No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(8)

And, like that, with her simple, straightforward pronouncement, he felt like vermin. He opened his mouth to apologize.

She beat him to it, speaking as though he were a child. As though they were discussing something utterly ordinary. “I see I wasn’t clear. I don’t want you to perform the act, so to speak. I would simply like you to help me to better understand it.”

“Understand it.”

“Precisely. Per the vows and the children and the rest.” She paused, then added, “A lecture of sorts. In animal husbandry. Of sorts.”

“Find someone else. Of another sort.”

Her gaze narrowed at his mocking tone. “There is no one else.”

“Have you looked?”

“Who do you think would explain the process to me? Certainly not my mother.”

“And what of your sisters? Have you asked them?”

“First, I’m not certain that Victoria or Valerie have much interest in or experience with the act itself. And Penelope . . . She turns absurd when asked about anything to do with Bourne. On about love and whatnot.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s no place for love in research.”

His brows rose. “No?”

She looked appalled. “Certainly not. You, however, are a man of science with legendary experience. I’m sure there are plenty of things you are able to clarify. For example, I’m very curious about the male member.”

He choked. Then coughed.

When he regained his ability to speak, he said, “I’m sure you are.”

“I’ve seen drawings of course—in anatomical texts—but perhaps you could help with some of the specifics? For example—”

“No.” He cut her off before she elaborated with one of her straightforward, scientific questions.

“I am happy to pay you,” she announced. “For your services.”

A harsh, strangled sound cut through the room. It came from him. “Pay me.”

She nodded. “Would, say, twenty-five pounds do?”

“No.”

Her brows knit together. “Of course, a person of your—prowess—is worth more. I apologize for the offense. Fifty? I’m afraid I can’t go much higher. It’s quite a bit of money.”

She believed that it was the amount of money that made the offer offensive? She didn’t understand that he was half a tic from doing it for free. From paying her for the chance to show her everything for which she asked.

In all his life, there had never been anything Cross had wanted to do more than throw this strange woman down on his desk and give her precisely that for which she was asking.

Desire was irrelevant. Or perhaps it was the only thing that was relevant. Either way, he could not assist Lady Philippa Marbury.

She was the most dangerous female he’d ever met.

He shook his head and said the only words he trusted himself to say. Short. To the point. “I am afraid I am unable to accommodate your request, Lady Philippa. I suggest you query another. Perhaps your fiancé.” He hated the suggestion even as he made it. Bit back the urge to rescind it.

She was quiet for a long moment, blinking up at him from behind her thick spectacles, reminding him that she was untouchable.

He waited for her to redouble her efforts. To come at him again with her straight looks and her forthright words.

Of course, there was nothing predictable about this woman.

“I do wish you’d call me Pippa,” she said, and with that, she turned and left.

Chapter Two

When Pippa was no more than six or seven, the five daughters Marbury had been paraded about for a musical interlude (as hosts’ children often were) like little blond ducks before a gathering of peers at a country house party, the details of which she could no longer remember.

As they exited the room, an older gentleman with laughing eyes had stopped her and asked which instrument she preferred to play. Now, had the gentleman inquired such a thing of Penelope, she would have answered with complete assurance that the pianoforte was her favorite. Had he asked Victoria or Valerie, the twins would have replied in unison that they enjoyed the cello. And Olivia would have won him with her five-year-old smile—coy even then—and told him that she liked horns.

But he’d mistakenly asked Pippa, who had proudly announced that she had little time for music, as she was too busy learning general anatomy. Mistaking the gentleman’s quiet shock for interest, she’d then proceeded to lift the skirts of her pinafore and proudly name the bones of her foot and leg.

She got as far as the fibula before her mother had arrived, shrieking her name against the quiet musical backdrop of society’s laughter.

That was the first time Pippa realized that she was odd.

It was also the first time she’d ever been embarrassed. It was a strange emotion—entirely different from all the others, which seemed to fade with time. Once one had eaten, for example, it was difficult to recall the precise characteristics of hunger. Certainly, one remembered wishing one had food, but the keen desire for sustenance was not easily recalled.

Similarly, Pippa was no stranger to irritation—she had four sisters, after all—but she could not exactly remember the way it felt to be utterly, infuriatingly irritated with any one of them. Lord knew there had been days when she could have cheerfully pushed Olivia from a moving carriage, but she couldn’t resurrect the emotion now.