No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(92)

If the voice hadn’t been familiar, the horrid nickname would have identified Digger Knight, suddenly at Pippa’s shoulder. Pippa closed her mouth, turning to face Knight, who had a pretty, unmasked girl in tow, too young and prim to be one of his women.

“Mr. Knight,” Pippa said, unaware of the way she moved, away from the brightly colored man and toward Cross, who stood behind her, warm and firm and right.

Knight smiled, an impressive number of straight white teeth in his head. “You remember me. I’m honored.”

“I don’t imagine you’re easily forgotten,” Pippa said coolly.

He ignored the quip. “You have a particular pleasure this evening, Lady Soon . . .” He trailed off, letting Pippa’s mind go to the kiss, letting her cheeks flush. “. . . You shall be the first to congratulate Cross.”

“Digger,” Cross said, and Pippa realized that he hadn’t spoken since Knight arrived. She looked to him, but he was deliberately not looking at her. “This isn’t part of it.”

“Considering what half of London just witnessed, Cross, I think it is,” Knight said, tone dry and unmoved as he turned to face Pippa.

At the same time, Cross pinned her with his beautiful grey gaze. “Go home,” Cross said urgently. “Hurry. Now.”

His gaze was filled with worry—so much that Pippa was almost willing to agree, her weight shifting, beginning the move to the exit.

Knight cut in. “Nonsense. She can’t leave until she’s heard your news.”

Pippa turned a curious gaze on Cross. “Your news?”

He shook his head, perfectly serious, and a weight dropped in her stomach. Something was wrong. Terribly so.

She looked from him to Knight, to the despondent girl with him. “His news?”

Knight laughed, the sound loud and grating, as though he’d heard a joke that only he found amusing. “I’m afraid I can’t wait for him to tell you himself. I’m too excited. I can’t resist stealing his thunder.”

Her gaze narrowed behind mask and spectacles, and she was grateful for the shield to keep her thoughts from showing. “I don’t imagine I could stop you.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh, I do like a lady with a sharp tongue.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his waistcoat and rocked back on his heels. “You see, darling, you’re not the only one soon-to-be-a-countess . . . the Earl here has asked my daughter to marry him. She has, of course, agreed. I thought you might like to congratulate the pair.” He indicated the couple, neither looking worthy of congratulations. “You have the honor of being the first.”

Her mouth dropped open. It wasn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be.

She looked up at Cross, his grey eyes deliberate in their focus. On anything but her.

She’d misheard. She had to have. He wouldn’t marry another. He’d told her . . . marriage was not in his cards.

But she saw the truth in his distant gaze. In the way he did not turn to her. In the way he did not speak. In the way he did not rush to deny the words—words that stung like the worst kind of accusation.

Panicked, Pippa looked to the other woman—black curls and blue eyes and porcelain skin and pretty red lips in a perfect little bow. She looked like she might cast up her accounts. Nothing like a bride.

She looks like you feel whenever you think of marrying Castleton.

She didn’t need to ask, but she couldn’t stop herself. “You are marrying him?”

Black ringlets bobbed.

“Oh.” Pippa looked to Cross, unable to find another word. “Oh.”

He did not look at her when he spoke, voice so soft she would not have heard it if she had not been watching his lips . . . those lips that had changed everything. This man who had changed everything. “Pippa . . .”

Marriage is not for me.

Another lie. One of how many?

Pain shot through her, sharp and almost unbearable, her chest tightening, making it difficult to breathe. He was marrying another.

And it hurt.

She lifted one hand, rubbing at the spot closest to the ache, as though she could massage it away. But as she looked from the man she loved to his future wife, she realized that this pain wouldn’t be so easily assuaged.

Her whole life, she’d heard of it, laughed at it. Thought it a silly metaphor. The human heart, after all, was not made of porcelain. It was made of flesh and blood and sturdy, remarkable muscle.

But there, in that remarkable room, surrounded by a laughing, rollicking, unseeing collection of London’s brightest and wickedest, Pippa’s knowledge of anatomy expanded.

It seemed there was such a thing as a broken heart.

Chapter Fifteen

The human heart weighs (on average) eleven ounces and beats (approximately) one hundred thousand times per day.

In Ancient Greece, the theory was widely held that, as the most powerful and vital part of the body, the heart acted as a brain of sorts—collecting information from all other organs through the circulatory system. Aristotle included thoughts and emotions in his hypotheses relating to the aforementioned information—a fact that modern scientists find quaint in its lack of basic anatomical understanding.

There are reports that long after a person is pronounced dead and a mind and soul gone from its casing, under certain conditions, the heart might continue beating for hours. I find myself wondering if in those instances the organ might continue to feel as well. And, if it does, whether it feels more or less pain than mine at present time.