No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(74)

In that moment, she was his, open and raw, racked with pleasure and somehow, still aching with desire.

Desire only he could slake.

She whispered his name, unable to keep the wonder from her voice, and her fingers grazed his hair, gleaming red silk.

He moved like lightning at the touch, rolling to his feet with a grace that defied six and a half feet of man. He crossed the office, turning his lovely lean back to her, one long arm reaching out to brace himself on a pile of ledgers stacked a dozen high in the corner of the room.

The loss of him was like a blow, stripping her of fleeting pleasure. Leaving her wanting. Empty. Unfulfilled.

His head bowed, candlelight highlighting the ginger strands she itched to touch. She did not move as his shoulders rose and fell once, twice, a third time—his breath coming as harshly as hers did.

“That’s enough research for tonight,” he said to the books in front of him, the words firmer, louder than any of the others he’d spoken that evening. “I promised to teach you about temptation, and I believe I’ve accomplished the task. Dress. I’ll have someone take you home.”

Chapter Twelve

Progress has been made. It appears that there are any number of ways in which the female anatomy might be . . . addressed. Associate revealed more than one of those ways last evening—to remarkable physical result. Unfortunately, Interestingly, the results also had a considerable emotional effect. A personal effect.

But he still didn’t touch me. That, too, had a personal effect.

There is no place in research for personal effects.

The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

March 29, 1831; seven days prior to her wedding

Three days later, Pippa was curled on a low settee in the Dolby House library, failing to read an unprecedented text relating to the cultivation of dahlias. The volume had been delivered directly from the publisher, and a month earlier, Pippa had been desperate for its arrival.

Unfortunately, Mr. Cross had ruined even the excitement of a new book.

Irritating man.

How was it that one man, one moment, could bring her such pleasure and such frustration all at once? How was it that one man could simultaneously consume her and hold her at bay?

It did not seem possible and yet, he’d proven it.

With his soft words and his absent touch.

It was the touch that hurt the most. The lack of it. She’d heard the rumors about him, she’d known what she risked when she asked him to assist her in her research. She’d been prepared to fend him off and push him away and resist his charms.

She’d never once considered the possibility that he would have no interest in charming her.

Though she supposed she should have been prepared for it. After all, if Castleton wouldn’t touch her, who would even dream that a man like Mr. Cross would? It was only logical that he would be more difficult to . . . entice.

Not that she should be angling to entice him at all.

Absolutely not. The only man she should even consider enticing was the Earl of Castleton. Her future husband.

Not the other, infuriating, utterly abnormal man. Oh, he looked ordinary enough. Certainly taller and more intelligent than most, but at first glance, he had the same traits that marked the rest of his species: two arms, two legs, two ears, two lips.

Lips.

It was there that things went awry.

She groaned, dropping one hand to her thigh with enough weight to attract the attention of the hound curled at her side. Trotula looked up, soulful brown eyes seeming to understand that Pippa had lost too many waking hours to thoughts about those lips.

It was abnormal. In the extreme.

Trotula sighed and returned to her nap.

“Lady Philippa?”

Pippa started at the words spoken quietly from the door to the library where Carter, the Dolby House butler, stood at the ready, an enormous package in his hands. She smiled. “You surprised me.”

He came forward. “Apologies, my lady.”

“Have the guests begun to arrive?” The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby was hosting a ladies’ tea that afternoon, designed to gather all the women related to The Wedding. Pippa had spent an hour being primped and prodded before her maid had announced her presentable, and she’d come to the library to hide in advance of the event itself. She stood. “I suppose I must into the fray.”

Carter shook his head. “Not yet, my lady. This parcel arrived for you, however. As it is marked urgent, I thought you might like it straightaway.”

He extended the large box in her direction, and she took it, curiosity flaring. “Thank you.”

Task accomplished, Carter retreated from the room, leaving Pippa with the parcel, which she set beside her on the settee and opened, untying string and folding back unremarkable brown paper to reveal a heavy white box, adorned with an elaborate golden H.

Disappointment flared. The package was not urgent. It was a part of her trousseau. Most women in London could identify this box, from Madame Hebert’s modiste shop.

She sighed and opened the box to find a layer of fine gauze of the palest blue, tied with a beautiful sapphire ribbon. Beneath the ribbon was a single ecru square, stamped with a delicate female angel. She slipped the card from the square envelope and read the message in strong, black script.

Pandemonium

The Fallen Angel

Midnight

And, on the back,

A carriage will collect you.