One Good Earl Deserves a Lover, Page 2

  She advanced, ignoring him. He looked up, surprised. People did not ignore him. “Oh, there’s no need to Lady Philippa me, really. Not considering my reason for being here. Please, call me Pippa.”

  Pippa. It suited her. More so than the fuller, more extravagant version of the name. But he had no intention of calling her such a thing. He had no intention of calling her at all. “Lady Philippa”—he let the name stretch between them purposefully—“it is time for you to leave.”

  She took another step in his direction, one hand coming to rest on the large globe to the side of his desk. He slid his gaze to the place where her flat palm smothered Britain and resisted the urge to draw cosmic meaning from the gesture.

  “I am afraid I cannot leave, Mr. Cross. I require—”

  He didn’t think he could bear her saying it again. “Ruination. Yes. You’ve made your purpose clear. As I have similarly made my refusal.”

  “But . . . you can’t refuse.”

  He returned his attention to the ledger. “I’m afraid I have.”

  She did not reply, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see her fingers—those strange, improper fingers, trailing the edge of his ebony desk. He waited for them to stop. To still. To go away.

  When he looked up, she was staring down at him, blue eyes enormous behind the round lenses of her spectacles, as though she would have waited a lifetime for him to meet her gaze. “I selected you, Mr. Cross. Quite carefully. I have a very specific, very clear, very time-sensitive plan. And it requires a research associate. You, you see, are to be that associate.”

  A research associate?

  He didn’t care. He didn’t.

  “What research?”

  Damn.

  Her hands came together, tightly clasped. “You are quite legendary, sir.”

  The words sent a chill through him.

  “Everyone talks about you. They say you are an expert in the critical aspects of ruination.”

  He gritted his teeth, hating her words, and feigned disinterest. “Do they?”

  She nodded happily and ticked items off on her fingers quickly as she spoke. “Indeed. Gaming, spirits, pugilism, and—” She stopped. “And—”

  Her cheeks were awash in red, and he wanted her to consider the rest. To hear its absurdity. To stop this madness. “And . . . ?”

  She righted herself, spine straight. He would have wagered everything he had on her not replying.

  He would have lost.

  “And coitus.” The word was soft, and came on a firm exhale, as though she’d finally said what she’d come to say. Which couldn’t be possible. Surely he’d misheard her. Surely his body was responding incorrectly to her.

  Before he could ask her to repeat herself, she took another breath and continued. “That’s the bit at which you are purported to be the most proficient. And, honestly, that’s the bit I require.”

  Only years of playing cards with the most skilled gamers in Europe kept Cross from revealing his shock. He took a good, long look at her.

  She did not look like a lunatic.

  In fact, she looked rather ordinary—hair an ordinary blond, eyes an ordinary blue, slightly taller than average, but not too tall as to draw attention to herself, dressed in an ordinary frock that revealed a perfectly ordinary expanse of plain, pure skin.

  No, there was nothing at all to suggest that Lady Philippa Marbury, daughter of one of the most powerful peers in Britain, was anything other than a perfectly ordinary young woman.

  Nothing, that was, until she opened her mouth and said things like, bipedal locomotion.

  And coitus.

  She sighed. “You are making this very difficult, you know.”

  Not knowing quite what to say, he tried for, “I apologize.”

  Her gaze narrowed slightly behind her spectacles. “I am not certain I believe your contrition, Mr. Cross. If the gossip in ladies’ salons across London is to be believed—and I assure you, there is a great deal of it—you are a proper rake.”

  Lord deliver him from ladies and their flapping tongues. “You should not believe everything you hear in ladies’ salons.”

  “I usually do not, but when one hears as much about a particular gentleman as I have heard about you . . . one tends to believe there is a kernel of truth in the gossip. Where there is smoke, there is flame and all that.”

  “I cannot imagine what you have heard.”

  It was a lie. Of course he knew.

  She waved one hand. “Well, some of it is utter nonsense. They say, for example, that you can relieve a lady of her clothing without the use of your hands.”

  “Do they?”

  She smiled. “Silly, I know. I definitely do not believe that.”

  “Why not?”

  “In the absence of physical force, an object at rest remains at rest,” she explained.

  He couldn’t resist. “Ladies’ clothing is the object at rest in this particular scenario?”

  “Yes. And the physical force required to move said object would be your hands.”

  Did she have any idea what a tempting picture she’d painted with such precise, scientific description? He didn’t think so. “I am told they are very talented.”

  She blinked. “As we have established, I have been told the same. But I assure you, sir, they do not defy the laws of physics.”

  Oh, how he wanted to prove her wrong.

  But she had already moved on. “At any rate. This one’s maid’s sister, that one’s cousin’s friend, the other’s friend’s cousin or maid’s cousin . . . women talk, Mr. Cross. And you should be aware that they are not ashamed to reveal details. About you.”

  He raised a brow. “What kind of details?”

  She hesitated, and the blush returned. He resisted the pleasure that coursed through him at the pretty pink wash. Was there anything more tempting than a woman flushed with scandalous thoughts?

  “I am told you are the kind of gentleman who has a keen understanding of the . . . mechanics . . . of the act in question.” She was utterly, completely matter-of-fact. As though they were discussing the weather.

  She had no idea what she was doing. What beast she was tempting. What she did have, however, was courage—the kind that was bound to drive fine, upstanding ladies directly into trouble.

  And he knew better than to be a party to it.

  He placed both hands on the top of his desk, stood and, for the first time that afternoon, spoke the truth. “I am afraid you were told wrong, Lady Philippa. And it is time for you to leave. I shall do you a service and neglect to tell your brother-in-law that you were here. In fact, I shall forget you were here at all.”

  She stilled for a long moment, and he realized that her lack of movement was out of character. The woman had not been still since he’d woken to the soft sound of her fingertips sliding over the pages of the ledger. The fact that she was still now unnerved him; he steeled himself for what came next, for some logical defense, some strange turn of phrase that would tempt him more than he was willing to admit.

  “I suppose it will be easy for you to forget me.”

  There was nothing in the tone to suggest that she angled for a compliment or a refusal. Nothing he would have expected from other women. Though he was coming to realize that there was nothing about Lady Philippa Marbury that was at all like other women.

  And he was willing to guarantee that it would be impossible to forget her.

  “But I’m afraid that I cannot allow it,” she pressed on, frustration clear in her tone as he had the impression that she was speaking to herself rather than to him. “I have a great deal of questions, and no one to answer them. And I’ve only fourteen days to learn.”

  “What happens in fourteen days?”

  Dammit. He didn’t care. He shouldn’t have asked.

  Surprise flas
hed at the question, and he had the sense that she had forgotten him. She tilted her head again, brow furrowed as though his query was ridiculous. Which, of course, it was.

  “I am to be married.”

  That, he knew. For two seasons, Lady Philippa had been courted by Lord Castleton, a young dandy with little between his ears. But Cross had forgotten her future husband the moment she’d introduced herself, bold, brilliant and not a little bit bizarre.

  There was nothing about this woman to indicate that she would make an even-halfway-decent Countess of Castleton.

  It’s not your problem.

  He cleared his throat. “My very best wishes.”

  “You don’t even know who my husband is to be.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Her brows shot up. “You do? How?”

  “Aside from the facts that your brother-in-law is my business partner, and that the double wedding of the final sisters Marbury is the talk of the ton, you will find that there are few things that happen at any level of society about which I do not know.” He paused. “Lord Castleton is fortunate indeed.”

  “That’s very gracious of you.”

  He shook his head. “Not grace. Truth.”

  One side of her mouth twitched. “And me?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. She’d be bored of Castleton within twenty-four hours of their marriage. And then she’d be miserable.

  It’s not your problem.

  “Castleton is a gentleman.”

  “How diplomatic,” she said, spinning the globe and letting her fingers trail across the raised topography on the sphere as it whirled around. “Lord Castleton is indeed that. He is also an earl. And he likes dogs.”

  “And these are the qualities women seek in husbands these days?”

  Hadn’t she been about to leave? Why, then, was he still speaking to her?

  “They’re better than some of the lesser qualities with which husbands might arrive,” she offered, and he thought he heard an edge of defensiveness in her tone.

  “For example?”

  “Infidelity. Tendency toward drink. Interest in bull-baiting.”

  “Bull-baiting?”

  She nodded once, curtly. “A cruel sport. For the bull and the dogs.”

  “Not a sport at all, I would argue. But more importantly, are you familiar with a great deal of men who enjoy it?”

  She pushed her glasses high on the bridge of her nose. “I read quite a bit. There was a very serious discussion of the practice in last week’s News of London. More men than you would think seem to enjoy its barbarism. Thankfully, not Lord Castleton.”

  “A veritable prince among men,” Cross said, ignoring the way her gaze narrowed at the sarcasm in his tone. “Imagine my surprise, then, to find his future countess at my bedside this very morning, asking to be ruined.”

  “I did not know you slept here,” she said. “Nor did I expect you to be asleep at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

  He raised a brow. “I work quite late.”

  She nodded. “I imagine so. You really should purchase a bed, however.” She waved a hand toward his makeshift pallet. “That cannot be comfortable.”

  She was steering them away from the topic at hand. And he wanted her out of his office. Immediately. “I am not interested, nor should you be, in aiding you in public ruination.”

  Her gaze snapped to his, shock in her eyes. “I am not requesting public ruination.”

  Cross liked to think he was a reasoned, intelligent man. He was fascinated by science and widely considered to be a mathematical genius. He could not sit a vingt-et-un game without counting cards, and he argued politics and the law with quiet, logical precision.

  How was it, then, that he felt so much like an imbecile with this woman?

  “Have you not, twice in the last twenty minutes, requested I ruin you?”

  “Three times, really.” She tilted her head to the side. “Well, the last time, you said the word ruination, but I think it should count as a request.”

  Like a complete imbecile.

  “Three times, then.”

  She nodded. “Yes. But not public ruination. That’s altogether different.”

  He shook his head. “I find myself returning to my original diagnosis, Lady Philippa.”

  She blinked. “Madness?”

  “Precisely.”

  She was silent for a long moment, and he could see her attempting to find the right words to sway him toward her request. She looked down at his desk, her gaze falling to a pair of heavy silver pendula sitting side by side. She reached out and set them in gentle motion. They watched the heavy weights sway in perfect synchrony for a long moment.

  “Why do you have these?” she asked.

  “I like the movement.” Their predictability. What moved in one direction would eventually move in the other. No questions. No surprises.

  “So did Newton,” she said, simply, quietly, speaking more to herself than to him. “In fourteen days, I shall marry a man with whom I have little in common. I shall do it because it is what I am expected to do as a lady of society. I shall do it because it is what all of London is waiting for me to do. I shall do it because I don’t think there will ever be an opportunity for me to marry someone with whom I have more in common. And most importantly, I shall do it because I have agreed to, and I do not care for dishonesty.”

  He watched her, wishing he could see her eyes without the shield of thick glass from her spectacles. She swallowed, a ripple of movement along the delicate column of her throat. “Why do you think you will not find someone with whom you have more in common?”

  She looked up at him and said simply, “I’m odd.”

  His brows rose, but he did not speak. He was not certain what one said in response to such an announcement.

  She smiled at his hesitation. “You needn’t be gentlemanly about it. I’m not a fool. I’ve been odd my whole life. I should count my blessings that anyone is willing to marry me—and thank heavens that an earl wants to marry me. That he’s actually courted me.

  “And, honestly, I’m quite happy with the way the future is shaping up. I shall move to Sussex and never be required to frequent Bond Street or ballrooms again. Lord Castleton has offered to give me space for my hothouse and my experiments, and he’s even asked me to help him manage the estate. I think he’s happy to have the assistance.”

  Considering Castleton was a perfectly nice, perfectly unintelligent man, Cross imagined the earl was celebrating the fact that his brilliant fiancée was willing to run the family estate and save him the complications. “That sounds wonderful. Is he going to give you a pack of hounds as well?”

  If she noticed the sarcasm in his words, she did not show it, and he found himself regretting the tone. “I expect so. I’m rather looking forward to it. I like dogs quite a bit.” She stopped, tilting her chin to the side, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before saying, “But I am concerned about the rest.”

  He shouldn’t ask. Marriage vows were not a thing to which he’d ever given much thought. He certainly wasn’t going to start now. “The rest?”

  She nodded. “I feel rather unprepared, honestly. I haven’t any idea about the activities that take place after the marriage . . . in the evening . . . in the bed of the marriage,” she added, as though he might not understand.

  As though he did not have a very clear vision of this woman in her marriage bed.

  “And to be honest, I find the marriage vows rather specious.”

  His brows rose. “The vows?”

  She nodded. “Well, the bit before the vows, to be specific.”

  “I sense that specificity is of great importance to you.”

  She smiled, and the office grew warmer. “You see? I knew you would make an excellent research associate.” He did not rep
ly, and she filled the silence, reciting deliberately, “Marriage is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly.”

  He blinked.

  “That is from the ceremony,” she explained.

  It was, without a doubt, the only time someone had quoted the Book of Common Prayer in his office. Possibly, in the entire building. Ever. “That sounds reasonable.”

  She nodded. “I agree. But it goes on. Neither is it to be enterprised, nor taken in hand to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding.”

  He couldn’t help himself. “That’s in the ceremony?”

  “Strange, isn’t it? I mean, if I were to refer to carnal lust in conversation over, say, tea, I should be tossed out of the ton, but before God and London in St. George’s, that’s fine.” She shook her head. “No matter. You can see why I might be concerned.”

  “You are overthinking it, Lady Philippa. Lord Castleton may not be the sharpest of wits, but I have no doubt he’ll find his way in the marriage bed.”

  Her brows snapped together. “I do have a doubt.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” she said. “It is critical that I know what to expect. That I am prepared for it. Well. Don’t you see? This is all wrapped up in the single most important task I shall have as wife.”

  “Which is?”

  “Procreation.”

  The word—scientific and unemotional—should not have called to him. It should not have conjured long limbs, and soft flesh, and wide, bespectacled eyes. But it did.

  He shifted uncomfortably as she went on. “I quite like children, so I’m sure that bit will be fine. But you see, I require the understanding in question. And, since you are purported to be such an expert on the topic, I could not imagine anyone better to assist me in my research.”

  “The topic of children?”

  She sighed her frustration. “The topic of breeding.”

  He should like to teach her everything he knew about breeding.

  “Mr. Cross?”

  He cleared his throat. “You don’t know me.”