No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(50)

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. But he also couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You don’t need to smolder.”

She paused. “I don’t?”

“No. You are tempting in a different way.”

“I am?”

You should tell her.

Before she tempted him anymore.

But he couldn’t.

He met her gaze. “You are.”

Her eyes were wide as saucers behind those maddening spectacles. “I am?”

He smiled. “You are repeating me again.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You won’t change your mind, will you?”

“No.” The idea of her finding another was altogether unacceptable.

Not when it could be him. Not when he could show her pleasure that would shatter her innocence and thoroughly, completely ruin her. He wanted to give her everything for which she asked.

And more.

Like that, the decision was made. “No. I shan’t renege.”

She let out a long breath, and the sound slid through him in the quiet room, making him wonder what else would tempt that little exhalation.

“I should have known that. Gentlemen do not renege.”

“In this case, neither do scoundrels.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The rules of gentlemen insist that honor keep them from reneging, even during a bad bet,” he explained, tempted to smooth the furrow on her brow, resisting it. “The rules of scoundrels insist one only wager if one can win.”

“Which—” She hesitated. “Which are you?”

He could give her the knowledge without giving in to his own desires. Without relinquishing his own commitments. Without relinquishing his own control.

He stepped forward, crowding her. “Which do you think?”

She stepped back. “A gentleman.”

Without touching her.

Because he knew, without a doubt, that after six years of celibacy, if he touched Philippa Marbury, he would not survive it.

Scoundrel.

“Tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”

Chapter Eight

“Astronomy has never been my forte, but I find myself considering the scope of the universe today. If our Sun is one of millions of stars, who is to say that Galileo was not right? That there is not another Earth far away on the edge of another Galaxy? And who is to say there is not another Philippa Marbury, ten days before her wedding, waiting for her knowledge to expand?

It’s irrelevant, of course. Even if there were a duplicate Earth in some far-off corner of the universe, I’m still to be married in ten days.

And so is the other Pippa.”

The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

March 26, 1831; ten days prior to her wedding

The next evening, Pippa sat on a small bench perched just outside a collection of cherry trees in the Dolby House gardens, cloak wrapped tightly about her, Trotula at her feet, stargazing.

Or, at least, attempting to stargaze.

She’d been outside for more than an hour, having finally given up on feigning illness and escaping the house once supper had been officially served, preferring outside to inside, even on this cold March night.

She was too excited.

Tonight, she would learn about seduction.

From Cross.

She took a deep breath and released it, then another, hoping they would calm her racing thoughts. They did not. They were clouded with visions of Mr. Cross, of the way he looked as he glowered at her across the floor of his gaming hell, the way he smiled at her in the darkness, the way he crowded her in his office.

It wasn’t him, of course. She would feel this way if anyone had promised her the lesson he’d promised.

Liar.

She exhaled long and loud.

The breathing was not helping.

She looked over her shoulder at the dim light trickling down from the Dolby House dining room. Yes, it was best that she spend the time leading up to their meeting alone in the cold rather than going mad at a meal with her parents and Olivia, who would no doubt be discussing the particulars of “The Wedding” at that exact moment.

A vision flashed from the previous afternoon, Olivia resplendent in her wedding gown, glowing with the excitement of prenuptial bliss, Pippa’s reflection in the mirror behind, smaller and dimmer in the wake of her younger, more luminous sister.

The Wedding would be remarkable. One for the ages. Or, at least the gossips.

It would be just what the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby had always dreamed—an enormous, formal ceremony designed to showcase the pomp and circumstance befitting the Marbury daughters’ birth. It would erase the memory of the two previous weddings of the generation: Victoria and Valerie’s double wedding to uninspiring mates, performed hastily in the wake of Penelope’s scandalous, broken engagement, and, more recently, Penelope’s wedding, performed by special license in the village chapel near the Needham country estate the day after Bourne had returned from wherever it was he’d gone for a decade.

Of course, they all knew where Bourne had gone.

He’d gone to The Fallen Angel.

With Mr. Cross.

Fascinating, unnerving Mr. Cross, who was beginning to unsettle her even when she was not near him. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, assessing the change that came over her when she was in proximity—either mental or physical—to the tall, ginger-haired man who had begrudgingly agreed to assist her in her quest.