“I would feast on you . . . yes . . . right there, lovely,” he urged her on, rewarding the bold, little movements of her fingers with a growl of pleasure, knowing, even before she did, that she was on the edge of something stunning. “Would you like my mouth there, my sweet?”
Did that happen? Dear heaven. Yes. She wanted it.
“I would stay for hours . . .” he promised. “My tongue would show you pleasure you’ve never known. Over and over. Again and again until you were weak from it. Until you couldn’t bear it, and you begged me to stop. Would you like that, love?”
Her body answered him, rocking against the chair and her hand, giving her everything he promised . . . and somehow none of it. She cried out for him, reaching toward him, desperate for the feel of him, for his strength and sinew.
In that moment, she was his, open and raw, racked with pleasure and somehow, still aching with desire.
Desire only he could slake.
She whispered his name, unable to keep the wonder from her voice, and her fingers grazed his hair, gleaming red silk.
He moved like lightning at the touch, rolling to his feet with a grace that defied six and a half feet of man. He crossed the office, turning his lovely lean back to her, one long arm reaching out to brace himself on a pile of ledgers stacked a dozen high in the corner of the room.
The loss of him was like a blow, stripping her of fleeting pleasure. Leaving her wanting. Empty. Unfulfilled.
His head bowed, candlelight highlighting the ginger strands she itched to touch. She did not move as his shoulders rose and fell once, twice, a third time—his breath coming as harshly as hers did.
“That’s enough research for tonight,” he said to the books in front of him, the words firmer, louder than any of the others he’d spoken that evening. “I promised to teach you about temptation, and I believe I’ve accomplished the task. Dress. I’ll have someone take you home.”
Chapter Twelve
Progress has been made. It appears that there are any number of ways in which the female anatomy might be . . . addressed. Associate revealed more than one of those ways last evening—to remarkable physical result. Unfortunately, Interestingly, the results also had a considerable emotional effect. A personal effect.
But he still didn’t touch me. That, too, had a personal effect.
There is no place in research for personal effects.
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 29, 1831; seven days prior to her wedding
Three days later, Pippa was curled on a low settee in the Dolby House library, failing to read an unprecedented text relating to the cultivation of dahlias. The volume had been delivered directly from the publisher, and a month earlier, Pippa had been desperate for its arrival.
Unfortunately, Mr. Cross had ruined even the excitement of a new book.
Irritating man.
How was it that one man, one moment, could bring her such pleasure and such frustration all at once? How was it that one man could simultaneously consume her and hold her at bay?
It did not seem possible and yet, he’d proven it.
With his soft words and his absent touch.
It was the touch that hurt the most. The lack of it. She’d heard the rumors about him, she’d known what she risked when she asked him to assist her in her research. She’d been prepared to fend him off and push him away and resist his charms.
She’d never once considered the possibility that he would have no interest in charming her.
Though she supposed she should have been prepared for it. After all, if Castleton wouldn’t touch her, who would even dream that a man like Mr. Cross would? It was only logical that he would be more difficult to . . . entice.
Not that she should be angling to entice him at all.
Absolutely not. The only man she should even consider enticing was the Earl of Castleton. Her future husband.
Not the other, infuriating, utterly abnormal man. Oh, he looked ordinary enough. Certainly taller and more intelligent than most, but at first glance, he had the same traits that marked the rest of his species: two arms, two legs, two ears, two lips.
Lips.
It was there that things went awry.
She groaned, dropping one hand to her thigh with enough weight to attract the attention of the hound curled at her side. Trotula looked up, soulful brown eyes seeming to understand that Pippa had lost too many waking hours to thoughts about those lips.
It was abnormal. In the extreme.
Trotula sighed and returned to her nap.
“Lady Philippa?”
Pippa started at the words spoken quietly from the door to the library where Carter, the Dolby House butler, stood at the ready, an enormous package in his hands. She smiled. “You surprised me.”
He came forward. “Apologies, my lady.”
“Have the guests begun to arrive?” The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby was hosting a ladies’ tea that afternoon, designed to gather all the women related to The Wedding. Pippa had spent an hour being primped and prodded before her maid had announced her presentable, and she’d come to the library to hide in advance of the event itself. She stood. “I suppose I must into the fray.”
Carter shook his head. “Not yet, my lady. This parcel arrived for you, however. As it is marked urgent, I thought you might like it straightaway.”
He extended the large box in her direction, and she took it, curiosity flaring. “Thank you.”
Task accomplished, Carter retreated from the room, leaving Pippa with the parcel, which she set beside her on the settee and opened, untying string and folding back unremarkable brown paper to reveal a heavy white box, adorned with an elaborate golden H.
Disappointment flared. The package was not urgent. It was a part of her trousseau. Most women in London could identify this box, from Madame Hebert’s modiste shop.
She sighed and opened the box to find a layer of fine gauze of the palest blue, tied with a beautiful sapphire ribbon. Beneath the ribbon was a single ecru square, stamped with a delicate female angel. She slipped the card from the square envelope and read the message in strong, black script.
Pandemonium
The Fallen Angel
Midnight
And, on the back,
A carriage will collect you.
Chase
Chase. The fourth, most mysterious partner in The Fallen Angel. From what she understood, few had ever met the man who had started the club and grown it—certainly Pippa had never had the opportunity. And she absolutely should not be accepting an invitation from an unknown man. To something called Pandemonium.
But she knew before she even inspected the contents of the box that she would not be able to refuse him. Or the chance to see Cross again.
Pandemonium sounded like precisely the kind of thing that would afford her all sorts of knowledge.
Heart pounding, Pippa reached for the ribbon, untying it carefully, as though it might release something living. Peeling back the gauze, she gasped at the stunningly crafted silver mask that lay on a bed of sapphire silk—no, not silk.
Dress.
She lifted the mask, startled by the weight of it, running one hand along the perfect curve of the filigree, marveling at the delicacy of the swirling, twisting design etched into its face and the thick satin ribbons marking its edges, the same sapphire as the dress below.
When she turned the mask over, inspecting its inside, and instantly understanding why the piece was so much heavier than expected. Inlaid in the back of the mask was a special ridge, lined in sapphire velvet the exact color of the gown it had arrived with, designed to house a set of spectacles.
The mask had been made specifically for her.
She smiled, running her fingers over the metalwork, admiring the frivolity of the gorgeous craftsmanship.
<
br /> And practical Pippa Marbury, who had never in her life been tempted by clothing or triviality, could not wait for night to come.
So she could drape herself in silk.
It occurred to her that her view of the fabric had changed drastically in mere moments. Thousands of Bombyx mori had given themselves to this dress.
They’d cocooned themselves to set Pippa free.
“Pippa!” Her mother’s call came from beyond the library door, shaking Pippa from her reverie. Rescuing the wrapping from Trotula’s long pink tongue, she crammed the mask back into its box and haphazardly rewrapped the parcel, moving with lightning speed to hand it off to a footman just outside the door and request that it be delivered, immediately, to her maid.
“Pippa!” Her mother called again, no doubt announcing the start of the ladies’ tea set for the afternoon. The Countess of Castleton would be here, and Lady Tottenham, and Penny, and a dozen others. No doubt the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby had recited the guest list more than once, but Pippa hadn’t been listening much over the past few days.
She’d been too consumed with the events of her evening with Mr. Cross over and over, recalling every word, every interaction. And realizing that she was lacking in critical areas. It should not be difficult to convince a man to touch her. Certainly not a man who was purported to have such extensive taste in females. And yet, it was difficult.
Pippa was clearly in no way able to entice anything. Or anyone. If she could have, wouldn’t it have happened? Wouldn’t being nearly naked in Mr. Cross’s office have drawn him to her in some way? Have tempted him?
Of course it would have.
Which is why she was utterly certain she possessed not a single viable feminine wile.
Perhaps Pandemonium would change that.
Her heart raced once more.
“Pippa!” Her mother called again, closer.
And without those wiles—or at least an understanding of them—she would never be able to meet the expectations that had been set for her. As a wife. As a mother.
As a woman.
She required additional research.
But today, she was doomed to an afternoon of tea. She set the volume down and addressed her sleeping companion. “Shall we go, Trotula?”
The spaniel raised her soft, sable head instantly, tail pounding against the plush settee with satisfying thuds. Pippa smiled and stood. “I remain able to tempt you, at least.”
Trotula came off the furniture with a long stretch and a wide, lolling grin.
Pippa exited the library, hound at her heels, and pushed open the wide, paneled doors to the tearoom, where her mother’s guests had gathered, already cooing over Olivia.
She took a deep breath and steeled herself to enter the fray.
“Lady Philippa!”
Castleton was here.
Pippa turned to find Trotula bounding toward the earl, who crouched low to give the dog a long scratch. Trotula leaned into the caress, hind leg thumping her pleasure, and Pippa couldn’t help but laugh at the picture. “Lord Castleton,” she said, moving toward her fiancé. “Are you here for tea?” She hadn’t detected the hint of panic that usually laced her mother’s tone when eligible gentlemen were nearby.
“No!” he said, happily, cocking his head to one side as he looked up at her, his smile wide and friendly. “I was meeting with your father. Hashing out the final bits of the marriage arrangement and all that.”
Most brides-to-be would not have appreciated the frank reference to the exchange of funds that came with marriage, but Pippa found the concrete items relating to the event to be calming. She nodded once. “I’ve some land in Derbyshire.”
He nodded and came to his feet. “Needham said that. Lots of sheep.”
And four thousand acres of crops, but Pippa doubted Castleton had paid her father much mind.
Silence fell, and he rocked back on his heels, craning to see into the tearoom. After a long moment, he said, “What happens at a ladies’ tea?”
Pippa followed his gaze. “Ladies drink tea.”
He nodded. “Capital.”
Silence again. “There are usually biscuits,” Pippa added.
“Good. Good. Biscuits are good.” He paused. “Cakes?”
She nodded. “Sometimes.”
He nodded. “Smashing.”
It was excruciating.
But he was her fiancé. In one week, he would be her husband. And in no time, he’d be the father of her children. So excruciating wasn’t an acceptable outcome.
He might not be the most compelling of companions, nor was he the kind of man who took an interest in her interests. But there were not many men who did take interest in anatomy. Or horticulture. Or biology. Or physics.
There was one man.
She resisted the thought. Cross might be a man of science, but he was not the kind of man one . . .
She stopped the thought before it could form, forcing her thoughts back to the matter at hand—Castleton. She must work at Castleton. At engaging him. At attracting him. Even if she’d failed before.
With another.
No. She wouldn’t think of Cross. Wouldn’t think of her failed interaction with him. She was a scientist, after all . . . and scientists learned from all experiments. Even failed ones.
She smiled brightly. Possibly too brightly. “My lord, would you like to see if there are any cakes left in the kitchens?”
At reference to the kitchen, Trotula’s tail set off at a remarkable speed, but it took Castleton a moment to understand Pippa’s question. “The kitchens! For cake! With you!”
She smiled. “Indeed.”
“Pippa!” Her mother’s cry came from the doorway of the tearoom, instantly replaced by a surprised, breathless, “Oh! Lord Castleton! I did not know you were here! I shall—” She hesitated, hand on the door, considering her next step.
Most mothers would never dream of allowing their daughters to hover, unaccompanied, in an empty hallway with their fiancés, but most daughters were not the offspring of the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby. Aside from Pippa’s being odd and—as the rest of the family apparently knew—lacking in the basic social experience of a soon-to-be-married lady, the daughters of the house of Needham and Dolby did not receive high marks when it came to actually marrying their betrotheds. Surely the marchioness wouldn’t mind a bit of scandal to ensure that her second youngest made it all the way down the aisle.
“I’ll just pull this door to,” Lady Needham said, offering an exaggerated smile in their direction. “Pippa, you join us when you are free, darling.”
The irony was not lost on Pippa that freedom was associated with a roomful of cloying, gossiping ladies.
Once they were alone once more, Pippa returned her attention to her betrothed. “The kitchens, my lord?”
He nodded his agreement, and they were off, Trotula leading the way.
There were leftover cakes in the kitchens, easily cajoled from the cook and wrapped in cheesecloth for a walk on the Dolby House grounds. Pippa tried not to think too carefully about the direction of their walk, but she could not deny that she was deliberately avoiding the copse of cherry trees where she’d waited for Mr. Cross several evenings earlier, deciding, instead, to head for the river a quarter of a mile down the gently sloping lawns.
Trotula ran out ahead with a series of loud, happy barks, enjoying her freedom on the uncommonly warm March day, circling back now and then to ensure that Pippa and Castleton followed. They walked in silence for several minutes—long enough for Pippa to consider her next action. When they were far enough away from the house not to be seen, she stopped, turning to face the man who would be her husband.
“My lord—” she started.
“Do you—” he said at the same time.
They both smiled. “Please,” he said. “After you
.”
She nodded. Tried again. “My lord, it’s been more than a year since you began courting me.”
He tilted his head, thinking. “I suppose it has been.”
“And we are to be married. In seven days.”
He smiled. “That I know! My mother cannot seem to stop speaking of it.”
“Women tend to enjoy weddings.”
He nodded. “I’ve noticed. But you don’t seem to be in as much of a state over it, and it’s your wedding.”
Except she was in a state over it. Just not the kind of state he expected. Not the kind of state anyone noticed.
Anyone except Cross. Who was no help at all.
“Lord Castleton, I think it’s time you kissed me.”
If a hedgehog had toddled up and bit him on the toe, she didn’t think that he could have looked more surprised. There was a long silence, during which Pippa wondered if she’d made an enormous mistake. After all, if he decided she was too free with her favors, he could easily march back to the house, give back the land in Derbyshire, and bid farewell to the house of Needham and Dolby.
Would that be so bad?
Yes. Of course it would.
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.
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Page 23
