One Good Earl Deserves a Lover
Page 56
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.”
“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.”
