Moving to the windows, Pippa looked out over the square, considering the proper fa?ades surrounding the perfectly landscaped green, and imagining her life here as the Countess of Castleton. Every one of the houses was occupied by one of the most important members of the aristocracy—Lady Jersey lived next door, for heaven’s sake.
Pippa couldn’t imagine the patroness of Almack’s finding time or inclination to either visit her new neighbor or support Pippa’s odd interests. There was no room for anatomy or horticulture in this massive, manicured home.
Viscountess Tottenham rode by, proud as ever, head high from the thrill of being the mother of one of the most powerful men in Britain, future prime minister who was three days from marrying Olivia, the favorite of the Marbury daughters.
It occurred to Pippa that this room, bright and filled with lavish furnishings, on the most extravagant square in London, was the ideal home for Olivia, and that was lucky, as her sister would soon live this life. Happily.
But there was nothing about this place that made it the ideal home for Pippa.
Nothing about its master that made him the ideal husband for Pippa.
Nothing at all to recommend her to this place.
There was no Cross here.
No, Cross appeared to live in a cluttered office on the main floor of a gaming hell, surrounded by papers and strange turmoil, globes and abacuses and threatening oil paintings and more books than she’d ever known one man to have in a single room. There was barely room to move in Cross’s quarters, and still she somehow felt more comfortable there than here . . .
She’d happily live there with him.
The dog sat and sighed, drawing Pippa’s attention. She stroked behind the hound’s ear and received a gentle wag for her troubles.
She imagined Trotula would live there with him, too.
Except they were not invited.
He’d disappeared from her bed on the night of Pandemonium, after claiming her body and soul and ensuring that she loved him quite desperately. For two days, she’d waited for him to return; for two nights, she’d lain in bed, starting at every noise, sure he’d scale the house once more and come to her. Sure he wouldn’t leave her.
Sure he’d change his mind.
He hadn’t.
Instead, he’d left her to think on her own future. Her own choices. Her own heart.
He’d left her to come to the clear, undeniable realization that she was not the one who required saving.
“Two lovely ladies!” Castleton’s happy utterance interrupted Pippa’s thoughts, and she turned toward her handsome, smiling fiancé as Trotula hurried to him, low to the ground, eager for stroking.
It was difficult to spend any time at all with Castleton without smiling oneself. He was a kind man, and good. Fairly handsome, very wealthy, and titled. An aristocratic mother’s dream. Indeed, there were few things more for which a young woman could ask.
Except for love.
And suddenly, that strange, elusive, indefinable word meant everything. So much more than all the rest.
How had she become such a ninny? She, who had never believed in the emotion . . . who had always thought that the ethereal was less valuable, less real than the factual . . . who had always ignored the sentiment—how was it that she stood here, now, in the receiving room of what was to have been her future home, with the man who was to have been her future husband, thinking of love?
Cross had changed her.
Without even trying.
“My lord,” she said, making her way across the room to greet him herself. “I am sorry to come without notice.”
He looked up at her from where he was crouched with Trotula. “No need for notice,” he said. “After all, in less than a week, it will be your home, and I won’t have any notice at all!” He paused. “Though, I suppose this is notice . . . betrothal!”
There it was, her cue.
She had considered any number of ways to begin this particular conversation. The gentle, the diplomatic, the evasive. But as she was Philippa Marbury, she settled for the honest.
“My lord, I cannot marry you.”
His hands did not stop as they worked their way through Trotula’s fur, and for a moment, she thought he might not have heard her. After several long seconds, he stood, and rocked back on his heels, putting his hands in the pockets of his waistcoat.
They stood like that for what seemed like an age, Pippa refusing to hide from him, this kind man who had offered for her even when he could have had better. More normal. This good man who had courted her even when she was the oddest woman in London. “I’m sorry,” she added.
“You do not think we make a good match,” he said.
“I think we would have made a very good match,” she replied. “But everything has gone pear-shaped.”
His brows rose. “Pear-shaped?”
She took a deep breath. “I thought I could . . .” She paused. “I thought I would . . .”
I thought I could simply research marriage. Investigate pleasure. I thought I would not suffer the repercussions.
“Do you require additional time? To consider it? We needn’t have the wedding so soon.”