No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(96)

“She is beautiful,” Pippa said.

“At eighteen, she was unparalleled.” His voice went raw as he remembered his flame-haired sister, all flirtation and winning smiles. “It was her first night at Almack’s—she’d been presented at court the week prior.”

He stopped, considering the next words, but Pippa cut in. “You chaperoned her.”

He laughed bitterly at the thought. “I was supposed to. But there was nothing I wanted to do less than spend the evening at Almack’s. I hated the idea of the place—wanted nothing to do with it.”

“You were a young man. Of course you hated the idea of it.”

He looked up at that, met her eyes. “I was her brother. It was my duty.” She did not reply. Knew better. Smart girl. “I refused. Told Baine I wouldn’t go.” He trailed off, remembering that afternoon, when he’d laughed and taunted his older brother. “She wasn’t my problem, after all. Would never be my concern. I was the middle child . . . the second son. The spare and thank God for that.

“Baine was furious—a rare event, but he’d had plans to see . . .” he trailed off. A woman. “There was a Greek opera singer looking for a new protector . . .”

Pippa nodded. “I see.”

She didn’t see. Not at all.

You’ll have to see her another night, Cross had said with a laugh. I promise, a few more hours won’t alter her assets . . . or yours as a future earl.

I don’t give much credence to your promises, Baine had snapped in reply. Did you not promise our sister your chaperone tonight?

No one ever expects me to keep my word.

Cross could still remember the fury and disappointment in Baine’s gaze. You are right at that.

“We argued, but I won—it mattered not a bit to me if Lavinia had her chaperone, and because it did matter to Baine, he had no choice but to take her. They went to her party. I went to Knight’s.”

Her jaw went slack at that. “To Knight’s?”

“To Knight’s, and then . . .” He hesitated over the confession . . . knowing it would change everything. Knowing he’d never be able to take it back. Knowing she had to know—that it would do more to save her than anything else he could say. “And then to Baine’s opera singer.”

She closed her eyes at the words, and he hated himself all over again, now, seven years later. The betrayal long assigned to his brother now had a second owner—Pippa. But this was the goal, was it not? To chase her away from Knight—away from him—into the arms of her earl?

Every ounce of him protested it, but he’d spent years controlling his body, and he would not stop now.

“I was in the arms of his future mistress when the carriage threw a wheel while turning a corner.” His words were firm and without emotion. “Baine, the driver, and one footman were killed instantly. A second footman died the following day.”

“And Lavinia,” Pippa said quietly.

“Lavinia was crippled, her bright future extinguished.” His fists clenched. “I did it to her. If I’d been there . . .”

She reached for him then, her soft hands coming to his, grasping tight. “No.”

He shook his head. “I killed him, as surely as if I’d put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. If I’d been there, he’d be alive.”

“And you’d be dead!” she said harshly, drawing his attention to her blue gaze, swimming with unshed tears. “And you’d be dead.”

“Don’t you see, Pippa . . . I deserved it. I was the wicked one. The one who sinned. I was the one who gambled and lied and cheated and thieved. He was good and she was pure and I was neither; Hell came looking for me that night, thinking it would find me in that carriage. And when it found them instead, it took them.”

She shook her head. “No. None of it was your fault.”

God, how he wanted to believe her.

“I didn’t even stop after the accident. I kept at it . . . kept going to hells . . . kept winning. Tried to bury the sin with more of it.” He’d never told anyone this. Didn’t know why he was telling her. To explain who he was, perhaps. Why he was wrong for her. “Don’t you see, Pippa . . . It should have been me.”

One tear slid down her cheek. “No,” she whispered, throwing herself at him, letting him catch her and wrap her in his long arms, letting him lift her from the floor, press her against him and hold her there. “No,” she repeated, and the anguish in the sound made him ache.

“That’s what my father said. He hated me.” She started to interrupt, but he stopped her. “No. He did. And after the accident—he couldn’t look at me. Neither could my mother. We did not know if Lavinia would live or die—her leg had broken in three places, she was out of her mind with fever. And they wouldn’t let me near her. For a week, my mother said nothing to me, and my father . . .” He hesitated, the pain of the memory burning for a moment before he continued, “My father said the same five words. Over and over. It should have been you.”

“Jasper,” she whispered his given name in the darkness, and a part of him, long buried, responded to the sound of it. “He was grieving. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t have.”

He ignored the words . . . the pain in them. “They couldn’t look at me, and so I left.”