Once on terra firma, Pippa lifted one hand from where it had been desperately clutching his wool coat and attempted to right the mask. She succeeded in upsetting both it and her spectacles, which tumbled from their perch.
He caught the frames in midair.
She looked from the spectacles to his face, its angles stark in the light from the exterior of the carriage. “This was not how I expected the evening to proceed.”
He was not laughing, she would give him that. Instead, he seemed to consider her carefully for a long moment before he stepped back and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. “Nor I, I assure you,” he said, cleaning the glasses carefully before returning them to her.
She put them on quickly and huffed a little sigh. “I cannot wear the mask. It will not fit.” She hated the pout in her voice. She sounded like Olivia.
She wrinkled her nose and met his gaze.
He did not speak, instead reaching out to straighten the glasses on her nose without touching her. They hovered there, in silence, for a long moment before he said, softly, “I should have thought of that.”
She shook her head. “I’m sure you’ve never had such a problem before . . .” A vision of Sally Tasser flashed, the beautiful, perfectly sighted woman who would have no difficulty whatsoever wearing a mask and achieving flawless mystery.
The only thing Pippa achieved flawlessly was peculiarity.
And suddenly, she was keenly aware that this world, this night, this experience was not for her. It was a mistake. Orpheus looking back into Hell.
“I should not be here,” she said, meeting his gaze, expecting to see satisfaction there—relief that she had finally given up.
But she did not see relief. Instead, she saw something else. Something firm and unyielding. “We shall just have to be careful in a different way.” He started for the club, the expectation that she should follow clear.
As they approached the great steel door that marked the rear entrance to the hell, a second carriage came trundling down the alleyway, stopping several yards from the conveyance in which they had arrived. A servant stepped down as the carriage door swung open from within on a collection of feminine laughter.
Pippa stopped at the sound, turning toward it.
Mr. Cross swore, low and wicked and grabbed her by the hand before she could resist, spinning her back against the outer wall of the club and blocking her from view with his looming frame.
She tried to move, and he pressed her to the wall, preventing her from seeing the women who had descended from the carriage and were now giggling and chattering as they made their way to the wall. She craned her neck to see them, curiosity making her careless, but he predicted her movements and shifted closer, crowding her back, making it impossible for her to see anything.
Anything but him.
He was so very tall. She’d never known anyone as tall as him. And when he was so close, it was difficult to think of anything but him. Him, and his warmth, the way his unbuttoned coat fell open around them, bringing her closer to a man in shirtsleeves than she’d ever been before.
Her thoughts were interrupted by another burst of laughter, followed by a hushing sound. “Look!” a woman said loudly. “We’re disturbing the lovers!”
“Someone couldn’t wait until she was inside!” Another feminine voice said.
“Who is it?” a third whispered.
Pippa’s eyes went wide, and she spoke to his chest. “Who are they?”
“None you need worry about.” He crowded closer, grimacing as he lifted one hand and placed it flat on the wall above her head, obscuring her face with his long arm and the lapel of his coat.
She was a hairsbreadth from his chest, and she couldn’t stop herself from inhaling, the scent of clean, fresh sandalwood wrapping around her. Her hands, hanging limp at her sides, itched to touch him. She clenched her fists and looked up at him, meeting his dark eyes.
“I can’t see her,” one of the ladies said, “but I’d know that man anywhere. It’s Cross.” She raised the volume of her voice. “Isn’t it, Cross?”
A thread of heat coursed through Pippa at the woman’s familiarity, at the laughter in her tone—as though she knew precisely what it was like to be here, pressed between the stone wall of London’s most legendary gaming hell and her proud, brilliant owner.
“Go inside, ladies,” he said at full volume, without looking away from Pippa. “You’re missing the fight.”
“It looks like there’s just as much to watch outside, tonight!” one retorted, drawing a chorus of appreciative laughter from the others.
Cross shifted, dropping his head, and Pippa realized how it would appear to the onlookers—as though he was about to kiss her. “Now, ladies,” he said, his voice low and filled with promise, “I don’t gawk at your evening entertainments.”
“You’re welcome to anytime you like, darling.”
“I’ll remember that,” he said, the words lazy and luxurious. “But I’m occupied this evening.”
“Lucky girl!”