Mr. Cross seemed to read her mind. “He is missing you.”
Perhaps it was the darkness. Or perhaps it was the pain in her foot. Or perhaps it was the way the quick back-and-forth of their conversation made her feel as though she had finally found someone with a mind that worked the way hers did. She would never know why she blurted out, “He wants me to name his hound.”
There was a long moment of silence during which she thought he might laugh.
Please don’t laugh.
He didn’t laugh. “You are marrying the man. It is a rather innocuous request in the grand scheme of things.”
He did not understand. “It’s not innocuous.”
“Is there something wrong with it?”
“The dog?”
“Yes.”
“No, I think she’s probably quite a nice dog.” She lifted her hands, then dropped them. “It just seems so . . . So . . .”
“Final.”
He did understand. “Precisely.”
“It is final. You’re marrying him. You’re going to have to name his children. One would think the dog would be the easy bit.”
“Yes, well, it seems the dog is the much harder bit.” She took a deep breath. “Have you ever considered marriage?”
“No.” The reply was quick and honest.
“Why not?”
“It is not for me.”
“You seem sure of that.”
“I am.”
“How do you know?”
He did not reply, saved from having to by the arrival of Trotula, who came careening around the corner of the house with a happy, excited woof. “Yours?” he asked.
She nodded as the spaniel barreled to a stop at their feet, and Cross crouched low to pet the dog, who sighed and leaned into the caress.
“She likes that,” Pippa said.
“Name?”
“Trotula.”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a small, knowing smile. “Like Trotula de Salerno? The Italian doctor?”
Of course he would know she’d named the dog for a scientist. Of course he would guess. “Doctoress.”
He shook his head. “That’s a terrible name. Perhaps you shouldn’t name Castleton’s dog after all.”
“It is not! Trotula de Salerno is an excellent namesake!”
“No. I shall allow you ‘excellent example for young women’ or ‘excellent scientific hero,’ but I will not allow you ‘excellent namesake.’ ” He paused, scratching the spaniel’s ear. “Poor beast,” he said, and Pippa warmed to the kindness in his tone. “She’s mistreated you abominably.”
Trotula turned over onto her back, displaying her underside with an alarming lack of shame. He scratched her there, and Pippa was transfixed by his strong, handsome hands—the way they worked in her fur. After a long moment of observation, she said, “I’d rather stay outside. With you.”
His hand stilled on the dog’s stomach. “What happened to your aversion to dishonesty?”
Her brows snapped together. “It remains.”
“You are attempting to escape your betrothal ball with another man. I would say that’s the very portrait of dishonesty.”
“Not another man.”
He stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
She hurried to rephrase. “That is, you are another man, of course, but you aren’t a real man. I mean, you are not a threat to Castleton. You are safe.” She trailed off . . . suddenly feeling not at all safe.
“And the fact that you’ve asked me to assist you in any number of activities that might destroy your reputation and summarily end your engagement?”
“It still doesn’t make you a man,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Quickly enough to have to take it back. “I mean. Well. You know what I mean. Not in the way you mean.”
He exhaled on a low laugh and stood. “First you offer to pay me for sex, then you throw my masculinity into question. A lesser man would take those words to heart.”
Her eyes went wide. She’d never meant to imply . . . “I didn’t . . .” She trailed off.
He stepped toward her, close enough for her to feel his heat. His voice turned low and quiet. “A lesser man would attempt to prove you wrong.”
She swallowed. He was intimidatingly tall when he was so close. So much taller than any other man of her acquaintance. “I—”
“Tell me, Lady Philippa.” He raised a hand, one finger lingering at the indentation of her upper lip, a hairsbreadth from touching her. “In your study of anatomy, did you ever learn the name of the place between the nose and the lip?”
Her lips parted, and she resisted the urge to lean toward him, to force him to touch her. She answered on a whisper. “The philtrum.”
He smiled. “Clever girl. It is Latin. Do you know its meaning?”
“No.”
“It means love potion. The Romans believed it was the most erotic place on the body. They called it Cupid’s bow, because of the way it shapes the upper lip.” As he spoke, he ran his finger along the curve of her lip, a temptation more than a touch, barely there. His voice grew softer, deeper. “They believed it was the mark of the god of love.”
She inhaled, low and shallow. “I did not know that.”
He leaned down, closer, his hand falling away. “I’d be willing to wager that there are any number of things about the human body that you do not know, my little expert. All things that I would happily teach you.”
He was so close . . . his words more breath than sound, the feel of them against her ear, then her cheek, sending a riot of sensation through her.