No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(88)

Just as, somehow, suddenly, she seemed more than the sum of hers.

But she did not fool herself into thinking that it was her mask that made her feel so powerful, so different. Nor was it the room.

No, it was the man.

Her heart raced as she recalled the clandestine events of mere moments ago, of the heady, overwhelming touch that she had not expected but that she had craved.

And the kiss.

One hand lifted of its own volition at the thought of that devastating, remarkable caress, the one she had known would be everything she’d imagined and nothing like it, all at once. She regretted the instant that her fingertips brushed her lips—hating that their touch had erased his.

Wishing she could take it back.

Wishing she could find him once more and urge him to restore the memory of his kiss.

A thread of feeling settled deep in her belly, unfurling in slow, steady time as she recalled the moment, as she imagined the softness of his hair in her fingers, of his skin against hers . . . of his lips.

Of his tongue.

The room grew warmer as she realized that even the thought of his touch, of his kiss, of him, made her ache. But it was the location of the ache that unsettled—a deep, secret place that she’d never realized existed.

He showed her things she’d never known about things she’d always thought she understood. And she adored it . . . even as it terrified her.

Even as it made her question everything she thought true.

She resisted the thought, her gaze rising to one large wall of the club, where the Angel’s namesake fell in beautiful glass panels from Heaven to Hell, from good to evil, from sainthood to sin. It was the most beautiful window Pippa had ever seen, the work of true artisans, all reds and golds and violets, at once hideous and holy.

It was the angel himself who fascinated her, the enormous, beautiful man crashing to Earth, without the gifts he’d had for so long. In the hands of a poorer artist, the detail of him would have been less intricate, the hands and feet and face would have been shaped with glass of a single color, but this artist had cared deeply for his subject, and the swirls of darks and lights in the panels were finely crafted to depict movement, shape, and even emotion.

She could not help but stare at the face of the fall—inverted as he fell to the floor of the hell—the arch of his brow, the complex shade of his jaw, the curve of his lip. She paused there, thinking on another pair of lips, another fall. Another angel.

Cross.

Emotion flared, one she did not immediately recognize.

She let out a long breath.

She wanted him—in a way she knew she should not. In a way she knew she should want another. A man destined to be her husband. To be the father of her children.

And yet, she wanted Cross.

This angel.

Was it only desire?

Her heart began to pound—the physical manifestation of a thought she had been unprepared to face. One that overwhelmed and ached and enticed.

“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

The words were spoken close and soft, and Pippa spun toward the sound, finding a tall, lithe lady inches away, seated at a card table. She wore the most beautiful gown Pippa had ever seen, a deep, royal purple that fairly glowed against her warm, golden skin. A large topaz hung from a fine gold chain, drawing the attention of all who looked to the decadent plunge of the dress’s bodice. She wore a feathered black mask, too elaborate to see most of her face, but her brown eyes glittered from their frames, and her lips, wine-dark, curved in a wide smile.

The smile was filled with unspoken promise.

The kind of promise Pippa had seen on Miss Tasser’s lips one week prior.

When she did not immediately reply, the woman pointed one long, straight well-manicured finger toward the mural. “The angel.”

Pippa found her voice, nerves and excitement making the words come faster than she’d planned. “It’s beautiful. And very lavish. So much red glass. And violet.”

The lady’s smile broadened. “And the colors mean something?”

Pippa nodded. “To make red glass, they add gold dust. They do it for violet, as well.”

Brown eyes went wide. “How clever of you to know that.”

Pippa looked away; clever was rarely a compliment among women. “I read it once.”

“It’s no wonder Cross enjoys your company, Lady P.”

Pippa’s gaze snapped back to the woman, seeing the knowledge in her gaze. “How did you—”

The lady waved one hand. “Women talk, my lady.”

Sally. Pippa wondered if she should be concerned. Probably.

The woman was still speaking, “He’s a lovely promise, don’t you think?”

“Promise?”

The smile deepened. “Of wickedness. If you’re willing to ask.”

Pippa’s mind spun. How did this woman know what had happened? What they’d done? Had they been spied upon? “Cross?”

She laughed, the sound bright and friendly. “I was referring to the Angel, honestly.” She indicated a chair to her left. “Do you play?”

Grateful for a change of topic, Pippa considered the field of green baize, cards arranged in front of the woman and the four men seated to her right. She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“You should.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s Cross’s favorite.”