Cross.
Emotion flared, one she did not immediately recognize.
She let out a long breath.
She wanted him—in a way she knew she should not. In a way she knew she should want another. A man destined to be her husband. To be the father of her children.
And yet, she wanted Cross.
This angel.
Was it only desire?
Her heart began to pound—the physical manifestation of a thought she had been unprepared to face. One that overwhelmed and ached and enticed.
“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”
The words were spoken close and soft, and Pippa spun toward the sound, finding a tall, lithe lady inches away, seated at a card table. She wore the most beautiful gown Pippa had ever seen, a deep, royal purple that fairly glowed against her warm, golden skin. A large topaz hung from a fine gold chain, drawing the attention of all who looked to the decadent plunge of the dress’s bodice. She wore a feathered black mask, too elaborate to see most of her face, but her brown eyes glittered from their frames, and her lips, wine-dark, curved in a wide smile.
The smile was filled with unspoken promise.
The kind of promise Pippa had seen on Miss Tasser’s lips one week prior.
When she did not immediately reply, the woman pointed one long, straight well-manicured finger toward the mural. “The angel.”
Pippa found her voice, nerves and excitement making the words come faster than she’d planned. “It’s beautiful. And very lavish. So much red glass. And violet.”
The lady’s smile broadened. “And the colors mean something?”
Pippa nodded. “To make red glass, they add gold dust. They do it for violet, as well.”
Brown eyes went wide. “How clever of you to know that.”
Pippa looked away; clever was rarely a compliment among women. “I read it once.”
“It’s no wonder Cross enjoys your company, Lady P.”
Pippa’s gaze snapped back to the woman, seeing the knowledge in her gaze. “How did you—”
The lady waved one hand. “Women talk, my lady.”
Sally. Pippa wondered if she should be concerned. Probably.
The woman was still speaking, “He’s a lovely promise, don’t you think?”
“Promise?”
The smile deepened. “Of wickedness. If you’re willing to ask.”
Pippa’s mind spun. How did this woman know what had happened? What they’d done? Had they been spied upon? “Cross?”
She laughed, the sound bright and friendly. “I was referring to the Angel, honestly.” She indicated a chair to her left. “Do you play?”
Grateful for a change of topic, Pippa considered the field of green baize, cards arranged in front of the woman and the four men seated to her right. She shook her head. “I don’t.”
“You should.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s Cross’s favorite.”
She might not have agreed to the game, but the moment the beautiful woman mentioned him, Pippa could not have stopped herself for anything in the world. She sat. “Perhaps I shall watch a round or two.”
The lady smirked. “I suppose understanding the game is important to some.”
Pippa laughed. “I don’t have a great fortune to wager.”
“My guess is that you have more than you think.”
Pippa did not have a chance to reply, as the dealer carefully distributed two cards to the group, one facedown, the second faceup.
“The goal is twenty-one,” the woman said, turning her cards—nine of hearts faceup—to face Pippa and carefully lifting a corner to reveal an eight of clubs. “Knaves, queens, and kings are worth ten,” she said, raising her voice a touch to ensure that the rest of the table heard the reference.
Pippa understood the bluff instantly. “And aces?” she asked, helping her new acquaintance.
“Aces are the best in the deck. Ones or elevens. The card of second chances.”
“Ah. So a good start,” Pippa said, nodding sagely.
“I surrender.”
One of the gentlemen at the table stood, taking half their wagers, and left the table. The mystery woman leaned in to Pippa, and said, “Well done. The man closest to us lacks skill, and the farthest lacks luck.”
“And in the middle?”
The lady made a show of considering the handsome man at the center of the table. “That’s Duncan West. Owns most of the London papers.”
Pippa’s heart began to race. If she were discovered by the newspaperman, she would be ruined. Olivia as well.
Perhaps that would not be so bad. She ignored the thought. “He’s so young,” she whispered, doing her best not to look at the man in question.
“Young and royal-rich. There’s little he lacks. Except, it seems, a night with a good woman.”
Pippa heard the desire in the lady’s tone. “You, I take it?”
The woman turned to her, eyes glittering. “A woman can hope.”
Pippa watched as the gentlemen at the table added cards to the stacks in front of them, quickly learning the simple rules of the game.
When it came time for her companion to wager, the woman turned her shielded gaze to Pippa, and said, “What say you, my lady? Do I hit or hold?”
Pippa considered the table. “You should take a card.”
The other woman inclined her head to the dealer. “The lady suggests I hit.”
Five.
Lips the color of Bordeaux pursed in a perfect moue. “Well, that’s pretty. I shall stay.”
The cards were revealed. Pippa’s companion won. Collecting her winnings, she turned her smile on the rest of the table. “The luck of the novice, don’t you think?”