be seen before leading Pippa down the long, narrow passageway to Vallombrosa, one of a handful of hazard rooms on the ladies’ side of the club.

  She entered ahead of him, turning slowly once inside, taking in the small, lavishly appointed chamber designed for private games. “This building is remarkable,” she said, reaching up to unbutton her cloak. “Truly. Every time I come, there is a new piece available for exploration.”

  She removed her cloak, revealing a simple green walking dress—entirely ordinary, one might even say uninteresting in comparison to the silk and organza creations that the rest of the women who frequented this side of the club wore on a regular basis. The neckline was high, the sleeves long, and the skirts heavy—a combination that should have cooled Cross’s response to their interaction in the alleyway—but Pippa could have been wearing a lace negligee for how the vision of her in that plain frock impacted him.

  It did too good a job hiding her.

  He wanted it off.

  Immediately.

  He cleared his throat and took her cloak, draping it over the back of the chaise. “It is designed to make you feel that way. Visitors are left wondering what they might have missed.”

  “So they are tempted to return?” The question was rhetorical. She was learning. “Is that the goal for tonight? To tempt me with your pretty rooms and your secret passageways?”

  He was not sure what the goal for tonight was anymore. All the clear thoughts he’d had, the perfectly controlled plans for her lesson, they’d been muddled by her presence.

  She turned away from him, moving to inspect an oil painting that took up a large section of one wall. It depicted four young men playing a dice game on a cobblestone street by the light of a pub. “Speaking of secret passageways,” she asked, “I’m very impressed by your architectural skill.”

  “Temple talks too much.”

  She smiled. “Do all the rooms have them?”

  “Most of them. We like to have means for escape.” The place where her jaw met her neck cast the most intriguing shadow. Cross wondered at the feel of the skin there. Silk or satin?

  “Why?”

  He focused on the question. “There are many who would like to see us destroyed. It is a benefit to be able to move about without risk of discovery.”

  She turned to face him, eyes wide. “Is that not what the man reading Pride and Prejudice is for?”

  “In part.”

  “People get past him?”

  “It is not unheard of. I once awoke to a woman in my office. I assure you, she had not been invited. And only yesterday, I found her on the floor of the casino.”

  She smiled at the reference. “She sounds like a special case.”

  Indeed.

  “I do not care for the idea that you might have to flee from some nefarious character.”

  He resisted the thrum of pleasure that coursed through him at the idea that she might care for him at all. “Do not concern yourself. I rarely flee.”

  He moved past her, rounding the table to put distance and mahogany between them. She stayed where she was. “Does this room have one?”

  “Maybe.”

  She looked around, eyes narrowed, carefully considering each stretch of wall. “And if it did, where would it lead?”

  He ignored the question, reaching for the dice on the hazard table, lifting them, testing their weight. “Would you like to ask questions about the architecture? Or would you like your lesson?”

  Her gaze did not waver. “Both.”

  The answer did not surprise him. Philippa Marbury was a woman so intrigued by knowledge that she would find it tempting on a variety of topics—not simply sex. Unfortunately, her innate curiosity was one of the most tempting things he’d ever experienced.

  His goal for the evening returned.

  She had to lose.

  If she lost, he could regain his sanity.

  Reclaim his control.

  That alone was worth it.

  He tossed the dice in her direction. “Both it is.”

  Her eyes lit as though he’d just offered her jewels. “Who were the women outside?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not that easy, Pippa. The lesson is about temptation. You want to know more . . . you have to win it.”

  “Fine.”

  “And you have to wager.”

  She nodded once. “I have five pounds in my reticule.”

  He smirked. “Five pounds will not do. It is not enough for the lesson for which you ask.”

  “What, then? I have nothing else of value.”

  You have your clothing. It took everything in his power not to say the words. “I would like to buy back your time.”

  Confusion furrowed her brow. “My time?”

  He nodded. “If you win, I tell you what you wish to know. If you lose, you lose time for this insane research project. There are what, eleven days left before you marry?”

  There were ten. He had deliberately miscalculated.

  She corrected him, then shook her head firmly. “We have an agreement.”

  Perhaps, but he had all the power. At least, in her mind. “Then I suppose there is no lesson.”

  “You said you wouldn’t renege. You promised.”

  “And as I said before, my lady, scoundrels lie.” Not always because of their nature, he was realizing. Sometimes they lied to preserve their sanity. He moved for the door. “I shall send someone with a hooded cloak to escort you from the club and return you home.”

  He was at the door, hand to handle, when she said, “Wait.”

  He steeled his countenance and turned back. “Yes?”

  “The only way I get my lesson is to wager?”

  “Think of it as double the research. Lessons in gaming are an adventure many women would not pass up.”

  “It’s not an adventure. It’s research. How many times must I tell you?”

  “Call it whatever you like, Pippa. Either way, it’s something you desire.”

  She looked to the hazard table, longing in her gaze, and he knew he’d won. “I want the gaming.”

  “This is it, Pippa.”

  She met his gaze. “My first lesson in temptation.”

  Clever girl. “All or nothing.”

  She nodded. “All.”

  Clever, doomed girl.

  He moved back to the table and handed her a pair of ivory dice. “On the first roll at the Angel, a seven or eleven wins. Roll a two or three, and lose.”

  Her brows rose. “Only a two or three? How did I lose on a nine during our first meeting?”

  He couldn’t stop his smirk. “You offered better odds; I took them.”

  “I suppose I should know better, gaming with a scoundrel.
”

  He tilted his head toward her. “I imagine you’ve learned the lesson since.”

  She met his gaze, eyes large behind her spectacles. “I’m not so sure.”

  The honest words went straight through him, bringing desire and something even more base with them. Before he could reply, she was casting the dice.

  “Nine,” she said. “My lucky number?”

  “Already an inveterate gamer.” He collected the dice and handed them back to her. “The play is simple. Roll a nine again, and you win. Roll a seven, and you lose.”

  “I thought a seven was a win.”

  “Only on the first roll. Now you’ve established that your main is nine.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t care for those rules. You know as well as I that the odds of rolling a seven are better than of doing the same with any other number.”

  “Care for them or not, those are the rules to which you agreed when you chose hazard.”

  “I didn’t chose it,” she grumbled, even as she tested the dice in her palm. She wasn’t leaving.

  He leaned against the table. “Now you see why gambling is a very poor idea, indeed.”

  She cut him a look. “I think it is much more likely that I see why you are a very rich man, indeed.”

  He smiled. “No one forced you into the game.”

  Her brows rose. “You did just that!”

  “Nonsense. I gave you something to risk. Without it, there is no reward.”

  She looked to the table skeptically. “I am fairly certain that there will be no reward anyway.”

  “One never knows. Some espouse the benefits of Lady Luck.”

  One of her golden brows rose. “A lady, is she?”

  “It has to do with her being so very changeable.”

  “I take no small amount of offense to that. I am in no way changeable. When I make a promise, I keep it.”

  She tossed the dice, and a memory flashed of their first meeting.

  I dislike dishonesty.

  “Two and four,” she announced. “Six. What now?”

  He lifted the dice and passed them to her again. “You roll again.”

  “I have not won?”

  “If it is any consolation, you have not lost, either.”

  She rolled three more times, a ten, twelve, and eight, before wrinkling her nose and saying, “Why, precisely, does this make men do silly, untenable things?”

  He laughed. “At the Angel, onlookers can bet on anything related to the game. The outcome of the individual roll, whether any one throw will be higher or lower than the last, the precise combination of pips on the die. When someone at the table is winning on every toss, the game becomes very exciting.”

  “If you insist,” she said, sounding utterly disbelieving as she threw the dice again, rolling a six and three. “Oh!” she cried out. “A nine! I won! You see? Luck is on my side.”

  She was smiling, cheeks flushed with the thrill of the win. “And now you see why men enjoy the games so well.”

  She laughed and clapped her hands together. “I suppose I do! And now, I receive the answer to a question!”

  “You do,” he agreed, hoping she’d keep her queries to the club.

  “Who were the women outside?”

  He reached for the dice. “Members.”

  “Of the Angel?” she fairly squeaked, reaching out to accept the ivory weights. “I thought it was a men’s club?”

  “It is more than it seems. This is not, technically, the Angel.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

  “That is another question.” He nodded to her hand. “The games are more complicated upstairs, but for the purposes of our game, we shall keep with the same. You win with a nine.”

  She tossed again. Six and three.

  “I win again!” She crowed, smile widening into a full-on grin. He could not help matching it as he shook his head and retrieved the dice. “What is it?”

  “It does not have a name. We refer to it as the Other Side. It is for ladies.”

  “Which ladies?”

  He handed her the dice.

  She rolled a five, then a ten, then a nine. “Huzzah!” she cried, meeting his surprised gaze. “You didn’t think I would win again.”

  “I confess, I did not.”

  She smiled. “Which ladies?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t answer that. Suffice to say, ladies who wish to remain anonymous. And have their own adventures.”

  She nodded. “Why should men have access to the wide world and women . . . not?”

  “Precisely.”

  She paused, then blurted, “Will there be pain?”

  He nearly choked.

  She mistook the sound for misunderstanding, apparently.

  “I mean, I know there will likely be pain for me. But will it hurt him as well?”

  No. No, he will find pleasure like he’s never known.

  Just as you would if I had anything to do with it.

  He held back the words. “No.”

  Relief shone in her eyes. “Good.” She paused. “I was concerned that it might be possible to perform incorrectly.”

  Cross shook his head once, firmly. “I think you won’t find it difficult to learn.”

  Pippa smiled at that. “Anatomy helps.”

  He did not want to think about her understanding of anatomy in this context. He did not want to imagine how she would use her simple, direct words to guide her husband, to learn with him. Cross closed his eyes against the vision of those words, of that knowledge on her lips. “Castleton may be a fool, but he’s not an idiot. You needn’t worry about his not understanding the mechanics of the situation.”

  “You shouldn’t call him that.”

  “Why not? He isn’t my betrothed.” Cross lifted the dice, offered them to her. When she reached to take them, he couldn’t stop himself from closing his palm around her fingers—holding her still. He couldn’t stop himself from saying, softly, “Pippa.”

  Her gaze locked instantly with his. “Yes?”

  “If he hurts you . . .” He paused, hating the way her eyes went wide at the words.

  “Yes?”

  If he hurts you, leave him.

  If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.

  “If he hurts you . . . he’s doing it wrong.” It was all he could say. He released her hand. “Roll again.”

  Four and three.

  “Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “I lost.”

  “One less day of your research. That makes nine days.”

  Her eyes went wide. “An entire day? For one poor roll?”

  “Now you know what it feels like to lose as well as win,” he said. “Which is more powerful? The risk? Or reward?”

  She thought for a long moment. “I’m beginning to see it.”

  “What is that?”

  “Why men do this. Why they stay. Why they lose.”

  “Why?”

  She met his eyes. “Because the winning feels wonderful.”

  He closed his eyes at the words, at the way they tempted him to show her how much more wonderful he could make her feel than those cold dice. “Do you wish to continue?”

  Say no, he urged her. Pack up and return home, Pippa. This place, this game, this moment . . . none of it is for you.

  As she thought, she worried her lower lip between her teeth, and the movement transfixed him, so much so that when she finally released the slightly swollen flesh, and said, “I do,” he had forgotten his question.

  When he did not immediately offer up the dice, she extended her hand. “I would like to roll again, if you don’t mind.”

  He did mind. But he relinquished the ivory cubes and she tossed them across the baize with gusto.

  “Eight days.” She
scowled at the four and three at the far end of the table.

  “Again,” she said.

  He handed her the dice.

  She rolled.

  “Seven days.”

  She turned a narrow gaze on him. “Something is wrong with the dice.”

  He collected the ivory cubes and offered them to her, palm up. “Temptation is not always a good thing.”

  “It is when one is preparing to tempt one’s spouse.”

  He’d almost forgotten her goal. God, he didn’t want to teach her to tempt another man. He wanted to teach her to tempt him.

  He wanted to teach her to let him tempt her.

  She took the dice. “Once more.”

  He raised a brow. “If we had sixpence for every time those words were spoken beneath this roof, we would be rich men.”

  She rolled an eight, and met his gaze. “You are rich men.”

  He grinned, passing her the ivory blocks once more. “Richer.”

  She rolled once—eleven—twice—four—a third time. “Ah-ha!” she celebrated. “Six and three! Again!” She turned to him, something familiar in her eyes—the heady thrill of the win. He’d seen it countless times in the gaze of countless gamers, and it never failed to satisfy him. That look meant one, unassailable truth: that the gamer in question was in for the night. But now, with Pippa, it failed to satisfy. Instead, it made him ache with desire.

  Desire to see the same thrill far from a gaming table, as she won something else entirely.

  As she won him.

  She reached for her reticule. “I have been keeping a log of my research questions.” Of course she had. God knew what extravagant queries Lady Philippa Marbury had in the name of research. She opened the book, worried her lower lip as she considered the considerable amount of text there, and Cross knew, with the keen understanding of one who had been around a number of enormous wagers in his time, that she was about to ask something outrageous.

  He turned away from her and the table, walking to a small sideboard and extracting a bottle of Chase’s finest whiskey, blessedly stored there for trials just such as this one. Pouring himself two fingers of the amber liquid, he looked over his shoulder to find her watching him carefully, paper in hand. “Would you like a drink?”

  She shook her head instantly. “No, thank you. I couldn’t.”

  His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Ladies don’t drink whiskey, do they?”