One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Read online

  “You don’t have to admit it, but I think Cross likes you very much, my lady. After all, it is not every day one meets a woman as brilliant as he is.”

  She liked him, too.

  She shook her head, emotion clouding thought. “I’m not as brilliant as he is.”

  If she were, she wouldn’t have landed herself in this moment.

  In this mess.

  Desperately wanting a man she should not want. Whom she could not have. Not in the long run.

  Not unless . . .

  She stopped the thought before it could form. She’d made a promise. She would marry Castleton. She had to.

  She ignored the ache in her chest at the thought.

  She had made a promise.

  “If I had to wager, I’d place bets on your being smarter.” The woman turned back to the dealer. “Will you play another round?”

  “She will not.”

  It was as though they’d conjured him. Pippa turned toward him—unable to stop herself, drawn to his deep voice and his sandalwood scent.

  She had the unreasonable desire to toss herself into his arms and press her lips against his and beg him to take her to his office or some dark corner and finish what he’d started earlier in the evening. To make her forget everything else—all of her well-laid plans, all of her carefully constructed research, the fact that she only had six days before she married another man.

  A man who was nothing like Cross.

  And then she noticed his unmasked grey eyes trained on her companion, the corded muscle in his neck and jaw taut, his lips pressed into a thin, straight line.

  He was angry.

  “Cross.” The woman laughed his name, apparently fearless. “You should join us. She counts the cards as well as you do.”

  His gaze narrowed. “No.”

  “So much for Cross and his kindness.” The woman turned back to the baize, lifting a glass of champagne. “I was merely keeping the lady company.”

  His fists clenched. “Find other company to keep.”

  The woman smiled at Mr. West, dismissing them. “With pleasure.”

  Cross turned his grey gaze on her, and his teeth clenched. “My lady,” he intoned, “the tables are no place for you.”

  He was angry with her as well.

  And, strangely, that made Pippa angry, for certainly she had reason to be. More reason than he did. After all, he wasn’t about to be forced into marriage with a perfectly ordinary, perfectly imperfect for him kind of person. He wasn’t about to have his entire life thrown into disarray. In six days, he would remain fully ensconced in this remarkable existence, all sin and vice and money and beautiful women and food cooked by a chef with more talent than any one man deserved.

  And she would be married to another.

  No, if someone was going to be angry, it was going to be her.

  “Nonsense,” she said, pulling herself straight. “There are women at every one of the tables in this room. And if I were not meant to gamble tonight, I daresay I would not have been invited.”

  He leaned close, his words harsh at her ear. “You should not have been invited at all.”

  She hated the way the words made her feel, as though she were a small child being punished. “Why not?”

  “This place is not for you.”

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, allowing her irritation to sound, “I believe I will play another round.”

  The woman she’d been speaking to turned back at that, her jaw going lax for an instant before she caught herself and smiled wide. “Excellent.”

  He leaned close, his voice lowering to a whisper that only she could hear. “I will not have you here. Not now.”

  “I am simply playing cards,” she said, hating the way his words stung, bringing tears to her eyes. She refused to look at him. Refused to risk his seeing the way he moved her.

  He sighed, soft and irritated and somehow tempting, the feel of his breath against her shoulder. “Pippa,” he said, the name more breath than sound. “Please.”

  There was something in the plea that stopped her. She turned to face him once more, searching his grey eyes, finding something there—pain. Gone so fast she was almost unsure it had been there to begin with. Almost.

  She placed one hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles beneath his sleeve flinch at the touch, and whispered back, “Jasper.”

  She had no idea where the given name came from; she did not think of him as such. But for the rest of her life, she would remember the way his beautiful grey eyes went wide, then shuttered, as though she’d delivered him a powerful blow. He stepped back, out of her reach, and she couldn’t stop herself from following, coming out of her chair and moving toward him, wanting to take it back—whatever it was she’d done.

  For she had absolutely done something.

  Something that would change everything. “Wait,” she said, not caring that half of London was in earshot.

  He stopped, his hands coming to her shoulders, holding her at a distance. “Go home. Your research is finished.”

  Pain shot through her, even as she knew that it was for the best. He had been right, of course. It wasn’t research. It never had been. It had been fear and panic and frustration and nerves, but it had never been research.

  And then it had been desire. Temptation. Want.

  More.

  And if it did not end soon, she might never be able to end it.

  Except, she did not want to end it. She wanted it to remain. She wanted to talk and laugh and share with him. She wanted to learn from him. To teach him. She wanted to be with him.

  She wanted the impossible.

  She shook her head, refusing his request. “No.”

  “Yes,” he said once more, the word like ice, before turning and plunging into the crowd. Leaving her. Again.

  Infuriating man. God knew she’d had enough of that.

  She followed him, tracking his movements above the crowd, where his marvelous hair stood out against the rest of London. Where he stood out against the rest of London. She pushed and elbowed and knocked and strained to catch him, and finally, she did, reaching out for his hand—adoring the fact that neither of them wore gloves, loving the way their skin came together, the way his touch brought wonderful heat in a lush, irresistible current.

  He felt it, too.

  She knew it because he stopped the instant they touched, turning to face her, grey eyes wild as Devonshire rain. She knew it because he whispered her name, aching and beautiful and soft enough for only her to hear.

  And she knew it because his free hand rose, captured her jaw and tilted her face up to him even as he leaned down and stole her lips and breath and thought in a kiss that she would never in her lifetime forget.

  The kiss was like food and drink, like sleep, like breath. She needed it with the same elemental desire, and she cared not a bit that all of London was watching. Yes, she was masked, but it did not matter. She would have stripped to her chemise for this kiss. To her skin.

  Their fingers still intertwined, he wrapped their arms behind her back and pulled her to him, claiming her mouth with lips and tongue and teeth, marking her with one long, luscious kiss that went on and on until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it. Her free hand was in his hair then, tangling in the soft locks, loving their silky promise.

  She was lost, claimed, fairly consumed by the intensity of the kiss, and for the first time in her life, Pippa gave herself up to emotion, pouring every bit of her desire and her passion and her fear and her need into this moment. This caress.

  This man.

  This man, who was everything she had never allowed herself to dream she would find.

  This man, who made her believe in friendship. In partnership.

  In love.

  Shocked by the thought, she pulled back,
breaking the kiss, loving the way his breath came harsh and heavy against her cheek as a collection of whistles and applause sounded around them.

  She didn’t care about the onlookers. She cared only for him. For his touch. For this moment.

  She hadn’t wanted to stop him—to stop it—but she hadn’t a choice. She had to tell him. Immediately. And she couldn’t tell him while he was kissing her, though she did hope to get back to kissing as soon as possible.

  She moved to doff her mask, thinking of nothing but him. “Cross—”

  He grabbed her hands, holding them tight. “You’ll be ruined.” He shook his head, urgency coming off him in waves. “You have to leave. Now. Before—”

  He was utter confusion—pushing her away even as he held her close. She started to deny him. To tell him what she was feeling, to explain these strange, brave, new emotions. It was there, on her tongue.

  I love you.

  She was going to say it.

  She was going to love him.

  And in the wake of her confession, she would resolve the rest.

  But before she could speak, a snide voice interrupted. “It seems everyone has been invited to Pandemonium this year. Lady Soon-to-be-a-countess, what a pleasure it is to see you again. And so scandalous now.”

  If the voice hadn’t been familiar, the horrid nickname would have identified Digger Knight, suddenly at Pippa’s shoulder. Pippa closed her mouth, turning to face Knight, who had a pretty, unmasked girl in tow, too young and prim to be one of his women.

  “Mr. Knight,” Pippa said, unaware of the way she moved, away from the brightly colored man and toward Cross, who stood behind her, warm and firm and right.

  Knight smiled, an impressive number of straight white teeth in his head. “You remember me. I’m honored.”

  “I don’t imagine you’re easily forgotten,” Pippa said coolly.

  He ignored the quip. “You have a particular pleasure this evening, Lady Soon . . .” He trailed off, letting Pippa’s mind go to the kiss, letting her cheeks flush. “. . . You shall be the first to congratulate Cross.”

  “Digger,” Cross said, and Pippa realized that he hadn’t spoken since Knight arrived. She looked to him, but he was deliberately not looking at her. “This isn’t part of it.”

  “Considering what half of London just witnessed, Cross, I think it is,” Knight said, tone dry and unmoved as he turned to face Pippa.

  At the same time, Cross pinned her with his beautiful grey gaze. “Go home,” Cross said urgently. “Hurry. Now.”

  His gaze was filled with worry—so much that Pippa was almost willing to agree, her weight shifting, beginning the move to the exit.

  Knight cut in. “Nonsense. She can’t leave until she’s heard your news.”

  Pippa turned a curious gaze on Cross. “Your news?”

  He shook his head, perfectly serious, and a weight dropped in her stomach. Something was wrong. Terribly so.

  She looked from him to Knight, to the despondent girl with him. “His news?”

  Knight laughed, the sound loud and grating, as though he’d heard a joke that only he found amusing. “I’m afraid I can’t wait for him to tell you himself. I’m too excited. I can’t resist stealing his thunder.”

  Her gaze narrowed behind mask and spectacles, and she was grateful for the shield to keep her thoughts from showing. “I don’t imagine I could stop you.”

  His eyes went wide. “Oh, I do like a lady with a sharp tongue.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his waistcoat and rocked back on his heels. “You see, darling, you’re not the only one soon-to-be-a-countess . . . the Earl here has asked my daughter to marry him. She has, of course, agreed. I thought you might like to congratulate the pair.” He indicated the couple, neither looking worthy of congratulations. “You have the honor of being the first.”

  Her mouth dropped open. It wasn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be.

  She looked up at Cross, his grey eyes deliberate in their focus. On anything but her.

  She’d misheard. She had to have. He wouldn’t marry another. He’d told her . . . marriage was not in his cards.

  But she saw the truth in his distant gaze. In the way he did not turn to her. In the way he did not speak. In the way he did not rush to deny the words—words that stung like the worst kind of accusation.

  Panicked, Pippa looked to the other woman—black curls and blue eyes and porcelain skin and pretty red lips in a perfect little bow. She looked like she might cast up her accounts. Nothing like a bride.

  She looks like you feel whenever you think of marrying Castleton.

  She didn’t need to ask, but she couldn’t stop herself. “You are marrying him?”

  Black ringlets bobbed.

  “Oh.” Pippa looked to Cross, unable to find another word. “Oh.”

  He did not look at her when he spoke, voice so soft she would not have heard it if she had not been watching his lips . . . those lips that had changed everything. This man who had changed everything. “Pippa . . .”

  Marriage is not for me.

  Another lie. One of how many?

  Pain shot through her, sharp and almost unbearable, her chest tightening, making it difficult to breathe. He was marrying another.

  And it hurt.

  She lifted one hand, rubbing at the spot closest to the ache, as though she could massage it away. But as she looked from the man she loved to his future wife, she realized that this pain wouldn’t be so easily assuaged.

  Her whole life, she’d heard of it, laughed at it. Thought it a silly metaphor. The human heart, after all, was not made of porcelain. It was made of flesh and blood and sturdy, remarkable muscle.

  But there, in that remarkable room, surrounded by a laughing, rollicking, unseeing collection of London’s brightest and wickedest, Pippa’s knowledge of anatomy expanded.

  It seemed there was such a thing as a broken heart.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The human heart weighs (on average) eleven ounces and beats (approximately) one hundred thousand times per day.

  In Ancient Greece, the theory was widely held that, as the most powerful and vital part of the body, the heart acted as a brain of sorts—collecting information from all other organs through the circulatory system. Aristotle included thoughts and emotions in his hypotheses relating to the aforementioned information—a fact that modern scientists find quaint in its lack of basic anatomical understanding.

  There are reports that long after a person is pronounced dead and a mind and soul gone from its casing, under certain conditions, the heart might continue beating for hours. I find myself wondering if in those instances the organ might continue to feel as well. And, if it does, whether it feels more or less pain than mine at present time.

  The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

  March 31, 1831; five days prior to her wedding

  That night, Pippa did not sleep.

  Instead, she lay on her bed, Trotula warm and solid against her side, staring at the play of candlelight over the pink satin canopy above, and wondering, alternately, how it was that she had so thoroughly misjudged Cross, herself, and their situation, and how it was that she’d never noticed that she loathed pink satin.

  It was a horrid, feminine thing—all emotion.

  A lone tear slid down her temple and into her ear, unpleasant, wet discomfort. She sniffed. There was nothing productive about emotion.

  She took a deep breath.

  He was marrying another.

  She loved him, and he was marrying another.

  As was she.

  But for some reason, it was his impending marriage that seemed to change everything. That seemed to mean more. To represent more.

  To hurt more.

  Silly, pink satin. Silly canopies. They didn’t serve a single useful purpose.


  Trotula lifted her soft brown head as another tear escaped. The hound’s wide pink tongue followed its path, and the quiet canine understanding set off a torrent of the salty things—a flood of wretched drops and hiccups that Pippa could not halt. She turned onto her side, tears obscuring the silver mask from Pandemonium where it lay on the bedside table, gleaming in the candlelight. She should never have accepted the invitation to the event. Should never have believed it would come without cost—that any of this would come without cost.

  The candle’s flame burned as she stared at it, whites and oranges barely wavering above a perfect blue orb. She closed her eyes, the memory of the flame bright even then, and took another deep breath, wishing the ache in her chest would go away. Wishing thoughts of him would go away. Wishing sleep would come.

  Wishing she could go back to that morning, eight days earlier, when she’d decided to approach him, and stop herself.

  How a week had changed everything.

  Had changed her.

  What a mess she had made.

  Aching sadness rolled through her like a storm, cold and tight and bitterly unpleasant. She cried for who knew how long—two minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe an hour.

  Long enough to feel sorry for herself. Not long enough to feel any better.

  When she opened her eyes, she returned her attention to the candle, still and unmoving even as it burned unbearably bright. And then it did move, dancing and flickering in an unexpected draft.

  A draft followed by a great woof and a thud as Trotula left the bed, tail wagging madly, and threw herself at the doors that led out to the narrow balcony just off Pippa’s bedchamber. Doors once closed, now open, now framing the man Pippa loved, frozen just inside the room, tall and serious and beautifully disheveled.

  As she watched, he took a deep breath and ran both hands through thick red hair, pushing it off his face, his high cheekbones and long straight nose stark and angled in the candlelight.

  He was unbearably handsome. She’d never in her life longed for anything the way she longed for him. He’d promised to teach her about temptation and desire and he’d done powerfully well; her heart raced at the sight of him, at the sound of his heavy breath. And yet . . . she did not know what came next.