No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(15)

“I see now that I was wrong in believing you a scientist. Truth is truth.”

One side of his mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Darling, it’s nothing close to that.”

She hated the way the words rolled off his tongue, utterly certain. This had clearly been a mistake. She’d come in the hopes of gaining experience and knowledge, not a lesson in male superiority.

It was time to leave.

He didn’t say anything as she crossed the room, headed for the exit. He didn’t speak until she had pushed back the curtains and opened the inner door, suddenly eager to leave.

“If you’re going to wager, you should do it honestly.”

She froze, one hand holding a heavy length of velvet. Surely she had misunderstood him. She turned her head, looking over her shoulder to where he stood, tall and slim. “I beg your pardon?”

He slowly removed one hand from the pocket of his coat and extended it toward her. For a moment, she thought he was beckoning her.

For a moment, she almost went.

“You’ve come all this way, Pippa.” It was the first time he’d called her by the nickname, and she was struck by its sound on his tongue. The quick repetition of consonants. The way his lips curved around it. Teasing. And something more. Something she could not explain. “You should have a real wager, don’t you think?”

He opened his hand, revealing two small, ivory squares.

She met his calculating grey gaze. “I thought you did not believe in luck?”

“I don’t,” he said. “But I find that I believe less in making a wager with oneself, thereby forcing the outcome to accommodate your adventure—”

“Not adventure,” she protested. “Experiment.”

“What’s the difference?”

He couldn’t see? “One is silly. The other is science.”

“My mistake. Tell me, where was the science in your potential wager?”

She did not have an answer.

“I’ll tell you . . . there was none. Men of science don’t wager. They know better. They know that no matter how many times they win, the odds remain against them.”

He moved closer, crowding her back into the darkness. He didn’t touch her, but strangely, it didn’t matter. He was close enough to feel, tall and lean and ever so warm. “But you’re going to wager now, Pippa, aren’t you?”

He was muddling her brain and making it very difficult to think clearly. She took a deep breath, the scent of sandalwood wrapping around her, distracting her.

She shouldn’t say yes.

But somehow, oddly, she found she couldn’t say no.

She reached for the dice, where they lay small and white in his broad palm. Touched them, touched him—the brush of skin against fingertips sending sensation coursing through her. She paused at the feeling, trying to dissect it. To identify it. To savor it. But then he was gone, his hand falling away, leaving her with nothing but the ivory cubes, still warm from his touch.

Just as she was.

Of course, the thought was ridiculous. One did not warm from a fleeting contact. It was the stuff of novels. Something her sisters would sigh over.

He moved, stepping back and extending one arm toward the hazard field. “Are you ready?” His voice was low and soft, somehow private despite the cavernous room.

“Yes.”

“As you are gaming in my hell, I shall set the terms.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

His gaze did not waver. “When we wager at your tables, my lady, I shall be more than happy to play by your rules.”

“I suppose that is logical.”

He inclined his head. “I do like a woman with a penchant for logic.”

She smiled. “The rules of scoundrels it is, then.”

They were at one end of the long table now. “A roll of a seven or an eleven wins on the first roll at the Angel. As you are wagering, I shall allow you to name your price.”

She did not have to think. “If I win, you tell me everything I wish to know.”

He paused, and she thought for a moment he might change his mind. Instead, he nodded once. “Fair enough. And if you lose . . . you shall return to your home and your life and wait patiently for your marriage. And you will resist approaching another man with this insane proposal.”

Her brows knit together in protest. “That’s an enormous wager.”

He tilted his head. “It is the only way you have a chance at gaining my participation.”

Pippa considered the words, calculating the probability of the roll in her head. “I don’t like my odds. I only have a twenty-two and two-tenths chance of winning.”

He raised a brow, clearly impressed. Ha. Not a muttonhead after all.

“That’s where luck comes in,” he said.

“That force in which you do not believe?”

He lifted one shoulder in a lanky shrug. “I could be wrong.”

“What if I choose not to wager?”

He crossed his arms. “Then you force me to tell Bourne everything.”

“You cannot!”

“I can, indeed, my lady. I had planned not to, but the reality is this: You cannot be trusted to keep yourself safe. It falls to those around you to do it for you.”

“You could keep me safe by agreeing to my proposal,” she pointed out.