No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(60)

Four and three.

“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “I lost.”

“One less day of your research. That makes nine days.”

Her eyes went wide. “An entire day? For one poor roll?”

“Now you know what it feels like to lose as well as win,” he said. “Which is more powerful? The risk? Or reward?”

She thought for a long moment. “I’m beginning to see it.”

“What is that?”

“Why men do this. Why they stay. Why they lose.”

“Why?”

She met his eyes. “Because the winning feels wonderful.”

He closed his eyes at the words, at the way they tempted him to show her how much more wonderful he could make her feel than those cold dice. “Do you wish to continue?”

Say no, he urged her. Pack up and return home, Pippa. This place, this game, this moment . . . none of it is for you.

As she thought, she worried her lower lip between her teeth, and the movement transfixed him, so much so that when she finally released the slightly swollen flesh, and said, “I do,” he had forgotten his question.

When he did not immediately offer up the dice, she extended her hand. “I would like to roll again, if you don’t mind.”

He did mind. But he relinquished the ivory cubes and she tossed them across the baize with gusto.

“Eight days.” She scowled at the four and three at the far end of the table.

“Again,” she said.

He handed her the dice.

She rolled.

“Seven days.”

She turned a narrow gaze on him. “Something is wrong with the dice.”

He collected the ivory cubes and offered them to her, palm up. “Temptation is not always a good thing.”

“It is when one is preparing to tempt one’s spouse.”

He’d almost forgotten her goal. God, he didn’t want to teach her to tempt another man. He wanted to teach her to tempt him.

He wanted to teach her to let him tempt her.

She took the dice. “Once more.”

He raised a brow. “If we had sixpence for every time those words were spoken beneath this roof, we would be rich men.”

She rolled an eight, and met his gaze. “You are rich men.”

He grinned, passing her the ivory blocks once more. “Richer.”

She rolled once—eleven—twice—four—a third time. “Ah-ha!” she celebrated. “Six and three! Again!” She turned to him, something familiar in her eyes—the heady thrill of the win. He’d seen it countless times in the gaze of countless gamers, and it never failed to satisfy him. That look meant one, unassailable truth: that the gamer in question was in for the night. But now, with Pippa, it failed to satisfy. Instead, it made him ache with desire.

Desire to see the same thrill far from a gaming table, as she won something else entirely.

As she won him.

She reached for her reticule. “I have been keeping a log of my research questions.” Of course she had. God knew what extravagant queries Lady Philippa Marbury had in the name of research. She opened the book, worried her lower lip as she considered the considerable amount of text there, and Cross knew, with the keen understanding of one who had been around a number of enormous wagers in his time, that she was about to ask something outrageous.

He turned away from her and the table, walking to a small sideboard and extracting a bottle of Chase’s finest whiskey, blessedly stored there for trials just such as this one. Pouring himself two fingers of the amber liquid, he looked over his shoulder to find her watching him carefully, paper in hand. “Would you like a drink?”

She shook her head instantly. “No, thank you. I couldn’t.”

His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Ladies don’t drink whiskey, do they?”

She shook her head, matching his smile with her own. “The irony of this situation is not lost on me, I assure you.”

He toasted her and drank the entire glass in one great swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol down his throat—embracing its distraction. “Your question?”

She did not answer for a moment, and he forced himself to look in her direction, where he found her gaze trained on the crystal tumbler he clutched in his hand. He set it on the sideboard with a thud, and the soft sound pulled her from her reverie. She dipped her head, focusing on the small book in her hands.

Because she was not looking at him, it gave him leave to watch the pink wash over her cheeks as she framed the question that was sure to destroy his sanity.

God, he loved to watch her blush.

“I suppose I shall start at the beginning. It appears that I’m utterly lacking in knowledge of the basics. I mean, I understand dogs and horses and such, but humans . . . well, they’re different. And so . . .” She paused, then rushed forward, the words pouring out of her. “I wonder if you could explain the use of the tongue.”

The words were a blow, one of Temple’s strong, unpulled punches, and—just as it happened inside the ropes—it took a moment for the ringing in Cross’s ears to subside.

When it did, she had grown impatient, adding softly, “I understand it has its uses in kissing. And other things, too, if Olivia is to be believed—which she isn’t all the time. But I don’t know what to do with it, and if he were to kiss me . . .”