No Good Duke Goes Unpunished
Page 53
A millimeter for him, for all he had to do was close the non-space and she was his. A mile for her, for she knew he would not do it . . . and she could not bring herself to kiss him. Even though, in that moment, there was nothing she wanted to do more.
But he did not wish the same.
This was an evening for intellectual pursuits. Not physical ones.
No matter how much she might wish differently.
So she did the only thing she could do. She took a deep breath, and said, “Cross?”
There was an immense, yawning pause as they both realized she’d dropped the Mister, but somehow, here, in a dark London alleyway, the title seemed too gentlemanly for this tall, wicked man.
“Yes, Pippa?”
“Can we go inside now?”
Chapter Nine
“Hazard is a problematic game—one that appears one way and plays another. For example, one casts two dice, thinking the roll will sum between one and twelve, but a roll of one is completely impossible . . . and rolls of two and twelve nearly so. Why then, when the fallacies of the game are so obvious, does it call so loudly to gamers?
There may be geometry to this game of chance—but there is sacredness to it as well.
It occurs that the sacrosanct rarely makes scientific sense.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 27, 1831; nine days prior to her wedding
There was nothing in the wide world that Cross would have refused her in that moment.
Not when she had spent the last hour tempting him with her big blue eyes and her quick mind and that lovely, lithe body that made him desperate to touch her. When the women had come, he’d thought of nothing but protecting her from discovery, shielding her with his body and hating himself for ever even considering bringing her here to this dark, filthy place that she did not deserve.
That did not deserve her.
As he did not deserve her.
He should tell Bourne everything and let his partner beat him to within an inch of his life for ever even thinking of ruining Philippa Marbury. For even dreaming of being this close to her. Of being tempted by her.
For she was the greatest lesson in temptation there ever was.
When she’d toppled from the carriage straight into his arms, he’d thought he was done for, her lithe lines and soft curves pressed against him, making him ache. He’d been sure that moment was the ultimate test . . . the hardest thing he’d ever have to do, setting her on her feet and stepping back from the precipice.
Reminding himself that she was not for him.
That she never would be.
But that had been easy compared to minutes later when, pressed between him and the stone façade of the club, she’d turned and spoken to him, her breath fanning his jaw, making his mouth dry and his c**k hard. That had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done.
He’d come close to kissing her and putting them both out of their misery.
God help him, for a moment, he thought she would take the decision out of his hands and take matters into her own.
And he’d wanted it.
He wanted it still.
Instead, she’d asked him to continue this madness—to bring her inside the hell and give her the lesson he’d promised. To teach her about temptation.
She thought him safe. Scientific. Without danger.
She was mad.
He should pack her back into that carriage and see her home, without a second thought. He should keep her far from this place filled with peers who would find immense entertainment in her presence here, and in the gossip her presence would fuel.
There were rules on this side of the hell, of course—the ladies allowed membership were expressly forbidden to reveal the secrets to which they were exposed. And as women with secrets of their own who craved their time at the club, they were careful to follow those rules.
But it would not change the threat to Pippa.
And he would not have it.
“I shouldn’t take you inside,” he replied, the words lingering between them.
“You promised.”
“I lied.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care for liars.”
She was teasing him. He heard the soft laughter in the words. But whether there or not, he also heard the truth in them. And he wanted her to care for him.
The thought came like a blow, and he straightened instantly, suddenly eager to be away from her.
It was not her.
It couldn’t be.
It was the special circumstance of her. It was that she was the first woman he’d allowed this close, this frequently, in six years. It was that she smelled of light and spring, and that her skin was impossibly soft, and the way her pretty pink lips curved when she smiled, and that she was smart and strange and everything that he’d missed about women.
It was not her.
It was everything. With Knight and Lavinia and the rest of his world crashing down around him, the last thing he needed was Pippa Marbury in his club. In his life. Causing trouble. Taking over his thoughts.
The madness would go away the moment he was rid of her.
He had to be rid of her. Tonight.
He ignored the thread of irritation that coursed through him at the thought and rapped on the steel door.
“That’s a different rhythm than the one the ladies used.”
Of course, she would notice that. She noticed everything, with her great blue eyes.
“I am not the ladies.” He heard the terseness in his tone, refused to regret it as the door opened.
She did not seem to notice it. “Everyone has a different knock?” She followed him into the entryway, where Asriel sat in his usual place, reading by the dim light of a wall sconce.
The doorman cast his black gaze over first Cross, then Pippa. “She’s not a member.”
But he did not wish the same.
This was an evening for intellectual pursuits. Not physical ones.
No matter how much she might wish differently.
So she did the only thing she could do. She took a deep breath, and said, “Cross?”
There was an immense, yawning pause as they both realized she’d dropped the Mister, but somehow, here, in a dark London alleyway, the title seemed too gentlemanly for this tall, wicked man.
“Yes, Pippa?”
“Can we go inside now?”
Chapter Nine
“Hazard is a problematic game—one that appears one way and plays another. For example, one casts two dice, thinking the roll will sum between one and twelve, but a roll of one is completely impossible . . . and rolls of two and twelve nearly so. Why then, when the fallacies of the game are so obvious, does it call so loudly to gamers?
There may be geometry to this game of chance—but there is sacredness to it as well.
It occurs that the sacrosanct rarely makes scientific sense.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 27, 1831; nine days prior to her wedding
There was nothing in the wide world that Cross would have refused her in that moment.
Not when she had spent the last hour tempting him with her big blue eyes and her quick mind and that lovely, lithe body that made him desperate to touch her. When the women had come, he’d thought of nothing but protecting her from discovery, shielding her with his body and hating himself for ever even considering bringing her here to this dark, filthy place that she did not deserve.
That did not deserve her.
As he did not deserve her.
He should tell Bourne everything and let his partner beat him to within an inch of his life for ever even thinking of ruining Philippa Marbury. For even dreaming of being this close to her. Of being tempted by her.
For she was the greatest lesson in temptation there ever was.
When she’d toppled from the carriage straight into his arms, he’d thought he was done for, her lithe lines and soft curves pressed against him, making him ache. He’d been sure that moment was the ultimate test . . . the hardest thing he’d ever have to do, setting her on her feet and stepping back from the precipice.
Reminding himself that she was not for him.
That she never would be.
But that had been easy compared to minutes later when, pressed between him and the stone façade of the club, she’d turned and spoken to him, her breath fanning his jaw, making his mouth dry and his c**k hard. That had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done.
He’d come close to kissing her and putting them both out of their misery.
God help him, for a moment, he thought she would take the decision out of his hands and take matters into her own.
And he’d wanted it.
He wanted it still.
Instead, she’d asked him to continue this madness—to bring her inside the hell and give her the lesson he’d promised. To teach her about temptation.
She thought him safe. Scientific. Without danger.
She was mad.
He should pack her back into that carriage and see her home, without a second thought. He should keep her far from this place filled with peers who would find immense entertainment in her presence here, and in the gossip her presence would fuel.
There were rules on this side of the hell, of course—the ladies allowed membership were expressly forbidden to reveal the secrets to which they were exposed. And as women with secrets of their own who craved their time at the club, they were careful to follow those rules.
But it would not change the threat to Pippa.
And he would not have it.
“I shouldn’t take you inside,” he replied, the words lingering between them.
“You promised.”
“I lied.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care for liars.”
She was teasing him. He heard the soft laughter in the words. But whether there or not, he also heard the truth in them. And he wanted her to care for him.
The thought came like a blow, and he straightened instantly, suddenly eager to be away from her.
It was not her.
It couldn’t be.
It was the special circumstance of her. It was that she was the first woman he’d allowed this close, this frequently, in six years. It was that she smelled of light and spring, and that her skin was impossibly soft, and the way her pretty pink lips curved when she smiled, and that she was smart and strange and everything that he’d missed about women.
It was not her.
It was everything. With Knight and Lavinia and the rest of his world crashing down around him, the last thing he needed was Pippa Marbury in his club. In his life. Causing trouble. Taking over his thoughts.
The madness would go away the moment he was rid of her.
He had to be rid of her. Tonight.
He ignored the thread of irritation that coursed through him at the thought and rapped on the steel door.
“That’s a different rhythm than the one the ladies used.”
Of course, she would notice that. She noticed everything, with her great blue eyes.
“I am not the ladies.” He heard the terseness in his tone, refused to regret it as the door opened.
She did not seem to notice it. “Everyone has a different knock?” She followed him into the entryway, where Asriel sat in his usual place, reading by the dim light of a wall sconce.
The doorman cast his black gaze over first Cross, then Pippa. “She’s not a member.”
