No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(90)

But even she knew that she should not hope. Not about this.

In fact she should do the opposite of hope. She should . . . unhope. Her winnings slid across the table toward her. “That does not keep him from inviting women to his,” she said, dryly.

The woman laughed. “No, but I’ve never seen that happen either.”

Pippa thought of Sally Tasser. “You haven’t looked hard enough.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Cross is a fair catch. And it’s not just me who thinks it. A dozen I know would have happily joined him there. Most of them for free. Everyone in London wants a piece of Cross. Have for years.”

Pippa stared at her winnings, counting the coins, pretending not to hear. Not to notice the ache in her chest at the thought of other women knowing him. Touching him. Kissing him.

She disliked every one of them.

Irrationally.

She did not like being irrational.

The woman was still talking. “All those long limbs and thick ginger hair. But he’s too good to treat us like the rest. Not one of us has been there—you shouldn’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise.” Pippa’s cheeks warmed, and she was grateful for the mask. Her new acquaintance seemed to notice the flush anyway. “But you have been there, haven’t you?”

God, yes. And it was wonderful.

She shook her head, her body resisting the betrayal in the movement. The lie there. “I am engaged.”

Not that it had mattered an hour earlier.

She started at the thought. At the emotion that came with it.

Guilt.

“That’s not an answer.” Red lips turned up, unaware of her thoughts. “And besides, engaged is not married.”

It was close, though, wasn’t it? It was the closest thing to marriage that there was. Her throat began to tighten.

“You don’t have to admit it, but I think Cross likes you very much, my lady. After all, it is not every day one meets a woman as brilliant as he is.”

She liked him, too.

She shook her head, emotion clouding thought. “I’m not as brilliant as he is.”

If she were, she wouldn’t have landed herself in this moment.

In this mess.

Desperately wanting a man she should not want. Whom she could not have. Not in the long run.

Not unless . . .

She stopped the thought before it could form. She’d made a promise. She would marry Castleton. She had to.

She ignored the ache in her chest at the thought.

She had made a promise.

“If I had to wager, I’d place bets on your being smarter.” The woman turned back to the dealer. “Will you play another round?”

“She will not.”

It was as though they’d conjured him. Pippa turned toward him—unable to stop herself, drawn to his deep voice and his sandalwood scent.

She had the unreasonable desire to toss herself into his arms and press her lips against his and beg him to take her to his office or some dark corner and finish what he’d started earlier in the evening. To make her forget everything else—all of her well-laid plans, all of her carefully constructed research, the fact that she only had six days before she married another man.

A man who was nothing like Cross.

And then she noticed his unmasked grey eyes trained on her companion, the corded muscle in his neck and jaw taut, his lips pressed into a thin, straight line.

He was angry.

“Cross.” The woman laughed his name, apparently fearless. “You should join us. She counts the cards as well as you do.”

His gaze narrowed. “No.”

“So much for Cross and his kindness.” The woman turned back to the baize, lifting a glass of champagne. “I was merely keeping the lady company.”

His fists clenched. “Find other company to keep.”

The woman smiled at Mr. West, dismissing them. “With pleasure.”

Cross turned his grey gaze on her, and his teeth clenched. “My lady,” he intoned, “the tables are no place for you.”

He was angry with her as well.

And, strangely, that made Pippa angry, for certainly she had reason to be. More reason than he did. After all, he wasn’t about to be forced into marriage with a perfectly ordinary, perfectly imperfect for him kind of person. He wasn’t about to have his entire life thrown into disarray. In six days, he would remain fully ensconced in this remarkable existence, all sin and vice and money and beautiful women and food cooked by a chef with more talent than any one man deserved.

And she would be married to another.

No, if someone was going to be angry, it was going to be her.

“Nonsense,” she said, pulling herself straight. “There are women at every one of the tables in this room. And if I were not meant to gamble tonight, I daresay I would not have been invited.”

He leaned close, his words harsh at her ear. “You should not have been invited at all.”

She hated the way the words made her feel, as though she were a small child being punished. “Why not?”

“This place is not for you.”

“As a matter of fact,” she said, allowing her irritation to sound, “I believe I will play another round.”

The woman she’d been speaking to turned back at that, her jaw going lax for an instant before she caught herself and smiled wide. “Excellent.”