One Good Earl Deserves a Lover (18 page)

“Call it whatever you like, Pippa. Either way, it’s something you desire.”

She looked to the hazard table, longing in her gaze, and he knew he’d won. “I want the gaming.”

“This is it, Pippa.”

She met his gaze. “My first lesson in temptation.”

Clever girl. “All or nothing.”

She nodded. “All.”

Clever, doomed girl.

He moved back to the table and handed her a pair of ivory dice. “On the first roll at the Angel, a seven or eleven wins. Roll a two or three, and lose.”

Her brows rose. “Only a two or three? How did I lose on a nine during our first meeting?”

He couldn’t stop his smirk. “You offered better odds; I took them.”

“I suppose I should know better, gaming with a scoundrel.”

He tilted his head toward her. “I imagine you’ve learned the lesson since.”

She met his gaze, eyes large behind her spectacles. “I’m not so sure.”

The honest words went straight through him, bringing desire and something even more base with them. Before he could reply, she was casting the dice.

“Nine,” she said. “My lucky number?”

“Already an inveterate gamer.” He collected the dice and handed them back to her. “The play is simple. Roll a nine again, and you win. Roll a seven, and you lose.”

“I thought a seven was a win.”

“Only on the first roll. Now you’ve established that your main is nine.”

She shook her head. “I don’t care for those rules. You know as well as I that the odds of rolling a seven are better than of doing the same with any other number.”

“Care for them or not, those are the rules to which you agreed when you chose hazard.”

“I didn’t chose it,” she grumbled, even as she tested the dice in her palm. She wasn’t leaving.

He leaned against the table. “Now you see why gambling is a very poor idea, indeed.”

She cut him a look. “I think it is much more likely that I see why you are a very rich man, indeed.”

He smiled. “No one forced you into the game.”

Her brows rose. “You did just that!”

“Nonsense. I gave you something to risk. Without it, there is no reward.”

She looked to the table skeptically. “I am fairly certain that there will be no reward anyway.”

“One never knows. Some espouse the benefits of Lady Luck.”

One of her golden brows rose. “A lady, is she?”

“It has to do with her being so very changeable.”

“I take no small amount of offense to that. I am in no way changeable. When I make a promise, I keep it.”

She tossed the dice, and a memory flashed of their first meeting.

I dislike dishonesty.

“Two and four,” she announced. “Six. What now?”

He lifted the dice and passed them to her again. “You roll again.”

“I have not won?”

“If it is any consolation, you have not lost, either.”

She rolled three more times, a ten, twelve, and eight, before wrinkling her nose and saying, “Why, precisely, does this make men do silly, untenable things?”

He laughed. “At the Angel, onlookers can bet on anything related to the game. The outcome of the individual roll, whether any one throw will be higher or lower than the last, the precise combination of pips on the die. When someone at the table is winning on every toss, the game becomes very exciting.”

“If you insist,” she said, sounding utterly disbelieving as she threw the dice again, rolling a six and three. “Oh!” she cried out. “A nine! I won! You see? Luck is on my side.”

She was smiling, cheeks flushed with the thrill of the win. “And now you see why men enjoy the games so well.”

She laughed and clapped her hands together. “I suppose I do! And now, I receive the answer to a question!”

“You do,” he agreed, hoping she’d keep her queries to the club.

“Who were the women outside?”

He reached for the dice. “Members.”

“Of the Angel?” she fairly squeaked, reaching out to accept the ivory weights. “I thought it was a men’s club?”

“It is more than it seems. This is not, technically, the Angel.”

Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

“That is another question.” He nodded to her hand. “The games are more complicated upstairs, but for the purposes of our game, we shall keep with the same. You win with a nine.”

She tossed again. Six and three.

“I win again!” She crowed, smile widening into a full-on grin. He could not help matching it as he shook his head and retrieved the dice. “What is it?”

“It does not have a name. We refer to it as the Other Side. It is for ladies.”

“Which ladies?”

He handed her the dice.

She rolled a five, then a ten, then a nine. “Huzzah!” she cried, meeting his surprised gaze. “You didn’t think I would win again.”

“I confess, I did not.”

She smiled. “Which ladies?”

He shook his head. “I can’t answer that. Suffice to say, ladies who wish to remain anonymous. And have their own adventures.”

She nodded. “Why should men have access to the wide world and women . . . not?”

“Precisely.”

She paused, then blurted, “Will there be pain?”

He nearly choked.

She mistook the sound for misunderstanding, apparently.

“I mean, I know there will likely be pain for me. But will it hurt him as well?”

No. No, he will find pleasure like he’s never known.

Just as you would if I had anything to do with it.

He held back the words. “No.”

Relief shone in her eyes. “Good.” She paused. “I was concerned that it might be possible to perform incorrectly.”

Cross shook his head once, firmly. “I think you won’t find it difficult to learn.”

Pippa smiled at that. “Anatomy helps.”

He did not want to think about her understanding of anatomy in this context. He did not want to imagine how she would use her simple, direct words to guide her husband, to learn with him. Cross closed his eyes against the vision of those words, of that knowledge on her lips. “Castleton may be a fool, but he’s not an idiot. You needn’t worry about his not understanding the mechanics of the situation.”

“You shouldn’t call him that.”

“Why not? He isn’t
my
betrothed.” Cross lifted the dice, offered them to her. When she reached to take them, he couldn’t stop himself from closing his palm around her fingers—holding her still. He couldn’t stop himself from saying, softly, “Pippa.”

Her gaze locked instantly with his. “Yes?”

“If he hurts you . . .” He paused, hating the way her eyes went wide at the words.

“Yes?”

If he hurts you, leave him.

If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.

“If he hurts you . . . he’s doing it wrong.” It was all he could say. He released her hand. “Roll again.”

Four and three.

“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “I lost.”

“One less day of your research. That makes nine days.”

Her eyes went wide. “An entire
day
? For
one
poor roll?”

“Now you know what it feels like to lose as well as win,” he said. “Which is more powerful? The risk? Or reward?”

She thought for a long moment. “I’m beginning to see it.”

“What is that?”

“Why men do this. Why they stay. Why they lose.”

“Why?”

She met his eyes. “Because the winning feels wonderful.”

He closed his eyes at the words, at the way they tempted him to show her how much more wonderful he could make her feel than those cold dice. “Do you wish to continue?”

Say no,
he urged her.
Pack up and return home, Pippa. This place, this game, this moment . . . none of it is for you
.

As she thought, she worried her lower lip between her teeth, and the movement transfixed him, so much so that when she finally released the slightly swollen flesh, and said, “I do,” he had forgotten his question.

When he did not immediately offer up the dice, she extended her hand. “I would like to roll again, if you don’t mind.”

He did mind. But he relinquished the ivory cubes and she tossed them across the baize with gusto.

“Eight days.” She scowled at the four and three at the far end of the table.

“Again,” she said.

He handed her the dice.

She rolled.

“Seven days.”

She turned a narrow gaze on him. “Something is wrong with the dice.”

He collected the ivory cubes and offered them to her, palm up. “Temptation is not always a good thing.”

“It is when one is preparing to tempt one’s spouse.”

He’d almost forgotten her goal. God, he didn’t want to teach her to tempt another man.
He wanted to teach her to tempt him.

He wanted to teach her to let him tempt her.

She took the dice. “Once more.”

He raised a brow. “If we had sixpence for every time those words were spoken beneath this roof, we would be rich men.”

She rolled an eight, and met his gaze. “You
are
rich men.”

He grinned, passing her the ivory blocks once more. “Richer.”

She rolled once—
eleven
—twice—
four
—a third time. “Ah-ha!” she celebrated. “Six and three! Again!” She turned to him, something familiar in her eyes—the heady thrill of the win. He’d seen it countless times in the gaze of countless gamers, and it never failed to satisfy him. That look meant one, unassailable truth: that the gamer in question was in for the night. But now, with Pippa, it failed to satisfy. Instead, it made him ache with desire.

Desire to see the same thrill far from a gaming table, as she won something else entirely.

As she won him.

She reached for her reticule. “I have been keeping a log of my research questions.”
Of course she had.
God knew what extravagant queries Lady Philippa Marbury had in the name of research. She opened the book, worried her lower lip as she considered the considerable amount of text there, and Cross knew, with the keen understanding of one who had been around a number of enormous wagers in his time, that she was about to ask something outrageous.

He turned away from her and the table, walking to a small sideboard and extracting a bottle of Chase’s finest whiskey, blessedly stored there for trials just such as this one. Pouring himself two fingers of the amber liquid, he looked over his shoulder to find her watching him carefully, paper in hand. “Would you like a drink?”

She shook her head instantly. “No, thank you. I couldn’t.”

His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Ladies don’t drink whiskey, do they?”

She shook her head, matching his smile with her own. “The irony of this situation is not lost on me, I assure you.”

He toasted her and drank the entire glass in one great swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol down his throat—embracing its distraction. “Your question?”

She did not answer for a moment, and he forced himself to look in her direction, where he found her gaze trained on the crystal tumbler he clutched in his hand. He set it on the sideboard with a thud, and the soft sound pulled her from her reverie. She dipped her head, focusing on the small book in her hands.

Because she was not looking at him, it gave him leave to watch the pink wash over her cheeks as she framed the question that was sure to destroy his sanity.

God, he loved to watch her blush.

“I suppose I shall start at the beginning. It appears that I’m utterly lacking in knowledge of the basics. I mean, I understand dogs and horses and such, but humans . . . well, they’re different. And so . . .” She paused, then rushed forward, the words pouring out of her. “I wonder if you could explain the use of the tongue.”

The words were a blow, one of Temple’s strong, unpulled punches, and—just as it happened inside the ropes—it took a moment for the ringing in Cross’s ears to subside.

When it did, she had grown impatient, adding softly, “I understand it has its uses in kissing. And other things, too, if Olivia is to be believed—which she isn’t all the time. But I don’t know what to do with it, and if he were to kiss me . . .”

If he were to kiss her, Cross would take great pleasure in destroying him.

It took every ounce of his strength to keep from leaping over the table, lifting her in his arms, pressing her back against the wall, and ravishing her. He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what would come, but knowing, without a doubt, that if she said one more perfectly reasonable, rational, insane thing, he would not be able to resist her.

Before either of them could speak, there was a knock at the door, and he was saved.

Or perhaps ruined.

Either way,
Pippa
was saved.

They both looked to the door, surprised and confused by the sound for an instant before he was moving to open it, using his tall frame to block the view into the room.

Chase stood on the other side of the door.

“What is it?” Cross snapped. Smirking, Chase attempted to see past him into the room. Cross narrowed the gap between door and jamb. “Chase,” he warned.

There was no mistaking the smug laughter in Chase’s brown eyes. “Hiding something?”

“What do you want?”

“You have a visitor.”

“I am otherwise occupied.”

“Intriguing.” Chase attempted another look into the room, and Cross could not help the low, unintelligible threat that came at the movement. “Did you just growl? How primitive.”

Cross did not rise to his friend’s bait. “Tell someone to handle it. Handle it yourself.”

“As the
it
in this scenario is your . . . Lavinia, I am not certain you would like me handling it.”

Lavinia.

Surely he’d misunderstood. “Lavinia?”

“She is here.”

She couldn’t be. She wouldn’t risk herself. She wouldn’t risk her children.
Fury flared, hot and quick. “Are we simply allowing entry to every woman in London these days?”

Chase was still attempting to see inside the room. “Some of us are more to blame for the recent rash of peeresses than others. She is in your office.”