Though she supposed she should have been prepared for it. After all, if Castleton wouldn’t touch her, who would even dream that a man like Mr. Cross would? It was only logical that he would be more difficult to . . . entice.
Not that she should be angling to entice him at all.
Absolutely not. The only man she should even consider enticing was the Earl of Castleton. Her future husband.
Not the other, infuriating, utterly abnormal man. Oh, he looked ordinary enough. Certainly taller and more intelligent than most, but at first glance, he had the same traits that marked the rest of his species: two arms, two legs, two ears, two lips.
Lips.
It was there that things went awry.
She groaned, dropping one hand to her thigh with enough weight to attract the attention of the hound curled at her side. Trotula looked up, soulful brown eyes seeming to understand that Pippa had lost too many waking hours to thoughts about those lips.
It was abnormal. In the extreme.
Trotula sighed and returned to her nap.
“Lady Philippa?”
Pippa started at the words spoken quietly from the door to the library where Carter, the Dolby House butler, stood at the ready, an enormous package in his hands. She smiled. “You surprised me.”
He came forward. “Apologies, my lady.”
“Have the guests begun to arrive?” The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby was hosting a ladies’ tea that afternoon, designed to gather all the women related to The Wedding. Pippa had spent an hour being primped and prodded before her maid had announced her presentable, and she’d come to the library to hide in advance of the event itself. She stood. “I suppose I must into the fray.”
Carter shook his head. “Not yet, my lady. This parcel arrived for you, however. As it is marked urgent, I thought you might like it straightaway.”
He extended the large box in her direction, and she took it, curiosity flaring. “Thank you.”
Task accomplished, Carter retreated from the room, leaving Pippa with the parcel, which she set beside her on the settee and opened, untying string and folding back unremarkable brown paper to reveal a heavy white box, adorned with an elaborate golden H.
Disappointment flared. The package was not urgent. It was a part of her trousseau. Most women in London could identify this box, from Madame Hebert’s modiste shop.
She sighed and opened the box to find a layer of fine gauze of the palest blue, tied with a beautiful sapphire ribbon. Beneath the ribbon was a single ecru square, stamped with a delicate female angel. She slipped the card from the square envelope and read the message in strong, black script.
Pandemonium
The Fallen Angel
Midnight
And, on the back,
A carriage will collect you.
Chase
Chase. The fourth, most mysterious partner in The Fallen Angel. From what she understood, few had ever met the man who had started the club and grown it—certainly Pippa had never had the opportunity. And she absolutely should not be accepting an invitation from an unknown man. To something called Pandemonium.
But she knew before she even inspected the contents of the box that she would not be able to refuse him. Or the chance to see Cross again.
Pandemonium sounded like precisely the kind of thing that would afford her all sorts of knowledge.
Heart pounding, Pippa reached for the ribbon, untying it carefully, as though it might release something living. Peeling back the gauze, she gasped at the stunningly crafted silver mask that lay on a bed of sapphire silk—no, not silk.
Dress.
She lifted the mask, startled by the weight of it, running one hand along the perfect curve of the filigree, marveling at the delicacy of the swirling, twisting design etched into its face and the thick satin ribbons marking its edges, the same sapphire as the dress below.
When she turned the mask over, inspecting its inside, and instantly understanding why the piece was so much heavier than expected. Inlaid in the back of the mask was a special ridge, lined in sapphire velvet the exact color of the gown it had arrived with, designed to house a set of spectacles.
The mask had been made specifically for her.
She smiled, running her fingers over the metalwork, admiring the frivolity of the gorgeous craftsmanship.
And practical Pippa Marbury, who had never in her life been tempted by clothing or triviality, could not wait for night to come.
So she could drape herself in silk.
It occurred to her that her view of the fabric had changed drastically in mere moments. Thousands of Bombyx mori had given themselves to this dress.
They’d cocooned themselves to set Pippa free.