Her brows rose. “Where?”
He smiled. “We are very powerful men, Pippa. Our membership has need of servants; our vendors require shopgirls. And, if not that, then there are always safe houses far from London, where girls can begin anew.” After a long silence, he added, “I would never force a girl into this life.”
“But some of them choose it?”
It was an incomprehensible truth for some. “The white branch.”
She nodded. “Like Miss Tasser.”
“Like Sally.”
“Well, all the more reason for me to mine her expertise.” She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “If she chooses it, she must enjoy it to a certain extent. And there’s no one else. It’s not as though Castleton has offered his assistance.”
As it should be.
No. Not as it should be. Of course Castleton should be offering his assistance. He should be doing much more than that.
The thought made Cross more murderous.
She pursed her lips. “Do you think I ought to ask him? Perhaps that’s how these things are done?”
No! “Yes.”
She blushed, tempting him. “I’m not sure I could.”
“But you can ask me?”
She blinked up at him. “You are different. You are not the kind of man one marries. It’s easier to . . . well . . . engage in a candid discussion of my research with you.” She smiled. “You are a man of science, after all.”
There it was, again. That certainty that he would keep her safe.
That he was in control. Always.
You should tell her.
Sally’s words echoed through him, mocking and correct.
He should tell her. But it wasn’t precisely the kind of thing one told a young, beautiful woman standing by and begging for lessons in ruination.
At least, not an ordinary young woman in such a situation.
But Philippa Marbury was nothing close to ordinary.
Telling her the truth would push her away. And that would be best. For all involved.
Especially him.
Pippa shook her head. “He’ll say no. Don’t you see? There’s no one. No one but Miss Tasser.”
She was wrong, of course.
“There is me,” he said, the words out before he knew they were coming. Her eyes went wide, and she met his gaze.
There was a beat as she heard the words. Their meaning. “You,” she said.
He smiled. “Now it is you repeating me.”
She matched his smile, and he felt the expression deep in his gut. “So I am.”
Perhaps he could do this.
Lord knew he owed it to her, owed it to her for allowing her into the clutches of Knight and Sally and Temple and God knew whoever else she’d met while inside the casino. He owed it to Bourne to keep her safe.
Excuses.
He paused at the thought. Perhaps they were excuses. Perhaps he just wanted a reason to be near her. To talk to her, this bizarre, brilliant woman who threw him off axis every chance she got.
It would be torture, yes.
But Lord knew he deserved torture.
He had to move. Away from her.
He crossed to a hazard table, lifting a pair of dice and testing their weight in his hand. She followed without prompting, moving past him in a cloud of softness scented with fresh linens. How was it that she smelled like sunshine and fresh air even here in darkness? Surrounded by sin and vice?
She had to leave. She was too much temptation for him to bear.
Unaware of his thoughts, she turned her open, fresh face up to him. “I have a number of questions. For example, Madame Hebert has committed to making me nightclothes that she swears will tempt Castleton into seducing me. Can nightclothes do the trick?”
The words were an assault, consuming him with the idea of blond, lithe Pippa in a silk-and-lace creation designed to send men completely over the edge. Something with a devastating number of ribbons, each one in a perfect little bow that, when untied, revealed a patch of soft, warm skin—a luxurious, unbearable present.
A present worthy of the wrapping.
“I don’t think they will be enough,” she said, distracted.
He was certain they would be too much.
“And what of Miss Tasser’s smolder? Can you teach me to do that? It seems like it will help. With the tempting.”
He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. But he also couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You don’t need to smolder.”
She paused. “I don’t?”
“No. You are tempting in a different way.”
“I am?”
You should tell her.
Before she tempted him anymore.
But he couldn’t.
He met her gaze. “You are.”
Her eyes were wide as saucers behind those maddening spectacles. “I am?”
He smiled. “You are repeating me again.”
She was quiet for a moment. “You won’t change your mind, will you?”
“No.” The idea of her finding another was altogether unacceptable.
Not when it could be him. Not when he could show her pleasure that would shatter her innocence and thoroughly, completely ruin her. He wanted to give her everything for which she asked.
And more.