No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(94)

“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “I should be anywhere but here.” He bowed his head, his forehead coming to rest on their hands. “But I had to see you. I had to explain.”

She shook her head. “There is nothing to explain,” she said. “You are marrying another.” She heard the hitch in her voice, the slight hesitation between the first and second syllables of another. Hated it.

Closed her eyes. Willed him gone.

Failed.

“You told me you wouldn’t marry. Another lie.”

It was as though she hadn’t spoken. He did not deny it. “You’ve been crying.”

She shook her head. “Not on purpose.”

One side of his beautiful mouth rose in a crooked smile. “No, I don’t imagine it was.”

Something about the words, soft and filled with humor and something else, made her suddenly, startlingly irritated. “You made me cry,” she accused.

He went serious. “I know.”

“You are marrying another.” She repeated the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. The millionth. As though if she said them enough, they would lose their meaning. Their sting.

He nodded. “As are you.”

She’d been engaged for as long as they’d known each other. But somehow, his impending marriage was a greater betrayal. It was illogical, she knew, but logic did not appear to have a place here.

Another reason she did not like it.

“I hate that I’ve made you cry,” he said, his fingers flexing over hers.

She stared down at the place where their hands were intertwined, loving the play of freckles over his skin, the soft down of the ginger hair there, between the first and second knuckle. Her thumb rubbed across his index finger, and she watched the strands move, stretching and bending before they snapped back to their original place, instantly forgetting her touch.

She spoke to those hairs. “When I was a child, I had a friend named Beavin.” She paused, but did not look at him. He did not speak, so she continued, not entirely knowing where she was going. “He was kind and gentle, and he listened ever so well. I used to tell him secrets—things that no one else knew. Things that no one else would understand.”

His grip on her hands tightened, and she met his gaze. “But Beavin understood. He explored Needham Manor with me. He helped me discover my love for science. He was there on the day that I stole a goose from the kitchens and dissected it. I blamed him for it. And he never minded.”

His gaze darkened. “I find I don’t care much for this perfect companion, Pippa. Where is he now?”

She shook her head. “He went away.”

His brows snapped together. “Where?”

She smiled. “Wherever imaginary friends go.”

He exhaled harshly, lifting one hand to her temple, pushing a mass of hair back from her face. “He was imaginary.”

“I never understood why others couldn’t see him,” she whispered. “Penny used to humor me . . . pretend to interact with him, but she never believed in him. My mother tried to shame him away.” She shrugged, then said, simply, “But he was my friend.”

He smiled. “I like the idea of you and your imaginary friend dissecting a goose.”

“There were a great deal of feathers.”

The smile became a laugh. “I imagine there were.”

“And not near as much blood as one might think,” she added. “Though I did scare a maid nearly to death.”

“In the name of science.”

She smiled then. “In the name of science.”

He leaned forward, and she knew he was about to kiss her. Knew, too, that she couldn’t allow it. She pulled back before their lips could touch, and he immediately retreated, releasing her and sitting back on his heels. “I am sorry.”

She stood, placing distance between them, Trotula coming to stand sentry beside her. She let her fingers work the dog’s soft ears for a long moment, unable to look at Cross. Unable to stop looking at him. “I don’t know why I told you that.”

He rose, but did not come closer. “About Beavin?”

She looked down at the floor. “It’s silly, really. I don’t even know why I thought of him. Except . . .” She trailed off.

He waited a long moment before prompting her to continue. “Except . . . ?”

“I’ve always been different. Never had many friends. But . . . Beavin didn’t mind. He never thought I was odd. And then he disappeared. And I never met another person who seemed to understand me. I never thought I would.” She paused. Gave a little shrug. “Until you.”

And now you’ll go away, too.

And it would hurt more than losing an imaginary friend ever could.

She wasn’t sure she would be able to manage it.

“I can’t help but think,” she started, then stopped. Knowing she shouldn’t say it. Knowing, somehow, that it would make everything harder. “I can’t help but think . . . if only I’d . . .”

He knew it, too. “Don’t.”

But she couldn’t stop it. She looked up at him. “If only I’d found you first.”

The words were small and sad, and she hated them, even as they brought him to her—his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks and tilting her up to him. Even as they brought his lips to hers in a kiss that robbed her of strength and will and, eventually, thought.