One Good Earl Deserves a Lover
Page 73
The answer did not matter, however, because he didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he nodded happily, said, “All right then,” and leaned down to kiss her.
His lips were soft and warm and dry, and they pressed against her with not an ounce of passion, settling on hers lightly, as though he were taking care not to startle or infringe upon her. She lifted her hands to the thick wool of his topcoat, clasping his arms, wondering if, perhaps, she should be doing something differently.
They stood like that for a long moment, lips pushed against lips, noses at a rather strange angle—though she blamed her spectacles for that—hands unmoving.
Not breathing. Not feeling anything but awkward discomfort.
When they pulled apart, gasping for air and met each other’s gaze, she pushed the thought away and adjusted her spectacles, straightening them on the bridge of her nose. She looked away to find Trotula, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
The dog did not seem to understand.
“Well,” Pippa said.
“Well,” he agreed. Then, “Shall we try again?”
She considered the offer. After all, the only way to ensure the proper outcome of an experiment was to repeat it. Perhaps they’d done it wrong the first time. She nodded. “That sounds fine.”
He kissed her again. To startlingly similar effect.
This time, when they separated, Pippa was sure. There was absolutely no threat of their entering into the sacrament of marriage for reasons at all relating to carnal lust.
She supposed that should make her feel better.
They returned to the house in silence, retracing their steps through the kitchens and into the foyer beyond the tearoom, where the soft sounds of ladies’ laughter trickled through the open mahogany door. Castleton offered to leave her there, at the party, but Pippa found that she was even less tempted by tea than she had been earlier in the afternoon, and instead, she escorted her fiancé to the main door of the house, where he paused in the open doorway and looked down at her seriously.
“I am looking forward to our marriage, you know.”
It was the truth. “I know.”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a little smile. “I don’t worry about the rest. It shall come.”
Should they really have to wait for it to arrive?
She nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”
He bowed, straight and serious. “My lady.”
She watched from the top step of the house as his carriage trundled down the drive, leaving her to reflect on their kiss. Castleton hadn’t felt anything. She had seen it in his eyes—in the way they’d remained patient and kind, nothing like Cross’s eyes several evenings prior. No, Cross’s eyes had been storms of gunmetal, full of emotions that she couldn’t read but that she would have spent a lifetime studying.
Emotions she would never have a chance to study.
The ache was back in her chest, and she lifted one hand absently to soothe it, her mind on the tall, grey-eyed man who had showed her pleasure without giving even an inch of himself.
She did not like that ache. She did not like what she thought it was coming to mean.
With a sigh, Pippa removed her spectacles to clean them and closed the main door to the house behind her, leaving Castleton and the rest of the word on the outside as she cleaned the glass.
“Lady Philippa?”
Pippa’s gaze snapped to the blurred shape of a lady halfway down the grand staircase of Dolby House—a tea-party guest who had lost her way.
She raised a hand to halt the lady’s movement, already heading for the stairs to meet the guest as she replaced her spectacles. With a smile she did not feel, she looked up . . . and met the gaze of Lavinia, Baroness Dunblade.
She nearly tripped on the stairs. “Lady Dunblade.”
“I told myself I wouldn’t come,” the baroness replied. “I told myself that I would stay out of whatever it is that you have with Jasper.”
Jasper?
The baroness continued, “But then I received your mother’s invitation—your sister has been very kind to me since she became Marchioness of Bourne. I suppose I should not be surprised.”
There was something in the words, an implication that Pippa should understand their subtext. She didn’t. “Lady Dunblade . . .”
The beautiful woman shifted, leaning into her cane, and Pippa reached toward her. “Would you like to sit?”
“No.” The refusal was instant and unwavering. “I am fine.”
Pippa nodded once. “Very well. I’m afraid you are under the impression that I am closer to Mr. Cross than I am.”
“Mr. Cross.” The baroness laughed, the sound humorless. “I still have trouble believing that name.”
Pippa tilted her head. “Believing it?”
Lavinia’s gaze turned surprised. “He hasn’t told you.”
The words unsettled. Perhaps they were designed to. Either way, Pippa couldn’t resist. “His name is not Mr. Cross?” Pippa was face-to-face with the baroness now, halfway up the wide, curving staircase that marked the center of Dolby House.
“I think you’re the only one who uses the mister.”
Cross. No need for the mister. “Just Cross then. It’s not his name?”
One side of the baroness’s mouth kicked up. “No. How sweet that you believed that.”
Of course she’d believed it. She’d never had reason not to. He’d never given her reason not to. But the idea that he might have lied—it wasn’t foreign. After all, he’d lied to her from the beginning. The dice, the wagers, the way he’d tempted her and failed to touch her . . . it was all a lie. His name would be one more. Unsurprising.
His lips were soft and warm and dry, and they pressed against her with not an ounce of passion, settling on hers lightly, as though he were taking care not to startle or infringe upon her. She lifted her hands to the thick wool of his topcoat, clasping his arms, wondering if, perhaps, she should be doing something differently.
They stood like that for a long moment, lips pushed against lips, noses at a rather strange angle—though she blamed her spectacles for that—hands unmoving.
Not breathing. Not feeling anything but awkward discomfort.
When they pulled apart, gasping for air and met each other’s gaze, she pushed the thought away and adjusted her spectacles, straightening them on the bridge of her nose. She looked away to find Trotula, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
The dog did not seem to understand.
“Well,” Pippa said.
“Well,” he agreed. Then, “Shall we try again?”
She considered the offer. After all, the only way to ensure the proper outcome of an experiment was to repeat it. Perhaps they’d done it wrong the first time. She nodded. “That sounds fine.”
He kissed her again. To startlingly similar effect.
This time, when they separated, Pippa was sure. There was absolutely no threat of their entering into the sacrament of marriage for reasons at all relating to carnal lust.
She supposed that should make her feel better.
They returned to the house in silence, retracing their steps through the kitchens and into the foyer beyond the tearoom, where the soft sounds of ladies’ laughter trickled through the open mahogany door. Castleton offered to leave her there, at the party, but Pippa found that she was even less tempted by tea than she had been earlier in the afternoon, and instead, she escorted her fiancé to the main door of the house, where he paused in the open doorway and looked down at her seriously.
“I am looking forward to our marriage, you know.”
It was the truth. “I know.”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a little smile. “I don’t worry about the rest. It shall come.”
Should they really have to wait for it to arrive?
She nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”
He bowed, straight and serious. “My lady.”
She watched from the top step of the house as his carriage trundled down the drive, leaving her to reflect on their kiss. Castleton hadn’t felt anything. She had seen it in his eyes—in the way they’d remained patient and kind, nothing like Cross’s eyes several evenings prior. No, Cross’s eyes had been storms of gunmetal, full of emotions that she couldn’t read but that she would have spent a lifetime studying.
Emotions she would never have a chance to study.
The ache was back in her chest, and she lifted one hand absently to soothe it, her mind on the tall, grey-eyed man who had showed her pleasure without giving even an inch of himself.
She did not like that ache. She did not like what she thought it was coming to mean.
With a sigh, Pippa removed her spectacles to clean them and closed the main door to the house behind her, leaving Castleton and the rest of the word on the outside as she cleaned the glass.
“Lady Philippa?”
Pippa’s gaze snapped to the blurred shape of a lady halfway down the grand staircase of Dolby House—a tea-party guest who had lost her way.
She raised a hand to halt the lady’s movement, already heading for the stairs to meet the guest as she replaced her spectacles. With a smile she did not feel, she looked up . . . and met the gaze of Lavinia, Baroness Dunblade.
She nearly tripped on the stairs. “Lady Dunblade.”
“I told myself I wouldn’t come,” the baroness replied. “I told myself that I would stay out of whatever it is that you have with Jasper.”
Jasper?
The baroness continued, “But then I received your mother’s invitation—your sister has been very kind to me since she became Marchioness of Bourne. I suppose I should not be surprised.”
There was something in the words, an implication that Pippa should understand their subtext. She didn’t. “Lady Dunblade . . .”
The beautiful woman shifted, leaning into her cane, and Pippa reached toward her. “Would you like to sit?”
“No.” The refusal was instant and unwavering. “I am fine.”
Pippa nodded once. “Very well. I’m afraid you are under the impression that I am closer to Mr. Cross than I am.”
“Mr. Cross.” The baroness laughed, the sound humorless. “I still have trouble believing that name.”
Pippa tilted her head. “Believing it?”
Lavinia’s gaze turned surprised. “He hasn’t told you.”
The words unsettled. Perhaps they were designed to. Either way, Pippa couldn’t resist. “His name is not Mr. Cross?” Pippa was face-to-face with the baroness now, halfway up the wide, curving staircase that marked the center of Dolby House.
“I think you’re the only one who uses the mister.”
Cross. No need for the mister. “Just Cross then. It’s not his name?”
One side of the baroness’s mouth kicked up. “No. How sweet that you believed that.”
Of course she’d believed it. She’d never had reason not to. He’d never given her reason not to. But the idea that he might have lied—it wasn’t foreign. After all, he’d lied to her from the beginning. The dice, the wagers, the way he’d tempted her and failed to touch her . . . it was all a lie. His name would be one more. Unsurprising.
