No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(80)

Temple chuckled. “It might be too late for that.”

The words had barely been spoken when Cross’s gaze settled on the lone figure at the center of the casino floor below, the only person in the entire room who was not moving. Of course.

She was always on a separate course from the rest of the universe—the planet that orbited in reverse, the sun that rose in the west. And now she stood at the center of his hell, surrounded by debauchery—in its thrall. He did not have to see her face to know that.

Just as he did not have to see her unmasked to know that she was stunning. Not as stunning as she had been in that chair in his office a week earlier, bared to him, finding her pleasure, tempting him with her shape and her sounds and her scent, but stunning nonetheless.

After she’d left him that night, he’d sat on the floor of his office, staring at that chair for hours, reliving the way she’d writhed against it, straining to hear the echoes of her gorgeous sounds, and finally, finally placing his forehead to the cool leather seat with a foul curse and vowing to stay away from her.

She was too much for him to resist.

She had returned, swathed in sapphire, hair like spun silk, porcelain skin, standing at the center of his club, under threat of sin and vice and wickedness. And him. From this vantage point, he had an unparalleled view of the swell of her beautiful br**sts, all lovely curves and dark, promising shadows. Enough to send a grown man to his knees.

The hand on the glass clenched in a tight fist. “What in hell is she doing here?”

“Ah,” Temple said, “you’ve noticed our guest.”

Of course he’d noticed her. Any man with eyes would notice her. She was the most fascinating thing in the room. “Don’t make me ask again.”

“Asriel tells me she had an invitation.”

No doubt she did. No doubt Chase found this entire scenario amusing. Chase deserved a sound beating. “She is no more suited to that room than she is to fly.”

“I don’t know.” Temple paused, considering her. “I rather like the way she looks in that room.”

Cross snapped his attention to his massive partner. “Stop liking it.”

Temple smirked and rocked back on his heels. “I could like it very much.”

Cross resisted the urge to put a fist into the larger man’s face. Fighting with Temple was futile, as he was enormous and unbeatable, but it would feel good to try. It would feel good to lose himself to the physical when he had spent so much of the last week resisting just that. Cross felt confident that he could draw blood. Or blacken an eye. “Stay away from Philippa Marbury, Temple. She’s not for you.”

“But she is for you?”

Yes, goddammit. He bit back the words. “She’s not for any of us.”

“Chase disagrees.”

“She’s most definitely not for Chase.”

“Shall I tell Bourne she’s here, then?” Cross heard the teasing in Temple’s voice. The knowledge that Cross would not be able to resist action. “Penelope could take her home.”

He should let it happen. Should let Bourne and Penelope handle their errant sister. Should let someone else tend to Pippa Marbury before she ruined herself and half of London besides.

A month ago, he could have. A week ago.

But now. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Temple’s amusement grated.

Cross cut him a look. “You deserve a sound thrashing.”

One side of Temple’s mouth kicked up in a wicked smirk. “You think you’re the one to deliver it?”

“No, but you’ll get it before long. And we shall all have a good long laugh.”

Something flickered in Temple’s black gaze at that. “Such promises tease, friend.” He put a hand to his chest dramatically. “They tease.”

Cross did not waste more words on his idiot partner. Instead, he left the room, long strides eating up the dark corridor that led to the back stairwell of the Angel, then soaring down the stairs to reach his quarry, his heart pounding, eager to find her. To capture her before someone else did.

If another touched her, he’d kill him.

He pushed out a private door, into one of the small, private antechambers on one side of the casino floor and out onto the floor, filled with laughing masked revelers. Not that he would have any trouble finding her . . . he could find her among thousands.

But he didn’t have to look very hard.

She gave a little squeak as they collided, and he reached out to capture her, hands coming to her shoulders to hold her steady. A mistake. He wasn’t wearing gloves, and this dress appeared to have a shocking lack of fabric. Her skin was soft and warm—so warm it fairly singed him.

And made him want to linger.

He did not release her, not even when her hands came to his chest to brace herself, her sapphire skirts swirling around them both, tangling in his legs as surely as the scent of her tangled in his mind, bright and fresh and utterly out of place in this dark, wicked world.

Instead, he pulled her back into the alcove from which he’d come, and said harshly, “Why aren’t you wearing gloves?”

The question surprised them both, but she recovered first. “I don’t like them. They eliminate a sense.”

It was hard to imagine losing any sensation when she was about . . . consuming his. He ignored the answer and tried again. “What are you doing here?” His voice was soft in the darkness—too soft. He meant to scold her. To scare her.