Pippa gritted her teeth as a knock sounded on the steel door, and the ladies were admitted to the club.
Leaving them alone in the alleyway once more, in the closest thing she’d ever had to an embrace.
She waited for him to move, to unwrap himself from her.
Except he didn’t.
No, he remained just as he was, pressed close, lips at her ear. “They think you lucky.”
Her heart was pounding like mad. She was sure he could hear it. “I thought you didn’t believe in luck.”
“I don’t.”
Her voice was shaking. “If you did, would you call this lucky?”
“I would call this torture.”
It was at that moment, the words a breath against the sensitive skin beneath her ear, that she realized that he wasn’t touching her. He was so close . . . but even now, pushing her back against the stone fa?ade of this massive building, he was careful not to touch her.
She sighed.
Apparently she was the only female in Christendom whom he had resolved not to touch.
Fleetingly, she wondered what would happen if she were to take matters into her own hands. She turned her head toward him, and he pulled back—not far, but far enough to ensure distance between them. Now they were face-to-face, their lips barely apart, at once millimeter and mile from each other.
A millimeter for him, for all he had to do was close the non-space and she was his. A mile for her, for she knew he would not do it . . . and she could not bring herself to kiss him. Even though, in that moment, there was nothing she wanted to do more.
But he did not wish the same.
This was an evening for intellectual pursuits. Not physical ones.
No matter how much she might wish differently.
So she did the only thing she could do. She took a deep breath, and said, “Cross?”
There was an immense, yawning pause as they both realized she’d dropped the Mister, but somehow, here, in a dark London alleyway, the title seemed too gentlemanly for this tall, wicked man.
“Yes, Pippa?”
“Can we go inside now?”
Chapter Nine
“Hazard is a problematic game—one that appears one way and plays another. For example, one casts two dice, thinking the roll will sum between one and twelve, but a roll of one is completely impossible . . . and rolls of two and twelve nearly so. Why then, when the fallacies of the game are so obvious, does it call so loudly to gamers?
There may be geometry to this game of chance—but there is sacredness to it as well.
It occurs that the sacrosanct rarely makes scientific sense.”
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 27, 1831; nine days prior to her wedding
There was nothing in the wide world that Cross would have refused her in that moment.
Not when she had spent the last hour tempting him with her big blue eyes and her quick mind and that lovely, lithe body that made him desperate to touch her. When the women had come, he’d thought of nothing but protecting her from discovery, shielding her with his body and hating himself for ever even considering bringing her here to this dark, filthy place that she did not deserve.
That did not deserve her.
As he did not deserve her.
He should tell Bourne everything and let his partner beat him to within an inch of his life for ever even thinking of ruining Philippa Marbury. For even dreaming of being this close to her. Of being tempted by her.
For she was the greatest lesson in temptation there ever was.
When she’d toppled from the carriage straight into his arms, he’d thought he was done for, her lithe lines and soft curves pressed against him, making him ache. He’d been sure that moment was the ultimate test . . . the hardest thing he’d ever have to do, setting her on her feet and stepping back from the precipice.
Reminding himself that she was not for him.
That she never would be.
But that had been easy compared to minutes later when, pressed between him and the stone fa?ade of the club, she’d turned and spoken to him, her breath fanning his jaw, making his mouth dry and his cock hard. That had been the most difficult thing he’d ever done.
He’d come close to kissing her and putting them both out of their misery.
God help him, for a moment, he thought she would take the decision out of his hands and take matters into her own.
And he’d wanted it.
He wanted it still.
Instead, she’d asked him to continue this madness—to bring her inside the hell and give her the lesson he’d promised. To teach her about temptation.
She thought him safe. Scientific. Without danger.
She was mad.
He should pack her back into that carriage and see her home, without a second thought. He should keep her far from this place filled with peers who would find immense entertainment in her presence here, and in the gossip her presence would fuel.
There were rules on this side of the hell, of course—the ladies allowed membership were expressly forbidden to reveal the secrets to which they were exposed. And as women with secrets of their own who craved their time at the club, they were careful to follow those rules.