He smiled. “Now it is you repeating me.”
She matched his smile, and he felt the expression deep in his gut. “So I am.”
Perhaps he could do this.
Lord knew he owed it to her, owed it to her for allowing her into the clutches of Knight and Sally and Temple and God knew whoever else she’d met while inside the casino. He owed it to Bourne to keep her safe.
Excuses.
He paused at the thought. Perhaps they were excuses. Perhaps he just wanted a reason to be near her. To talk to her, this bizarre, brilliant woman who threw him off axis every chance she got.
It would be torture, yes.
But Lord knew he deserved torture.
He had to move. Away from her.
He crossed to a hazard table, lifting a pair of dice and testing their weight in his hand. She followed without prompting, moving past him in a cloud of softness scented with fresh linens. How was it that she smelled like sunshine and fresh air even here in darkness? Surrounded by sin and vice?
She had to leave. She was too much temptation for him to bear.
Unaware of his thoughts, she turned her open, fresh face up to him. “I have a number of questions. For example, Madame Hebert has committed to making me nightclothes that she swears will tempt Castleton into seducing me. Can nightclothes do the trick?”
The words were an assault, consuming him with the idea of blond, lithe Pippa in a silk-and-lace creation designed to send men completely over the edge. Something with a devastating number of ribbons, each one in a perfect little bow that, when untied, revealed a patch of soft, warm skin—a luxurious, unbearable present.
A present worthy of the wrapping.
“I don’t think they will be enough,” she said, distracted.
He was certain they would be too much.
“And what of Miss Tasser’s smolder? Can you teach me to do that? It seems like it will help. With the tempting.”
He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. But he also couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You don’t need to smolder.”
She paused. “I don’t?”
“No. You are tempting in a different way.”
“I am?”
You should tell her.
Before she tempted him anymore.
But he couldn’t.
He met her gaze. “You are.”
Her eyes were wide as saucers behind those maddening spectacles. “I am?”
He smiled. “You are repeating me again.”
She was quiet for a moment. “You won’t change your mind, will you?”
“No.” The idea of her finding another was altogether unacceptable.
Not when it could be him. Not when he could show her pleasure that would shatter her innocence and thoroughly, completely ruin her. He wanted to give her everything for which she asked.
And more.
Like that, the decision was made. “No. I shan’t renege.”
She let out a long breath, and the sound slid through him in the quiet room, making him wonder what else would tempt that little exhalation.
“I should have known that. Gentlemen do not renege.”
“In this case, neither do scoundrels.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The rules of gentlemen insist that honor keep them from reneging, even during a bad bet,” he explained, tempted to smooth the furrow on her brow, resisting it. “The rules of scoundrels insist one only wager if one can win.”
“Which—” She hesitated. “Which are you?”
He could give her the knowledge without giving in to his own desires. Without relinquishing his own commitments. Without relinquishing his own control.
He stepped forward, crowding her. “Which do you think?”
She stepped back. “A gentleman.”
Without touching her.
Because he knew, without a doubt, that after six years of celibacy, if he touched Philippa Marbury, he would not survive it.
Scoundrel.
“Tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”
Chapter Eight
“Astronomy has never been my forte, but I find myself considering the scope of the universe today. If our Sun is one of millions of stars, who is to say that Galileo was not right? That there is not another Earth far away on the edge of another Galaxy? And who is to say there is not another Philippa Marbury, ten days before her wedding, waiting for her knowledge to expand?
It’s irrelevant, of course. Even if there were a duplicate Earth in some far-off corner of the universe, I’m still to be married in ten days.
And so is the other Pippa.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 26, 1831; ten days prior to her wedding
The next evening, Pippa sat on a small bench perched just outside a collection of cherry trees in the Dolby House gardens, cloak wrapped tightly about her, Trotula at her feet, stargazing.
Or, at least, attempting to stargaze.
She’d been outside for more than an hour, having finally given up on feigning illness and escaping the house once supper had been officially served, preferring outside to inside, even on this cold March night.
She was too excited.
Tonight, she would learn about seduction.
From Cross.
She took a deep breath and released it, then another, hoping they would calm her racing thoughts. They did not. They were clouded with visions of Mr. Cross, of the way he looked as he glowered at her across the floor of his gaming hell, the way he smiled at her in the darkness, the way he crowded her in his office.
It wasn’t him, of course. She would feel this way if anyone had promised her the lesson he’d promised.
Liar.
She exhaled long and loud.
The breathing was not helping.
She looked over her shoulder at the dim light trickling down from the Dolby House dining room. Yes, it was best that she spend the time leading up to their meeting alone in the cold rather than going mad at a meal with her parents and Olivia, who would no doubt be discussing the particulars of “The Wedding” at that exact moment.