“Pippa!” Her mother’s call came from beyond the library door, shaking Pippa from her reverie. Rescuing the wrapping from Trotula’s long pink tongue, she crammed the mask back into its box and haphazardly rewrapped the parcel, moving with lightning speed to hand it off to a footman just outside the door and request that it be delivered, immediately, to her maid.
“Pippa!” Her mother called again, no doubt announcing the start of the ladies’ tea set for the afternoon. The Countess of Castleton would be here, and Lady Tottenham, and Penny, and a dozen others. No doubt the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby had recited the guest list more than once, but Pippa hadn’t been listening much over the past few days.
She’d been too consumed with the events of her evening with Mr. Cross over and over, recalling every word, every interaction. And realizing that she was lacking in critical areas. It should not be difficult to convince a man to touch her. Certainly not a man who was purported to have such extensive taste in females. And yet, it was difficult.
Pippa was clearly in no way able to entice anything. Or anyone. If she could have, wouldn’t it have happened? Wouldn’t being nearly naked in Mr. Cross’s office have drawn him to her in some way? Have tempted him?
Of course it would have.
Which is why she was utterly certain she possessed not a single viable feminine wile.
Perhaps Pandemonium would change that.
Her heart raced once more.
“Pippa!” Her mother called again, closer.
And without those wiles—or at least an understanding of them—she would never be able to meet the expectations that had been set for her. As a wife. As a mother.
As a woman.
She required additional research.
But today, she was doomed to an afternoon of tea. She set the volume down and addressed her sleeping companion. “Shall we go, Trotula?”
The spaniel raised her soft, sable head instantly, tail pounding against the plush settee with satisfying thuds. Pippa smiled and stood. “I remain able to tempt you, at least.”
Trotula came off the furniture with a long stretch and a wide, lolling grin.
Pippa exited the library, hound at her heels, and pushed open the wide, paneled doors to the tearoom, where her mother’s guests had gathered, already cooing over Olivia.
She took a deep breath and steeled herself to enter the fray.
“Lady Philippa!”
Castleton was here.
Pippa turned to find Trotula bounding toward the earl, who crouched low to give the dog a long scratch. Trotula leaned into the caress, hind leg thumping her pleasure, and Pippa couldn’t help but laugh at the picture. “Lord Castleton,” she said, moving toward her fiancé. “Are you here for tea?” She hadn’t detected the hint of panic that usually laced her mother’s tone when eligible gentlemen were nearby.
“No!” he said, happily, cocking his head to one side as he looked up at her, his smile wide and friendly. “I was meeting with your father. Hashing out the final bits of the marriage arrangement and all that.”
Most brides-to-be would not have appreciated the frank reference to the exchange of funds that came with marriage, but Pippa found the concrete items relating to the event to be calming. She nodded once. “I’ve some land in Derbyshire.”
He nodded and came to his feet. “Needham said that. Lots of sheep.”
And four thousand acres of crops, but Pippa doubted Castleton had paid her father much mind.
Silence fell, and he rocked back on his heels, craning to see into the tearoom. After a long moment, he said, “What happens at a ladies’ tea?”
Pippa followed his gaze. “Ladies drink tea.”
He nodded. “Capital.”
Silence again. “There are usually biscuits,” Pippa added.
“Good. Good. Biscuits are good.” He paused. “Cakes?”
She nodded. “Sometimes.”
He nodded. “Smashing.”
It was excruciating.
But he was her fiancé. In one week, he would be her husband. And in no time, he’d be the father of her children. So excruciating wasn’t an acceptable outcome.
He might not be the most compelling of companions, nor was he the kind of man who took an interest in her interests. But there were not many men who did take interest in anatomy. Or horticulture. Or biology. Or physics.
There was one man.
She resisted the thought. Cross might be a man of science, but he was not the kind of man one . . .
She stopped the thought before it could form, forcing her thoughts back to the matter at hand—Castleton. She must work at Castleton. At engaging him. At attracting him. Even if she’d failed before.
With another.
No. She wouldn’t think of Cross. Wouldn’t think of her failed interaction with him. She was a scientist, after all . . . and scientists learned from all experiments. Even failed ones.
She smiled brightly. Possibly too brightly. “My lord, would you like to see if there are any cakes left in the kitchens?”
At reference to the kitchen, Trotula’s tail set off at a remarkable speed, but it took Castleton a moment to understand Pippa’s question. “The kitchens! For cake! With you!”
She smiled. “Indeed.”