No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(32)

She nodded as the spaniel barreled to a stop at their feet, and Cross crouched low to pet the dog, who sighed and leaned into the caress.

“She likes that,” Pippa said.

“Name?”

“Trotula.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a small, knowing smile. “Like Trotula de Salerno? The Italian doctor?”

Of course he would know she’d named the dog for a scientist. Of course he would guess. “Doctoress.”

He shook his head. “That’s a terrible name. Perhaps you shouldn’t name Castleton’s dog after all.”

“It is not! Trotula de Salerno is an excellent namesake!”

“No. I shall allow you ‘excellent example for young women’ or ‘excellent scientific hero,’ but I will not allow you ‘excellent namesake.’ ” He paused, scratching the spaniel’s ear. “Poor beast,” he said, and Pippa warmed to the kindness in his tone. “She’s mistreated you abominably.”

Trotula turned over onto her back, displaying her underside with an alarming lack of shame. He scratched her there, and Pippa was transfixed by his strong, handsome hands—the way they worked in her fur. After a long moment of observation, she said, “I’d rather stay outside. With you.”

His hand stilled on the dog’s stomach. “What happened to your aversion to dishonesty?”

Her brows snapped together. “It remains.”

“You are attempting to escape your betrothal ball with another man. I would say that’s the very portrait of dishonesty.”

“Not another man.”

He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”

She hurried to rephrase. “That is, you are another man, of course, but you aren’t a real man. I mean, you are not a threat to Castleton. You are safe.” She trailed off . . . suddenly feeling not at all safe.

“And the fact that you’ve asked me to assist you in any number of activities that might destroy your reputation and summarily end your engagement?”

“It still doesn’t make you a man,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Quickly enough to have to take it back. “I mean. Well. You know what I mean. Not in the way you mean.”

He exhaled on a low laugh and stood. “First you offer to pay me for sex, then you throw my masculinity into question. A lesser man would take those words to heart.”

Her eyes went wide. She’d never meant to imply . . . “I didn’t . . .” She trailed off.

He stepped toward her, close enough for her to feel his heat. His voice turned low and quiet. “A lesser man would attempt to prove you wrong.”

She swallowed. He was intimidatingly tall when he was so close. So much taller than any other man of her acquaintance. “I—”

“Tell me, Lady Philippa.” He raised a hand, one finger lingering at the indentation of her upper lip, a hairsbreadth from touching her. “In your study of anatomy, did you ever learn the name of the place between the nose and the lip?”

Her lips parted, and she resisted the urge to lean toward him, to force him to touch her. She answered on a whisper. “The philtrum.”

He smiled. “Clever girl. It is Latin. Do you know its meaning?”

“No.”

“It means love potion. The Romans believed it was the most erotic place on the body. They called it Cupid’s bow, because of the way it shapes the upper lip.” As he spoke, he ran his finger along the curve of her lip, a temptation more than a touch, barely there. His voice grew softer, deeper. “They believed it was the mark of the god of love.”

She inhaled, low and shallow. “I did not know that.”

He leaned down, closer, his hand falling away. “I’d be willing to wager that there are any number of things about the human body that you do not know, my little expert. All things that I would happily teach you.”

He was so close . . . his words more breath than sound, the feel of them against her ear, then her cheek, sending a riot of sensation through her.

This is what it should feel like with Castleton. The thought came from nowhere. She pushed it aside, promised to deal with it later.

But for now . . . “I would like to learn,” she said.

“So honest.” He smiled, the curve of his lips—his philtrum—so close, and as dangerous as the weapon for which it was named. “This is your first lesson.”

She wanted him to teach her everything.

“Do not tempt the lion,” he said, the words brushing across her lips, parting them with their touch. “For he most certainly will bite.”

Dear God. She welcomed it.

He straightened, stepping back and adjusting the cuffs of his coat casually, utterly unmoved by the moment. “Go back to your ball and your betrothed, Pippa.”

He turned away, and she sucked in a long breath, feeling as though she had been without oxygen for a damaging length of time.

She watched him as he disappeared into the darkness, willing him back.

Failing.

Chapter Six

Hours later, long after the last gamer had left the Angel, Cross sat at his desk, attempting to calculate the evening’s take for the third time. And failing for the third time.

Failing, because he could not eradicate the vision of blond, bespectacled Philippa Marbury charging down the rear steps of Dolby House toward him. Indeed, every time he attempted to carry a digit from one column to the next, he imagined her fingers threading through his hair or her lips curving beneath his hand, and he lost the number.