“You are beautiful,” he said.
What came next was anything he wished.
Trotula lifted herself onto her hind legs and planted her forepaws on his torso, whining and sighing, quivering with excitement. He caught the dog with strong hands, keeping her upright and giving her all the affection for which she begged, instantly finding the soft spot on her temple that turned her to mush. She groaned and leaned into him, thoroughly smitten.
For the first time in her life, Pippa wished she did not have a pet. “She is a terrible protector.”
He stilled at that, and the three remained that way for a long moment, silent. “You require protection from me?”
Yes.
She did not reply, instead saying, “Trotula, enough.” The dog returned to all-paws, but did not stop staring up at her new love with her enormous, soulful gaze. Pippa could not fault her traitorous nature. “It seems she likes you.”
“I have a special talent for ladies,” he said in a warm, kind voice she at once loved and loathed. A vision of Sally Tasser flashed. And the prostitute at the card table that evening. And Knight’s pretty daughter.
She swung her legs off the side of her bed. “So I’ve seen.” His attention snapped immediately to her, but she changed tack. “This room is on the third floor.”
Another man would have hesitated. Would not have instantly understood. “I would have climbed farther to see you.” He paused. Then, “I had to see you.”
The ache returned. “You could have fallen. Hurt yourself.”
“Rather that than hurt you.”
She looked down at her lap, hands twisted in the white linen of her nightgown, and whispered, “You once told me that if Castleton hurt me, he wasn’t doing it right.”
He stilled. “Yes.”
She met his eyes. “You’re not doing it right.”
He was across the room in an instant, on his knees at the side of the bed, his hands on hers, sending rivers of excitement and heat and elation through her even as she knew she should push him away and return him, immediately, out the window through which he came, three stories be damned.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “I should be anywhere but here.” He bowed his head, his forehead coming to rest on their hands. “But I had to see you. I had to explain.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing to explain,” she said. “You are marrying another.” She heard the hitch in her voice, the slight hesitation between the first and second syllables of another. Hated it.
Closed her eyes. Willed him gone.
Failed.
“You told me you wouldn’t marry. Another lie.”
It was as though she hadn’t spoken. He did not deny it. “You’ve been crying.”
She shook her head. “Not on purpose.”
One side of his beautiful mouth rose in a crooked smile. “No, I don’t imagine it was.”
Something about the words, soft and filled with humor and something else, made her suddenly, startlingly irritated. “You made me cry,” she accused.
He went serious. “I know.”
“You are marrying another.” She repeated the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. The millionth. As though if she said them enough, they would lose their meaning. Their sting.
He nodded. “As are you.”
She’d been engaged for as long as they’d known each other. But somehow, his impending marriage was a greater betrayal. It was illogical, she knew, but logic did not appear to have a place here.
Another reason she did not like it.
“I hate that I’ve made you cry,” he said, his fingers flexing over hers.
She stared down at the place where their hands were intertwined, loving the play of freckles over his skin, the soft down of the ginger hair there, between the first and second knuckle. Her thumb rubbed across his index finger, and she watched the strands move, stretching and bending before they snapped back to their original place, instantly forgetting her touch.
She spoke to those hairs. “When I was a child, I had a friend named Beavin.” She paused, but did not look at him. He did not speak, so she continued, not entirely knowing where she was going. “He was kind and gentle, and he listened ever so well. I used to tell him secrets—things that no one else knew. Things that no one else would understand.”
His grip on her hands tightened, and she met his gaze. “But Beavin understood. He explored Needham Manor with me. He helped me discover my love for science. He was there on the day that I stole a goose from the kitchens and dissected it. I blamed him for it. And he never minded.”
His gaze darkened. “I find I don’t care much for this perfect companion, Pippa. Where is he now?”
She shook her head. “He went away.”
His brows snapped together. “Where?”
She smiled. “Wherever imaginary friends go.”
He exhaled harshly, lifting one hand to her temple, pushing a mass of hair back from her face. “He was imaginary.”
“I never understood why others couldn’t see him,” she whispered. “Penny used to humor me . . . pretend to interact with him, but she never believed in him. My mother tried to shame him away.” She shrugged, then said, simply, “But he was my friend.”
He smiled. “I like the idea of you and your imaginary friend dissecting a goose.”
“There were a great deal of feathers.”
The smile became a laugh. “I imagine there were.”
“And not near as much blood as one might think,” she added. “Though I did scare a maid nearly to death.”
“In the name of science.”
She smiled then. “In the name of science.”
He leaned forward, and she knew he was about to kiss her. Knew, too, that she couldn’t allow it. She pulled back before their lips could touch, and he immediately retreated, releasing her and sitting back on his heels. “I am sorry.”
She stood, placing distance between them, Trotula coming to stand sentry beside her. She let her fingers work the dog’s soft ears for a long moment, unable to look at Cross. Unable to stop looking at him. “I don’t know why I told you that.”
He rose, but did not come closer. “About Beavin?”
She looked down at the floor. “It’s silly, really. I don’t even know why I thought of him. Except . . .” She trailed off.
He waited a long moment before prompting her to continue. “Except . . . ?”
“I’ve always been different. Never had many friends. But . . . Beavin didn’t mind. He never thought I was odd. And then he disappeared. And I never met another person who seemed to understand me. I never thought I would.” She paused. Gave a little shrug. “Until you.”
And now you’ll go away, too.
And it would hurt more than losing an imaginary friend ever could.
She wasn’t sure she would be able to manage it.
“I can’t help but think,” she started, then stopped. Knowing she shouldn’t say it. Knowing, somehow, that it would make everything harder. “I can’t help but think . . . if only I’d . . .”
He knew it, too. “Don’t.”
But she couldn’t stop it. She looked up at him. “If only I’d found you first.”
The words were small and sad, and she hated them, even as they brought him to her—his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks and tilting her up to him. Even as they brought his lips to hers in a kiss that robbed her of strength and will and, eventually, thought.
His long fingers threaded through her hair, holding her still as he lifted his lips, met her gaze, and whispered her name before taking her mouth again in long, lavish strokes. Again and again, he did the same, whispering her name against her lips, her cheek, the heavy pulse at the side of her neck, punctuating the word with licks and nips and sucks that set her aflame.
If only she’d known that she might find someone like him.
A match.
A love match.
They did exist. And here was the proof, in her bedchamber. In her arms. In her thoughts. Forever.
She closed her eyes tight at the thought, even as the tears came, and he sipped at them, whispering her name over and over, again and again. “Pippa . . . don’t cry, love . . . I’m not worth it . . . I’m nothing . . .”
He was wrong, of course. He was everything.
Everything she could not have.
She pulled away at the thought, pressing her palms flat to his chest, loving the warmth of him, the strength of him. Loving him. Looking up at his wild grey eyes, she whispered, “My whole life . . . two and two has made four.”
He nodded, utterly focused on her, and she loved him all over again for paying attention . . . for understanding her.
“But now . . . it’s all gone wrong.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make four anymore. It makes you.” Heat flared in his gaze, and he reached for her again, but she pulled back. “And you’re to marry another,” she whispered, “and I don’t understand.” A fat tear escaped, expelled by fear and frustration. “I don’t understand . . . and I hate it.”
He brushed the tear away with his thumb, and said, achingly soft, “It’s my turn to tell you a story. One I’ve never told another.”
Her heart in her throat, she met his gaze, knowing with keen understanding that what he was about to say to her would change everything.
But she would never have dreamed he’d say what he did.
“I killed my brother.”
He’d never said the words aloud, but somehow, remarkably, saying them to Pippa was easier than he imagined.
Saying them to Pippa would save her.
She had to understand why they couldn’t be together. She had to see why he was utterly, entirely wrong for her. Even as every ounce of him ached to claim her as his own, forever.
And the only way to show her these things was to show her the worst in him.
She stilled at the confession, her breath catching in her throat as she waited for him to go on. He almost laughed at the realization that it hadn’t occurred to him that she might not immediately exit him from the room. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might want more of an explanation.
That she might believe in him.
So few ever had.
But here she was, waiting for him to continue, quiet, serious, scientific Pippa, waiting for all the evidence to be laid out before drawing her conclusions.
Perfect Pippa.
His chest tightened at the thought, and he turned away from her, imagining that he could turn away from the truth. He went to the doors he’d left open, closing them softly as he considered his next words. “I killed my brother,” he repeated.
Another woman would have launched into a litany of questions. Pippa simply watched him, eyes wide and stunning and unimpeded by spectacles. And it was her eyes on him, sure and without judgment, that spurred him on.
He leaned back, the cool windowpane comforting against his back. “Baine was perfect,” he said. “The perfect son, the perfect heir, the perfect brother. He was full of all the honor and dignity that came with being the future Earl Harlow, and none of the crass entitlement that seemed to accompany titles in other men. He was a good brother and an even better heir.”
The words came easier now. He spread his hands wide, looking down at them. “I, on the other hand, was the perfect second son. I loved vice and loathed responsibility, I was highly skilled at spending my father’s money and my own allowance, and I had a knack for counting cards. I could turn ten pounds into a thousand, and took any opportunity to do so. I had little time for friends, even less for family.” He paused. “It never occurred to me I might someday regret that lack of time.”
She was close enough that he could reach out and touch her if he chose, but he didn’t—he didn’t want her near this story, near the boy he’d once been. He shouldn’t want her near the man he was now.
She watched him carefully, riveted to his story and for one, fleeting moment, he allowed himself to look at her, taking in her unbound hair and her blue eyes—full of knowledge and more understanding than he deserved.
He couldn’t imagine how he’d ever imagined her ordinary or plain. She was stunning. And if her beauty weren’t enough, there was her mind. She was brilliant and quick-witted, and so perfectly different than anyone he’d ever known. Two and two made him. On anyone else’s lips it would have been gibberish, but on Pippa’s it was the most seductive concept he’d ever considered.
She was everything he’d never known he wanted.
And he did want her. Enough to make him wish he were someone else. Enough to make him wish he were more. Different. Better.
Enough to make him wish that he did not have this story to tell. “It was the start of Lavinia’s first season—she’d received her vouchers to Almack’s, and she was ecstatic—certain that she would be pronounced the jewel of the ton.”
“She is beautiful,” Pippa said.
“At eighteen, she was unparalleled.” His voice went raw as he remembered his flame-haired sister, all flirtation and winning smiles. “It was her first night at Almack’s—she’d been presented at court the week prior.”
He stopped, considering the next words, but Pippa cut in. “You chaperoned her.”
He laughed bitterly at the thought. “I was supposed to. But there was nothing I wanted to do less than spend the evening at Almack’s. I hated the idea of the place—wanted nothing to do with it.”
“You were a young man. Of course you hated the idea of it.”
He looked up at that, met her eyes. “I was her brother. It was my duty.” She did not reply. Knew better. Smart girl. “I refused. Told Baine I wouldn’t go.” He trailed off, remembering that afternoon, when he’d laughed and taunted his older brother. “She wasn’t my problem, after all. Would never be my concern. I was the middle child . . . the second son. The spare and thank God for that.
“Baine was furious—a rare event, but he’d had plans to see . . .” he trailed off. A woman. “There was a Greek opera singer looking for a new protector . . .”
Pippa nodded. “I see.”
She didn’t see. Not at all.
You’ll have to see her another night, Cross had said with a laugh. I promise, a few more hours won’t alter her assets . . . or yours as a future earl.
I don’t give much credence to your promises, Baine had snapped in reply. Did you not promise our sister your chaperone tonight?
No one ever expects me to keep my word.
Cross could still remember the fury and disappointment in Baine’s gaze. You are right at that.
“We argued, but I won—it mattered not a bit to me if Lavinia had her chaperone, and because it did matter to Baine, he had no choice but to take her. They went to her party. I went to Knight’s.”
Her jaw went slack at that. “To Knight’s?”
“To Knight’s, and then . . .” He hesitated over the confession . . . knowing it would change everything. Knowing he’d never be able to take it back. Knowing she had to know—that it would do more to save her than anything else he could say. “And then to Baine’s opera singer.”
She closed her eyes at the words, and he hated himself all over again, now, seven years later. The betrayal long assigned to his brother now had a second owner—Pippa. But this was the goal, was it not? To chase her away from Knight—away from him—into the arms of her earl?
Every ounce of him protested it, but he’d spent years controlling his body, and he would not stop now.
“I was in the arms of his future mistress when the carriage threw a wheel while turning a corner.” His words were firm and without emotion. “Baine, the driver, and one footman were killed instantly. A second footman die
d the following day.”
“And Lavinia,” Pippa said quietly.
“Lavinia was crippled, her bright future extinguished.” His fists clenched. “I did it to her. If I’d been there . . .”
She reached for him then, her soft hands coming to his, grasping tight. “No.”
He shook his head. “I killed him, as surely as if I’d put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. If I’d been there, he’d be alive.”
“And you’d be dead!” she said harshly, drawing his attention to her blue gaze, swimming with unshed tears. “And you’d be dead.”
“Don’t you see, Pippa . . . I deserved it. I was the wicked one. The one who sinned. I was the one who gambled and lied and cheated and thieved. He was good and she was pure and I was neither; Hell came looking for me that night, thinking it would find me in that carriage. And when it found them instead, it took them.”
She shook her head. “No. None of it was your fault.”
God, how he wanted to believe her.
“I didn’t even stop after the accident. I kept at it . . . kept going to hells . . . kept winning. Tried to bury the sin with more of it.” He’d never told anyone this. Didn’t know why he was telling her. To explain who he was, perhaps. Why he was wrong for her. “Don’t you see, Pippa . . . It should have been me.”
One tear slid down her cheek. “No,” she whispered, throwing herself at him, letting him catch her and wrap her in his long arms, letting him lift her from the floor, press her against him and hold her there. “No,” she repeated, and the anguish in the sound made him ache.
“That’s what my father said. He hated me.” She started to interrupt, but he stopped her. “No. He did. And after the accident—he couldn’t look at me. Neither could my mother. We did not know if Lavinia would live or die—her leg had broken in three places, she was out of her mind with fever. And they wouldn’t let me near her. For a week, my mother said nothing to me, and my father . . .” He hesitated, the pain of the memory burning for a moment before he continued, “My father said the same five words. Over and over. It should have been you.”
One Good Earl Deserves a Lover Page 29
