Penny sighed and looked to the ceiling. “Not in so many words.”
“It is only one word,” Pippa pointed out.
“Well, suffice to say, they come with the gentlemen, but they are certainly not ladies.”
Fascinating.
Pippa wondered if Mr. Cross associated with the ladies in question. She wondered if they lay with him on that strange, small pallet in his cluttered, curious office. At the thought, something flared heavy and full in her chest. She considered the feeling, not quite nausea, not quite breathlessness.
Not quite pleasant.
Before she could assess the sensation further, Penelope continued. “At any rate, no matter what is happening at the club this evening, Bourne is decidedly not consorting with prostitutes.”
Pippa couldn’t imagine her brother-in-law doing anything of the sort. Indeed, she couldn’t imagine her brother-in-law doing much but dote on his wife these days. Theirs was a curious relationship—one of the rare marriages built on something more than a sound match.
In fact, most rational people would agree that there was absolutely nothing about Penelope and Bourne that would make for a sound match.
And somehow, they’d made just that.
Another curiosity.
Some might call it love, no doubt. And perhaps it was, but Pippa had never given much credence to the sentiment—with so few love matches in society, they were rather like mythological figures. Minotaurs. Or unicorns. Or Pegasuses.
Pegasii?
Neither, presumably, as there was only one Pegasus, but, as with love matches, one never knew.
“Pippa?” Penelope prodded.
Pippa snapped back to the conversation. What had they been discussing? Bourne. “Well, I don’t know why he would come,” Pippa pointed out. “No one expects him to stand on ceremony for society.”
“I expect him to do so,” Penelope said simply, as if that were all that mattered.
And apparently, it was. “Really, Penny. Leave the poor man alone.”
“Poor man,” Penny scoffed. “Bourne gets everything he wants, whenever he wants it.”
“It’s not as though he doesn’t pay a price,” Pippa retorted. “He must love you fiercely if he is coming. If I could avoid tonight, I would.”
“You are doing an excellent job of it as it is, and you cannot avoid tonight.”
Penny was right, of course. Half of London was below, and at least one of them was waiting for her to show her face.
Her future husband.
It was not difficult to find him among the throngs of people. Even dressed in the same handsome black frock coat and trousers that the rest of the peerage preferred, the Earl of Castleton seemed to stand out, something about him less graceful than a normal aristocrat.
He was at one side of the ballroom, leaning low as his mother whispered in his ear. Pippa had never noticed it before, but the ear in question also stood out at a rather unfortunate angle.
“You could still beg off,” Penelope said quietly. “No one would blame you.”
“The ball?”
“The marriage.”
Pippa did not reply. She could. She could say any number of things ranging from amusing to acerbic, and Penny would never judge her for them. Indeed, it would very likely make her sister happy to hear that Pippa had an opinion one way or another about her betrothed.
But Pippa had committed herself to the earl, and she would not be disloyal. He did not deserve it. He was a nice man, with a kind heart. And that was more than could be said about most.
Dishonesty by omission remains dishonest.
The words echoed through her, a memory of two days earlier, of the man who had questioned her commitment to truth.
The world is full of liars. Liars and cheats.
It wasn’t true, of course. Pippa wasn’t a liar. Pippa didn’t cheat.
Trotula sighed and leaned against her mistress’s thigh. Pippa idly stroked the dog’s ears. “I made a promise.”
“I know you did, Pippa. But sometimes promises . . .” Penelope trailed off.
Pippa watched Castleton for a long moment. “I dislike balls.”
“I know.”
“And ballrooms.”
“Yes.”
“He’s kind, Penny. And he asked.”
Penelope’s gaze turned soft. “It’s fine for you to wish for more than that, you know.”
She didn’t. Did she?
Pippa fidgeted inside her tightly laced corset. “And ball gowns.”
Penelope allowed the change in topic. “It is a nice gown, nonetheless.”
Pippa’s gown—selected with near-fanatical excitement by Lady Needham—was a beautiful pale green gauze over white satin. Cut low and off the shoulder, the gown followed her shape through the bodice and waist before flaring into lush, full skirts that rustled when she moved. On anyone else, it would look lovely.
But on her . . . the gown made her look thinner, longer, more reedy. “It makes me look like the Ardea cinerea.”
Penelope blinked.
“A heron.”
“Nonsense. You are beautiful.”
Pippa ran her palms over the perfectly worked fabric. “Then I think it’s best I stay here and keep that illusion intact.”
Penelope chuckled. “You are postponing the inevitable.”
It was the truth.
And because it was the truth, Pippa allowed her sister to lead them down the narrow stairs to the back entrance of the ballroom, where they released Trotula onto the Dolby House grounds before inserting themselves, unnoticed, into the throngs of well-wishers, as though they’d been present for the entire time.
Her future mother-in-law found them within moments. “Philippa, my dear!” she effused, waving a fan of peacock feathers madly about her face. “Your mother said it would be just a little fête! And what a fête it is! A fête to fête my young Robert and his soon-to-be-bride!”
Pippa smiled. “And do not forget Lady Tottenham’s young James and his soon-to-be-bride.”
For a moment, it seemed that Countess of Castleton did not follow. Pippa waited. Understanding dawned, and her future mother-in-law laughed, loud and high-pitched. “Oh, of course! Your sister is lovely! As are you! Isn’t she, Robert?” She swatted the earl on his arm. “Isn’t she lovely!”
He leapt to agree. “She is! Er—you are, Lady Philippa! You are! Lovely!”
Pippa smiled. “Thank you.”
Her mother bore down upon them, the Marchioness of Needham and Dolby eager to compete for the most-excited-mother award. “Lady Castleton! Are they not the most handsome of couples!”
“So very handsome!” Lady Castleton agreed, maneuvering her son to stand close to Pippa. “You simply must dance! Everyone is desperate to see you dance!”
Pippa was virtually certain that there were only two people in the room with any interest whatsoever in watching them dance. In fact, anyone who had ever seen Pippa dance knew not to expect much in the way of grace or skill, and her experience with Castleton indicated similar failings on his part. But, unfortunately, the two in question were mothers. And unavoidable.
And, dancing would limit the number of exclamations in her proximity by a good amount.
She smiled up at her fiancé. “It seems we are required to dance, my lord.”
“Right! Right!” Castleton leapt to attention, clicking his heels together and giving her a small bow. “Would you afford me the very great honor of a dance, my lady?”
Pippa resisted the urge to laugh at the formality of the question and instead took his hand and allowed him to lead her into the dance.
It was a disaster.
They all but stumbled across the floor, creating a devastating spectacle of themselves. When they were together, they trod on each other’s toes and tripped over each other’s feet—at one point, he actually clutched her to him, having lost his balance. And when they were apart, they tripped over their own feet.
When he was not counting his steps to keep time with the orchestra, Castleton kept up conversation by fairly bellowing across the dance floor.
The couples nearby did their best not to stare, but Pippa had to admit, it was near impossible when Castleton announced from ten feet away on the opposite side of the line, “Oh! I nearly forgot to tell you! I’ve a new bitch!”
He was discussing his dogs, of course—a topic in which they had a shared interest—but Pippa imagined it was something of a shock to Louisa Holbrooke when Castleton hurled the announcement right over her perfectly coiffed head.
Pippa could not help it. She began to snicker, drawing a strange look from her own partner. She lifted a hand to hide her twitching lips when Castleton added, “She’s a beauty! Brindled fur! Brown and yellow . . . yellow like yours!”
Eyes around them went wide at the comparison of her blond hair to the golden fur of Castleton’s most recent four-legged acquisition. And that’s when the snicker became a laugh. It was, after all, the strangest—and loudest—conversation she’d ever had while dancing.
She laughed through the final steps of the quadrille, her shoulders shaking as she dipped into the curtsy ladies were required to make. If there was one thing she would not miss upon her marriage, it was dancing.
She rose, and Castleton came instantly to her side, shepherding her to one end of the room, where they stood in awkward silence for a long moment. She watched the other attendees fall gracefully into the party, keenly aware of Castleton beside her. Robert.
How many times had she heard Penny refer to her husband as Michael in that tone of utter devotion?
Pippa turned to look up at Castleton. She could not imagine ever calling him Robert.
“Would you like some lemonade?” He broke their silence.
She shook her head, returning her gaze to the room. “No, thank you.”
“I should have waited to tell you about the dog until we were through dancing,” he said, drawing her attention once more. Color rose on his cheeks.
She did not like the idea that he was embarrassed. He did not deserve it. “No!” she protested, grateful for the return of the topic. It was easy to talk about dogs. “She sounds lovely. What do you call her?”
He smiled, bright and honest. He did that a lot. It was another good quality. “I thought perhaps you would have an idea.”
The words set her back. It would never occur to her to ask Castleton for his opinion on such a thing. She’d simply name the hound and announce her as part of the family. Her surprise must have shown on her face, because he added, “After all, we are to be married. She will be our hound.”
Our hound.
The hound was Castleton’s ruby ring. A living, breathing chromium-filled crystal.
Suddenly, it all seemed very serious.
They were to be married. They were to have a hound. And she was to name it.
A hound was much more than betrothal balls and trousseaus and wedding plans—all things that seemed utterly inconsequential when it came right down to it.
A hound made the future real.
A hound meant a home, and seasons passing and visits from neighbors and Sunday masses and harvest festivals. A hound meant a family. Children. His children.
She looked up into the kind, smiling eyes of her fiancé. He was waiting, eager for her to speak.
“I—” She stopped, not knowing what to say. “I haven’t any good ideas.”
He chuckled. “Well, she doesn’t know the difference. You are welcome to think about it.” He leaned low, one blond lock falling over his brow. “You should meet her first. Perhaps that would help.”
She forced a smile. “Perhaps it would.”
Perhaps it would make her want to marry him more.
She liked dogs. They had that in common.
The thought reminded her of her conversation with Mr. Cross, during which she’d told him the same as proof of her compatibility with the earl. He’d scoffed at her, and she’d ignored it.
It was all they’d said of the earl . . . until Mr. Cross had refused her request and sent her home, with a comment that echoed through her now, as she stood awkwardly beside her future husband. I suggest you query another. Perhaps your fiancé?
Perhaps she should query her fiancé. Surely he knew more than he revealed about the . . . intricacies of marriage. It did not matter that he’d never once given her even the slightest suggestion that he cared a bit for those intricacies.
Gentlemen knew about them. Far more than ladies did.
That this was a horrendously unequal truth was not the point, currently.
She peered up at Castleton, who was not looking at her. Instead, he appeared to be looking anywhere but her. She took the moment to consider her next step. He was close, after all—close enough to touch. Perhaps she ought to touch him.
He looked down at her, surprise flaring in his warm brown gaze when he discovered her notice. He smiled.
It was now or never.
She reached out and touched him, letting her silk-clad fingers slide over his kid-clad hand. His smile did not waver. Instead, he lifted his other arm and patted her hand twice, as he might do a hound’s head. It was the least carnal touch she could imagine. Not at all reminiscent of the wedding vows. Indeed, it indicated that he had no trouble with the bit about not entering into marriage like a brute beast.
She extricated her hand.
“All right?” he asked, already returning his attention to the room at large.
It did not take a woman of great experience to know that her touch had had no effect on him. Which she supposed was only fair, as his touch was absent an effect on her.
A lady laughed nearby, and Pippa turned toward the sound, light and airy and false. It was the kind of laugh she’d never perfected—her laughs were always too loud, or came at the wrong time, or not at all.