“Pippa!” Her mother’s cry came from the doorway of the tearoom, instantly replaced by a surprised, breathless, “Oh! Lord Castleton! I did not know you were here! I shall—” She hesitated, hand on the door, considering her next step.
Most mothers would never dream of allowing their daughters to hover, unaccompanied, in an empty hallway with their fiancés, but most daughters were not the offspring of the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby. Aside from Pippa’s being odd and—as the rest of the family apparently knew—lacking in the basic social experience of a soon-to-be-married lady, the daughters of the house of Needham and Dolby did not receive high marks when it came to actually marrying their betrotheds. Surely the marchioness wouldn’t mind a bit of scandal to ensure that her second youngest made it all the way down the aisle.
“I’ll just pull this door to,” Lady Needham said, offering an exaggerated smile in their direction. “Pippa, you join us when you are free, darling.”
The irony was not lost on Pippa that freedom was associated with a roomful of cloying, gossiping ladies.
Once they were alone once more, Pippa returned her attention to her betrothed. “The kitchens, my lord?”
He nodded his agreement, and they were off, Trotula leading the way.
There were leftover cakes in the kitchens, easily cajoled from the cook and wrapped in cheesecloth for a walk on the Dolby House grounds. Pippa tried not to think too carefully about the direction of their walk, but she could not deny that she was deliberately avoiding the copse of cherry trees where she’d waited for Mr. Cross several evenings earlier, deciding, instead, to head for the river a quarter of a mile down the gently sloping lawns.
Trotula ran out ahead with a series of loud, happy barks, enjoying her freedom on the uncommonly warm March day, circling back now and then to ensure that Pippa and Castleton followed. They walked in silence for several minutes—long enough for Pippa to consider her next action. When they were far enough away from the house not to be seen, she stopped, turning to face the man who would be her husband.
“My lord—” she started.
“Do you—” he said at the same time.
They both smiled. “Please,” he said. “After you.”
She nodded. Tried again. “My lord, it’s been more than a year since you began courting me.”
He tilted his head, thinking. “I suppose it has been.”
“And we are to be married. In seven days.”
He smiled. “That I know! My mother cannot seem to stop speaking of it.”
“Women tend to enjoy weddings.”
He nodded. “I’ve noticed. But you don’t seem to be in as much of a state over it, and it’s your wedding.”
Except she was in a state over it. Just not the kind of state he expected. Not the kind of state anyone noticed.
Anyone except Cross. Who was no help at all.
“Lord Castleton, I think it’s time you kissed me.”
If a hedgehog had toddled up and bit him on the toe, she didn’t think that he could have looked more surprised. There was a long silence, during which Pippa wondered if she’d made an enormous mistake. After all, if he decided she was too free with her favors, he could easily march back to the house, give back the land in Derbyshire, and bid farewell to the house of Needham and Dolby.
Would that be so bad?
Yes. Of course it would.
The answer did not matter, however, because he didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he nodded happily, said, “All right then,” and leaned down to kiss her.
His lips were soft and warm and dry, and they pressed against her with not an ounce of passion, settling on hers lightly, as though he were taking care not to startle or infringe upon her. She lifted her hands to the thick wool of his topcoat, clasping his arms, wondering if, perhaps, she should be doing something differently.
They stood like that for a long moment, lips pushed against lips, noses at a rather strange angle—though she blamed her spectacles for that—hands unmoving.
Not breathing. Not feeling anything but awkward discomfort.
When they pulled apart, gasping for air and met each other’s gaze, she pushed the thought away and adjusted her spectacles, straightening them on the bridge of her nose. She looked away to find Trotula, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
The dog did not seem to understand.
“Well,” Pippa said.
“Well,” he agreed. Then, “Shall we try again?”
She considered the offer. After all, the only way to ensure the proper outcome of an experiment was to repeat it. Perhaps they’d done it wrong the first time. She nodded. “That sounds fine.”
He kissed her again. To startlingly similar effect.
This time, when they separated, Pippa was sure. There was absolutely no threat of their entering into the sacrament of marriage for reasons at all relating to carnal lust.