He honored her.
And because of that, he did what he knew was right, instead of the thing he wanted desperately to do.
Instead of grabbing her to him, tossing her over his shoulder, and marching away with her forever . . . he gave her back the life she deserved.
“That’s what you’ve done,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue. “I told you once that marriage was not for me. That love was not for me. I don’t want it.”
Her face fell, and he hated himself for hurting her even as he reminded himself that she was his great work. That this would save her. That this would give her the life she deserved.
It would be the one thing he could be proud of.
Even if it hurt like hell.
“Castleton will marry you tomorrow,” he said, perhaps to her . . . perhaps to himself. “He will protect you.” His gaze flickered to the earl, trapped beneath a nearby table with Maggie, arms wrapped around her head. “He protected you tonight, did he not?”
She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped and shook her head, sadness in her blue eyes. “I don’t want him,” she whispered. “I want you.”
The confession was raw and ragged and, for a moment, he thought it might wreck him with desire and longing and love. But he had spent six years mastering his desires, six years that served him well as he shook his head and drove the knife home, uncertain of whose heart he pierced.
I love you so much, Pippa.
So very much.
But I am not worthy of you.
You deserve so much more. So much better.
“I am not an option.”
She was quiet for a long moment, and tears welled in her beautiful blue eyes—tears that did not fall. Tears she would not let fall.
And then she said precisely what he’d hoped she’d say.
What he’d hoped she wouldn’t say.
“So be it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Discovery:
Logic does not always rule the day.
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
April 4, 1831; the morning of her wedding
Cross stood at the window of the owners’ suite at the Angel the next morning, watching as the maids below extinguished candles across the floor of the casino, casting hell into darkness. He often watched this work, enjoying the organized process, the way the great chandeliers were lowered to the floor, the flames extinguished, and the wax replaced in preparation for the evening’s revelry.
There was order to it. Dark followed light inside the hell even as light followed dark in the world beyond. Fundamental truths.
He placed one wide palm against the stained glass, swirling the scotch in the crystal tumbler in his hand. He’d poured the drink an hour earlier, after he’d smuggled Pippa from Knight’s and left her in Temple’s care, trusting his friend to return her home.
Knowing he would never be able to do the same.
He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, staring down into the pit, watching as Justin stacked dice in neat rows along the edge of one hazard table.
She’d saved him that evening, a veritable Boadicea, with her sharp mind and her weighted dice—his weighted dice, he imagined—and her stacked decks and magnetic roulette wheel. As though it were a simple piece of scientific research, she’d controlled the pit of Knight’s with the ease and comfort of a lifelong gamer.
And she’d done it for him.
She loved him.
Not nearly as much as he loved her, he imagined.
He closed his eyes, and a knock came at the door of the suite. He turned toward the already opening door. Chase stood in the shadowy space, and while Cross couldn’t see his partner’s eyes, he could sense the censure in them.
“You’re an idiot.”
He leaned back against the window. “It seems that way. What time is it?”
“Half eight.”
She was to marry in less than two hours. Tightness swelled in his chest.
“Temple is returned.”
Cross moved toward Chase, unable to stop himself. “Is she—”
“Preparing for a wedding to the wrong groom, I would imagine.”
Cross turned away. “She is best with Castleton.”
“That’s shit, and you know it.” When Cross did not reply, Chase continued, “But it’s irrelevant. What’s relevant is that Lady Philippa earned us a new casino tonight.”
There was nothing at all relevant about the casino. Cross cared not a bit about it. Or about the exorbitant sum he’d paid for it. “I had to get her out of there. She could have been hurt. Or worse.”
“And so you bought Knight’s debts.” Chase raised a brow. “Three hundred thousand pounds seems like a great deal of money to spend on a lower hell . . . and a woman.”
He’d have paid five times that. Ten times. “It won’t be a lower hell for long. Not in our hands.”
“We could always give it to Lady Philippa as a wedding gift,” Chase said, casually. “She appears to have a knack for running tables.”
The words stung with memory, and Cross turned away, back to the floor of the hell. “That’s precisely why she’s best with Castleton. I turned her into something dark. Something she will regret.”
“The lady does not strike me as one who makes decisions without considering their consequences.”
Cross wished Chase would leave him in peace. He tossed back the scotch, finally. “She is precisely that kind of lady.”
“And you do not think you would make her happy?”
Her words, spoken over the din of the riot the night before, echoed in his ears. I know what will make me happy—you.