No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(31)

She was already heading for the far end of the balcony, where a long staircase led down to the gardens.

He met her at the base of the stone steps, the dim light from the house casting his face into wicked shadows. Extending her spectacles to her, he said, “Return to the ballroom.”

She snatched the glasses and put them on, his face becoming clear and angled once more. “No.”

“We agreed you would relinquish your quest for ruination.”

She took a deep breath. “Then you should not have encouraged me.”

“Encouraged you to eavesdrop and hobble yourself?”

She tested her weight on the foot, wincing at the pinch of pain in the toe. “I think at the worst it is a minor phalangeal fracture. It will heal. I’ve done it before.”

“Broken your toe.”

She nodded. “It’s just the smallest toe. A horse once stepped on the same toe on the opposite side. Needless to say, ladies’ footwear does not provide much in the way of protection from those so far better shod than we.”

“I suppose anatomy is another one of your specialties?”

“It is.”

“I am impressed.”

She was not certain he was telling the truth. “In my experience, ‘impressed’ is not the usual reaction to my knowledge of human anatomy.”

“No?”

She was grateful for the dim light, as she could not seem to stop speaking. “Most people find it odd.”

“I am not most people.”

The response set her back. “I suppose you’re not.” She paused, thinking of the conversation she’d overheard. She ignored the thread of discomfort that came with the memory. “Who is Lavinia?”

“Go back to your ball, Pippa.” He turned away from her and started along the edge of the house.

She could not let him leave. She might have promised not to approach him, but he was in her gardens. She followed.

He stopped and turned back. “Have you learned the parts of the ear?”

She smiled, welcoming his interest. “Of course. The exterior portion is called the pinna. Some refer to it as the auricle, but I prefer the pinna, because it’s Latin for feather, and I’ve always rather liked the image. The inner ear is made up of an impressive collection of bones and tissue, beginning with—”

“Amazing.” He cut her off. “You seem to know so much about the organ in question, and yet you fail so miserably at using it. I could have sworn I told you to return to your ball.”

He turned away again. She followed.

“My hearing is fine, Mr. Cross. As is my free will.”

“You are difficult.”

“Not usually.”

“Turning over a new leaf?” He did not slow.

“Do you make it a practice to force the ladies of your acquaintance to run to keep up with you?”

He stopped, and she nearly ran into him. “Only those whom I would like to lose.”

She smiled. “You came to my location, Mr. Cross. Do not forget that.”

He looked to the sky, then back at her, and she wished that she could see his eyes. “The terms of our wager were clear; you are not to be ruined. If you remain here, with me, you will be missed, and sought. And if you are discovered, you will be ruined. Return. Immediately.”

There was something very compelling about this man—about the way he seemed so calm, so controlled. And she had never in her life wanted to do something less than leave him. “No one will miss me.”

“Not even Castleton?”

She hesitated, something akin to guilt flaring. The earl was likely waiting for her, lemonade warming in hand.

Mr. Cross seemed to read her mind. “He is missing you.”

Perhaps it was the darkness. Or perhaps it was the pain in her foot. Or perhaps it was the way the quick back-and-forth of their conversation made her feel as though she had finally found someone with a mind that worked the way hers did. She would never know why she blurted out, “He wants me to name his hound.”

There was a long moment of silence during which she thought he might laugh.

Please don’t laugh.

He didn’t laugh. “You are marrying the man. It is a rather innocuous request in the grand scheme of things.”

He did not understand. “It’s not innocuous.”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“The dog?”

“Yes.”

“No, I think she’s probably quite a nice dog.” She lifted her hands, then dropped them. “It just seems so . . . So . . .”

“Final.”

He did understand. “Precisely.”

“It is final. You’re marrying him. You’re going to have to name his children. One would think the dog would be the easy bit.”

“Yes, well, it seems the dog is the much harder bit.” She took a deep breath. “Have you ever considered marriage?”

“No.” The reply was quick and honest.

“Why not?”

“It is not for me.”

“You seem sure of that.”

“I am.”

“How do you know?”

He did not reply, saved from having to by the arrival of Trotula, who came careening around the corner of the house with a happy, excited woof. “Yours?” he asked.