And there was something there in his tone, something that Pippa might not have noticed at another time, in another man. Loss. Sorrow. Memory flashed—the whispered conversation in this very garden.
You shouldn’t have married him.
I didn’t have a choice. You didn’t leave me with one.
I should have stopped it.
The woman in the garden . . . she was his Eurydice.
Something unpleasant flared in her chest at the thought, and Pippa couldn’t resist reaching out to touch him, to settle her hand on his arm. He jerked at the touch, pulling away as though she’d burned him.
They sat in silence for a long moment. Until she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “You made a mistake.”
He slid his gaze to her fleetingly, then stood. “It’s time to go. Your lesson awaits.”
Except she did not want to go anymore. She wanted to stay. “You lost your love.” He did not look to her, but she could not have looked away if a team of oxen had driven through the gardens of Dolby House in that moment. “The woman in the gardens. Lavinia,” she said, hating that she could not simply keep quiet. Don’t ask, Pippa. Don’t. “You . . . love her?”
The word was strange on her tongue.
It should not surprise her that he had a paramour, after all, there were few men in London with the kind of reputation that Mr. Cross had as both a man and a lover. But she confessed, he did not seem the kind of man who would be drawn to more serious emotions—to something like love. He was, after all, a man of science. As she was a woman of science. And she certainly did not expect for love to ever make an appearance in her own mind.
And yet, in this strange moment, she found she was desperate to hear his answer. And there, in the desperation, she discovered that she was hoping that his answer would be no. That there was no unrequited love lurking deep in his breast.
Or requited love, for that matter.
She started at the thought.
Well.
That was unexpected.
His lips twisted at the question, as he turned his face from the light and into the darkness. But he did not speak. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Lady Philippa.”
She rose to face him, keenly aware of how much taller he was than she, keenly aware of him. “I find I cannot help myself.”
“I have noticed that.”
“I only ask because I am intrigued by the idea of your loving someone.” Stop it, Pippa. This is not the path down which intelligent young ladies tread. She changed tack. “Not you, that is. Anyone. Loving someone.”
“You have opposition to love?”
“Not opposition so much as skepticism. I make it a practice not to believe in things I cannot see.”
She’d surprised him. “You are no ordinary female.”
“We have established that. It is why you are here, if you recall.”
“So it is.” He crossed his long arms over his chest, and added, “So you wish to tempt your husband, whom you do not expect to love.”
“Precisely.” When he did not immediately respond, she added, “If it helps, I do not think he expects to love me, either.”
“A sound English marriage.”
She considered the words. “I suppose it is, isn’t it? It’s certainly like any of the marriages to which I am close.”
His brows rose. “You doubt the fact that Bourne cares deeply for your sister?”
“No. But that’s the only one.” She paused, considering. “Maybe Olivia and Tottenham, too. But my other sisters married for much the same reason as I shall.”
“Which is?”
She lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. “It is what we are expected to do.” She met his gaze, unable to read it in the darkness. “I suppose that doesn’t make sense to you, seeing as you are not an aristocrat.”
One side of his mouth kicked up. “What does being an aristocrat have to do with it?”
She pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “You may not know this, but aristocrats have a great many rules with which to contend. Marriages are about wealth and station and propriety and position. We cannot simply marry whomever we wish. Well, ladies can’t at least.” She thought for a moment. “Gentlemen can weather more scandal, but so many of them simply flop over and allow themselves to be dragged into uninspired marriages anyway. Why do you think that is?”
“I wouldn’t like to guess.”
“It is amazing what power men have and how poorly they use it. Don’t you think?”
“And if you had the same powers?”
“I don’t.”
“But if you did?”
And because he seemed genuinely intrigued, she said, “I would have gone to university. I would join the Royal Horticultural Society. Or maybe the Royal Astronomical Society—then I would know the difference between Polaris and Vega.”
He laughed.
She continued, enjoying the way she could be free with him. “I would marry someone I liked.” She paused, instantly regretting the way the words sounded on her tongue. “I mean—I don’t dislike Castleton, he is a nice man. Very kind. It’s just . . .” She trailed off, feeling disloyal.
“I understand.”
And for a moment, she thought he might.
“But all that is silly, you see? Natterings of an odd young lady. I was born into certain rules, and I must follow them. Which is why I think it is likely easier for those who live outside of society.”
“There you are, seeing in black and white again.”
“Are you saying it’s not easier for you?”
“I am saying that we all have our crosses to bear.”
There was something in the words—an unexpected bitterness that made her hesitate before she said, “I suppose you speak from experience?”
“I do.”
Her mind spun with the possibilities. He’d said once that he did not think on marriage. That it was not for him. Perhaps at one time, it had been. Had he wanted to marry? Had he been refused? Because of his name, or his reputation, or his career? Title or no, he was an impressive specimen of man—clever and wealthy and powerful and rather handsome when one considered all factors.
What lady would refuse him?
The mystery lady in the garden had.
“Well, either way, I am happy that you are not a peer.”
“If I were?”
You would be like none I have ever met. She smiled. “I would never have asked you to be my research associate. I have compiled a list, by the way. Of my questions.”
“I expected nothing less. But you don’t think it would make everything easier if I were a peer? No skulking about in gaming hells.”
She smiled. “I rather like skulking about in gaming hells.”
“Perhaps.” He stepped closer, blocking out the light from the house. “But perhaps it is also because when you complete your research, you can walk away and forget it ever happened.”
“I would never forget it,” she said, the truth coming quick and free. Pippa flushed at the words, grateful for the shadows that kept the color from him.
But she wouldn’t forget this. In fact, she had no doubt that she would harken back to this night when she was Lady Castleton, rattling around in her country estate with nothing but her hothouse and her dogs to keep her company.
And she certainly would not forget him.
They were quiet for a long moment, and she wondered if she’d said too much. Finally, he said, “I brought you something.” He extended a brown-paper-wrapped package toward her.
Her breath quickened—a strange response to a small box, no doubt—and she took the parcel, pushing away Trotula’s inquisitive wet nose and quickly unwrapping it to discover a domino mask on a bed of fine paper. She lifted the wide swath of black silk, heart pounding.
She looked up at him, unable to read his gaze in the darkness. “Thank you.”
He nodded once. “You will need it.” He turned away from her then, moving quickly across the gardens.
Trotula followed.
Pippa did not wish to be left behind. She hurried to keep up with man and beast.
“Are we . . . we are going somewhere public?”
“Of a sort.”
“I thought . . .” She hesitated. “That is, I was under the impression that the instruction would be in private.” She lifted her reticule. “I cannot ask you about the specifics in public.”
He turned back, and she nearly plowed into him. “Tonight is not about specifics. It is about temptation.”
The word slid through her, and Pippa wondered, fleetingly, if it was possible that language was somehow made more powerful in the absence of light. It was a silly question, of course. Obviously, the senses were heightened when one was removed. She couldn’t see him, so she heard him all the more.
It had nothing to do with the word itself.
Temptation.
He began walking once more, adding, “To understand how to tempt a man, you must first understand temptation yourself.”
She followed, hurrying to catch up. “I understand temptation.”
He slid her a look.
“I do!”
“What tempts you?” They had arrived at a black carriage, and Mr. Cross reached up to open the door and lower the stepping block. The spaniel leapt into the carriage happily, surprising them both into laughter.
She snapped her fingers. “Trotula, out.”
With a sad sigh, the dog did as she was bid.
Pippa pointed to the house. “Go home.”
The hound sat.
Pippa pointed again. “Home.”
The hound refused to move.
Cross smirked. “She’s somewhat unbiddable.”
“Not usually.”
“Perhaps it’s me.”
She cut him a look. “Perhaps so.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re rather unbiddable around me as well.”
She feigned shock. “Sirrah, are you comparing me to a hound?”
He smiled, flashing eyes and white teeth causing a strange little flutter to take up residence in her stomach. “Maybe.” Then, “Now. Let’s return to the task at hand. What tempts you, Pippa?”
“I—” She hesitated. “I care a great deal for meringue.”
He laughed, the sound bigger and bolder than she expected.
“It’s true.”
“No doubt you do. But you may have meringue anytime you like.” He stood back and indicated that she should enter the carriage.
She ignored the silent command, eager to make her point. “Not so. If the cook has not made it, I cannot eat it.”
A smile played on his lips. “Ever-practical Pippa. If you want it, you can find it. That’s my point. Surely, somewhere in London, someone will take pity upon you and satisfy your craving for meringue.”
Her brow furrowed. “Therefore, I am not tempted by it?”
“No. You desire it. But that’s not the same thing. Desire is easy. It’s as simple as you wish to have meringue, and meringue is procured.” He waved a hand toward the interior of the carriage but did not offer to help her up. “In.”
She ascended another step before turning back. The additional height brought them eye to eye. “I don’t understand. What is temptation, then?”
“Temptation . . .” He hesitated, and she found herself leaning forward, eager for this curious, unsettling lesson. “Temptation turns you. It makes you into something you never dreamed, it presses you to give up everything you ever loved, it calls you to sell your soul for one, fleeting moment.”
The words were low and dark and full of truth, and they hovered in the silence for a long moment, an undeniable invitation. He was close, protecting her from toppling off the block, the heat of him wrapping around her despite the cold. “It makes you ache,” he whispered, and she watched the curve of his lips in the darkness. “You’ll make any promise, swear any oath. For one . . . perfect . . . unsoiled taste.”
Oh, my.
Pippa exhaled, long and reedy, nerves screaming, thoughts muddled. She closed her eyes, swallowed, forced herself back, away from him and the way he . . . tempted her.
Why was he so calm and cool and utterly in control?
Why was he not riddled with similar . . . feelings?
He was a very frustrating man.
She sighed. “That must be a tremendous meringue.”
A beat followed the silly, stupid words . . . words she wished she could take back. How ridiculous. And then he chuckled, teeth flashing in the darkness. “Indeed,” he said, the words thicker and more gravelly than before.
Before Pippa could wonder at the sound, he added, “Trotula, go home.”
The dog turned and went as he returned his attention to Pippa, and said, “Get in.”
She did. Without question.
The alley behind the Angel looked different at night. More ominous.
It did not help that he punctuated the slowing of the carriage with, “It is time for the mask,” before he opened the door and leapt down from the conveyance without aid of step or servant.
She did not hesitate to do his bidding, extracting the slip of fabric and lifting it to her face, filled with excitement—she’d never had cause to mask her identity before.
The mask promised equal parts excitement and edification.
Her first foray incognito. Her first moment as more than just the oddest Marbury sister.
In the mask, she imagined herself not odd, but mysterious. Not only scientific, but also scandalous. She would be a veritable Circe in the making.
But now, as she attempted to affix the mask to her head, she realized that imagination was not reality. And that masks were not made for spectacles.