One Good Earl Deserves a Lover

by Sarah MacLean

  She blinked. Apparently the thought had not occurred to her. “Well. I know of you. That is enough. You shall make an excellent research associate.”

  “Research in what?”

  “I have done a great deal of reading on the subject, but I would like to better understand it. So that I might happily enter into marriage without any concerns. To be honest, the brute-beast bit is rather unnerving.”

  “I imagine it is,” he said dryly.

  And still, she talked, as though he weren’t there. “I also understand that for women who are . . . untried . . . sometimes the act in question is not entirely . . . pleasant. In that particular case, the research will help, I should think. In fact, I hypothesize that if I have the benefit of your vast experience, both Castleton and I will have a more enjoyable time of it. We’ll have to do it several times before it takes, I’m guessing, so anything you can do to shed light on the activity . . .”

  For some reason, it was growing difficult for Cross to hear her. To hear his own thoughts. Surely she hadn’t just said . . .

  “They’re coupled pendula.”

  What?

  He followed the direction of her gaze, to the swaying metal orbs, set in motion in the same direction, now moving in opposition to each other. No matter how precisely they were set along the same path, one of the large weights would ultimately reverse its position. Always.

  “They are.”

  “One impacts the movement of the other,” she said, simply.

  “That is the theory, yes.”

  She nodded, watching the silver orbs swing toward each other, and away. Once. Twice. She looked up at him, all seriousness. “If I am to take a vow, I should like to understand all the bits and pieces of it. Carnal lust is no doubt something I should understand. And do you know why marriage might appeal to men as brute beasts?”

  A vision flashed, crooked fingertips on flesh, blue eyes blinking up at him, wide with pleasure.

  Yes. He absolutely knew. “No.”

  She nodded once, taking him at his word. “It obviously has something to do with coitus.”

  Dear God.

  She explained. “There’s a bull in Coldharbor, where my father’s estate is. I am not as green as you think.”

  “If you think that a bull in a pasture is anything like a human male, you are absolutely as green as I think.”

  “You see? That is precisely why I require your assistance.”

  Shit. He’d walked right into her trap. He forced himself not to move. To resist her pull.

  “I understand you’re very good at it,” she continued, unaware of the havoc she was quietly wreaking. Or, perhaps entirely aware. He could no longer tell. Could no longer trust himself. “Is that true?”

  “No,” he said, instantly. Perhaps it would make her leave.

  “I know enough about men to know that they wouldn’t admit a lack of faculty in this area, Mr. Cross. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.” She laughed, the sound bright and fresh and out of place in this dark room. “As an obvious man of science . . . I should think you would be willing to assist me in my research.”

  “Your research in the mating habits of bulls?”

  Her smile turned amused. “My research in carnal lust and appetites.”

  There was only one option. Terrifying her into leaving. Insulting her into it. “You’re asking me to fuck you?”

  Her eyes went wide. “Do you know, I’ve never heard that word spoken aloud.”

  And, like that, with her simple, straightforward pronouncement, he felt like vermin. He opened his mouth to apologize.

  She beat him to it, speaking as though he were a child. As though they were discussing something utterly ordinary. “I see I wasn’t clear. I don’t want you to perform the act, so to speak. I would simply like you to help me to better understand it.”

  “Understand it.”

  “Precisely. Per the vows and the children and the rest.” She paused, then added, “A lecture of sorts. In animal husbandry. Of sorts.”

  “Find someone else. Of another sort.”

  Her gaze narrowed at his mocking tone. “There is no one else.”

  “Have you looked?”

  “Who do you think would explain the process to me? Certainly not my mother.”

  “And what of your sisters? Have you asked them?”

  “First, I’m not certain that Victoria or Valerie have much interest in or experience with the act itself. And Penelope . . . She turns absurd when asked about anything to do with Bourne. On about love and whatnot.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s no place for love in research.”

  His brows rose. “No?”

  She looked appalled. “Certainly not. You, however, are a man of science with legendary experience. I’m sure there are plenty of things you are able to clarify. For example, I’m very curious about the male member.”

  He choked. Then coughed.

  When he regained his ability to speak, he said, “I’m sure you are.”

  “I’ve seen drawings of course—in anatomical texts—but perhaps you could help with some of the specifics? For example—”

  “No.” He cut her off before she elaborated with one of her straightforward, scientific questions.

  “I am happy to pay you,” she announced. “For your services.”

  A harsh, strangled sound cut through the room. It came from him. “Pay me.”

  She nodded. “Would, say, twenty-five pounds do?”

  “No.”

  Her brows knit together. “Of course, a person of your—prowess—is worth more. I apologize for the offense. Fifty? I’m afraid I can’t go much higher. It’s quite a bit of money.”

  She believed that it was the amount of money that made the offer offensive? She didn’t understand that he was half a tic from doing it for free. From paying her for the chance to show her everything for which she asked.

  In all his life, there had never been anything Cross had wanted to do more than throw this strange woman down on his desk and give her precisely that for which she was asking.

  Desire was irrelevant. Or perhaps it was the only thing that was relevant. Either way, he could not assist Lady Philippa Marbury.

  She was the most dangerous female he’d ever met.

  He shook his head and said the only words he trusted himself to say. Short. To the point. “I am afraid I am unable to accommodate your request, Lady Philippa. I suggest you query another. Perhaps your fiancé.” He hated the suggestion even as he made it. Bit back the urge to rescind it.

  She was quiet for a long moment, blinking up at him from behind her thick spectacles, reminding him that she was untouchable.

  He waited for her to redouble her efforts. To come at him again with her straight looks and her forthright words.

  Of course, there was nothing predictable about this woman.

  “I do wish you’d call me Pippa,” she said, and with that, she turned and left.

  Chapter Two

  When Pippa was no more than six or seven, the five daughters Marbury had been paraded about for a musical interlude (as hosts’ children often were) like little blond ducks before a gathering of peers at a country house party, the details of which she could no longer remember.

  As they exited the room, an older gentleman with laughing eyes had stopped her and asked which instrument she preferred to play. Now, had the gentleman inquired such a thing of Penelope, she would have answered with complete assurance that the pianoforte was her favorite. Had he asked Victoria or Valerie, the twins would have replied in unison that they enjoyed the cello. And Olivia would have won him with her five-year-old smile—coy even then—and told him that she liked horns.

  But he’d mistakenly asked Pippa, who had proudly announced that she had little time for music, as she was too busy learning general anatomy. M
istaking the gentleman’s quiet shock for interest, she’d then proceeded to lift the skirts of her pinafore and proudly name the bones of her foot and leg.

  She got as far as the fibula before her mother had arrived, shrieking her name against the quiet musical backdrop of society’s laughter.

  That was the first time Pippa realized that she was odd.

  It was also the first time she’d ever been embarrassed. It was a strange emotion—entirely different from all the others, which seemed to fade with time. Once one had eaten, for example, it was difficult to recall the precise characteristics of hunger. Certainly, one remembered wishing one had food, but the keen desire for sustenance was not easily recalled.

  Similarly, Pippa was no stranger to irritation—she had four sisters, after all—but she could not exactly remember the way it felt to be utterly, infuriatingly irritated with any one of them. Lord knew there had been days when she could have cheerfully pushed Olivia from a moving carriage, but she couldn’t resurrect the emotion now.

  She could remember, however, the hot embarrassment that came with the laughter at that country gathering as though it had happened yesterday. As though it had happened moments ago.

  But what had actually happened moments ago seemed somehow worse than showing half of the Beau Monde one’s seven-year-old ankles. Being labeled the strangest Marbury from such a young age allowed for one to develop something of a thick skin. It took much more than snickers from behind fans to rouse Pippa’s embarrassment.

  Apparently, it took a man refusing her request for ruination.

  A very tall, clearly intelligent, obviously fascinating man.

  She had done her best—laid out her proposal in detail, appealed to him as a man of science—and still, he’d refused.

  She hadn’t considered that possibility.

  She should have, of course. She should have recognized it the moment she stepped inside that glorious office—filled with all manner of interesting things—should have known that her offer would not intrigue him. Mr. Cross was obviously a man of knowledge and experience, and she was the fourth daughter of a double marquess, who could name all the bones in the human body and was therefore somewhat abnormal.

  It mattered not a bit that she required a research associate and that she had a mere fourteen days—just 336 dwindling hours—to resolve all her questions regarding her future marriage.

  He’d obviously completed plenty of his own experimentation and did not require a research associate.

  Not even one who was willing to pay him.

  Looking around the large, empty main room of the casino, she supposed she should not have been surprised by that either. After all, a man who owned a casino that dealt in the kind of finances accounted in the large, leather-bound ledger she’d discovered when she’d entered his office was not the kind of man who could be tempted by twenty-five pounds. Or fifty.

  That, she should have considered.

  It was a pity, really. He’d seemed altogether promising. The most promising option when she’d conceived of the plan, several nights earlier after reading the text of the ceremony to which she would be a party in two weeks’ time.

  Carnal lust.

  Procreation.

  It was wrong, was it not, that a woman was made party to such things without any experience? Without even a sound explanation of the items in question? And that was before the priest even came to the bits relating to obedience and servitude.

  It was all entirely unsettling.

  Even more unsettling when she considered how disappointed she’d been that Mr. Cross had refused her.

  She would have liked to have spent more time with his abacus.

  Not just the abacus.

  Pippa did not believe in lying, either to herself or to others. It was perfectly fine if those around her wanted to hide the truth, but she had found long ago that dishonesty only made for more work in the long run.

  So, no, it was not only the abacus that intrigued her.

  It was the man himself. When she’d arrived at the club, she’d expected to find the Cross of legend—handsome and clever and charming and able to strip the clothes from any female in his presence in a matter of seconds . . . without the use of his hands.

  But she hadn’t found that man at all. There was no doubt he was clever, but there hadn’t been much charm at all in their interaction, and as for handsome—well, he was very tall, all long limbs and sharp angles, with a mop of finger-combed ginger hair that she would never have imagined he’d have. No, he wasn’t handsome. Not classically.

  He was interesting. Which was much better.

  Or worse, as the case may be.

  He was clearly knowledgeable in the areas of physics and geography, and he was good with numbers—she would wager that the lack of scratch paper on his desk pointed to his ability to calculate the ledger in his head. Impressive, considering the sheer quantity of numbers held therein.

  And he slept on the floor.

  Half-nude.

  That part was rather curious.

  Pippa liked curious.

  But apparently he did not. And that was critical.

  She’d gone through a great deal of trouble concocting a plan, however, and she would not let the contrariness of one man—however fascinating—get in her way. She was in a gaming hell, after all. And gaming hells were purported to be filled with men. Surely there was another man who might be more amenable to her request. She was a scientist, and scientists were nothing if not adaptable.

  Pippa would, therefore, adapt and do whatever it took to gain the understanding that she required to ensure that she was completely prepared on the evening of her marriage.

  Her marriage.

  She didn’t like to say it—she didn’t like to even think it—but the Earl of Castleton wasn’t exactly the most exciting of potential husbands. Oh, he was fair to look at and titled, which her mother appreciated. And he had a lovely estate.

  But he wasn’t very smart. Even that was a generous way of putting it. He’d once asked her what part of the pig the sausage came from. She did not want to even consider what he believed the answer to be.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry him. He was no doubt her best option, dull or less than brilliant or otherwise. He knew he lacked intellectual prowess and seemed more than willing—eager, in fact—to have Pippa help him manage his estate and run his house. She was looking forward to it, having read a number of texts on crop rotation, modern irrigation, and animal husbandry.

  She would be an excellent wife in that sense.

  It was the rest about which she had questions. And she had fourteen days in which to discover the answers.

  Was that too much to ask?

  Apparently so. She cast a look at the now-closed door to Mr. Cross’s rooms, and felt a pang of something not altogether pleasant in her chest. Regret? Discontent? It did not matter. What mattered was, she had to reconsider her plan.

  She sighed, and the noise swirled around her, drawing her attention to the enormous, empty room.

  She had been so focused on finding her way to Mr. Cross’s private offices earlier that she hadn’t had an opportunity to explore the casino itself. Like most women in London, she’d heard the gossip about The Fallen Angel—that it was an impressive, scandalous place where ladies did not belong. That it was on the floor of the Angel and not that of Parliament where men forged the future of Britain. That it was the owners of the Angel who wielded London’s most insidious power.

  Considering the quiet, cavernous room, Pippa conceded that it was certainly an impressive space . . . but the rest of the gossip seemed slightly exaggerated. There wasn’t much to say about this place except that it was . . .

  Rather dark.

  A small row of windows near the ceiling on one side of the room was the only source of light, allowing a few errant ray
s of sunshine in. Pippa followed one long shaft of light, peppered with slow, swirling particles of dust, to where it struck a heavy oak table several feet away, lighting thick green baize painted in white and yellow letters, numbers, and lines.

  She approached, a strange grid of numbers and words printed down the long oval coming into view, and she could not resist reaching down to run her fingers across the fabric, along the markings—hieroglyphs to her—until she brushed up against a row of perfect white dice stacked against one wall of the table.

  Lifting a pair, she examined the perfect dimples in them, testing the weight of the little ivory squares in her palm, wondering at the power they held. They seemed innocuous enough—barely worth considering—and yet, men lived and died by their toss. Long ago, her brother-in-law had lost everything on one wager. True, he’d earned it all back, but Pippa wondered at the temptation that made one do something so foolish.

  No doubt, there was power in the little white cubes.

  She rattled them in her palm, imagining a wager of her own—imagining what it would take to tempt her to game. Her research. An understanding of the secrets of marriage, of married life. Of motherhood. Clear expectations for that too-cloudy future.

  Answers. Where she had none.

  Information that would ease the tightness in her chest that cloyed every time she considered her marriage.

  If she could wager for that . . . she would.

  She rotated the dice in her hands, wondering at the wager that would bring revelation before she could establish her fate, however, a thunderous pounding at the door of the club gained her attention with its loud and unceasing racket. She set the dice on the edge of the hazard table and moved toward the noise before realizing that she had nothing to do with the door in question and should, therefore, not open it.

  Bang.

  Bang bang.

  She cast a furtive look about the massive room. Surely someone heard the clatter. A maid, a kitchen girl, the bespectacled gentleman who had facilitated her own entrance?

  Bang bang bang.

  No one appeared to be in hearing distance.