Cross liked to think he was a reasoned, intelligent man. He was fascinated by science and widely considered to be a mathematical genius. He could not sit a vingt-et-un game without counting cards, and he argued politics and the law with quiet, logical precision.
How was it, then, that he felt so much like an imbecile with this woman?
“Have you not, twice in the last twenty minutes, requested I ruin you?”
“Three times, really.” She tilted her head to the side. “Well, the last time, you said the word ruination, but I think it should count as a request.”
Like a complete imbecile.
“Three times, then.”
She nodded. “Yes. But not public ruination. That’s altogether different.”
He shook his head. “I find myself returning to my original diagnosis, Lady Philippa.”
She blinked. “Madness?”
“Precisely.”
She was silent for a long moment, and he could see her attempting to find the right words to sway him toward her request. She looked down at his desk, her gaze falling to a pair of heavy silver pendula sitting side by side. She reached out and set them in gentle motion. They watched the heavy weights sway in perfect synchrony for a long moment.
“Why do you have these?” she asked.
“I like the movement.” Their predictability. What moved in one direction would eventually move in the other. No questions. No surprises.
“So did Newton,” she said, simply, quietly, speaking more to herself than to him. “In fourteen days, I shall marry a man with whom I have little in common. I shall do it because it is what I am expected to do as a lady of society. I shall do it because it is what all of London is waiting for me to do. I shall do it because I don’t think there will ever be an opportunity for me to marry someone with whom I have more in common. And most importantly, I shall do it because I have agreed to, and I do not care for dishonesty.”
He watched her, wishing he could see her eyes without the shield of thick glass from her spectacles. She swallowed, a ripple of movement along the delicate column of her throat. “Why do you think you will not find someone with whom you have more in common?”
She looked up at him and said simply, “I’m odd.”
His brows rose, but he did not speak. He was not certain what one said in response to such an announcement.
She smiled at his hesitation. “You needn’t be gentlemanly about it. I’m not a fool. I’ve been odd my whole life. I should count my blessings that anyone is willing to marry me—and thank heavens that an earl wants to marry me. That he’s actually courted me.
“And, honestly, I’m quite happy with the way the future is shaping up. I shall move to Sussex and never be required to frequent Bond Street or ballrooms again. Lord Castleton has offered to give me space for my hothouse and my experiments, and he’s even asked me to help him manage the estate. I think he’s happy to have the assistance.”
Considering Castleton was a perfectly nice, perfectly unintelligent man, Cross imagined the earl was celebrating the fact that his brilliant fiancée was willing to run the family estate and save him the complications. “That sounds wonderful. Is he going to give you a pack of hounds as well?”
If she noticed the sarcasm in his words, she did not show it, and he found himself regretting the tone. “I expect so. I’m rather looking forward to it. I like dogs quite a bit.” She stopped, tilting her chin to the side, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before saying, “But I am concerned about the rest.”
He shouldn’t ask. Marriage vows were not a thing to which he’d ever given much thought. He certainly wasn’t going to start now. “The rest?”
She nodded. “I feel rather unprepared, honestly. I haven’t any idea about the activities that take place after the marriage . . . in the evening . . . in the bed of the marriage,” she added, as though he might not understand.
As though he did not have a very clear vision of this woman in her marriage bed.
“And to be honest, I find the marriage vows rather specious.”
His brows rose. “The vows?”
She nodded. “Well, the bit before the vows, to be specific.”
“I sense that specificity is of great importance to you.”
She smiled, and the office grew warmer. “You see? I knew you would make an excellent research associate.” He did not reply, and she filled the silence, reciting deliberately, “Marriage is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly.”
He blinked.
“That is from the ceremony,” she explained.
It was, without a doubt, the only time someone had quoted the Book of Common Prayer in his office. Possibly, in the entire building. Ever. “That sounds reasonable.”
She nodded. “I agree. But it goes on. Neither is it to be enterprised, nor taken in hand to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding.”
He couldn’t help himself. “That’s in the ceremony?”
“Strange, isn’t it? I mean, if I were to refer to carnal lust in conversation over, say, tea, I should be tossed out of the ton, but before God and London in St. George’s, that’s fine.” She shook her head. “No matter. You can see why I might be concerned.”
“You are overthinking it, Lady Philippa. Lord Castleton may not be the sharpest of wits, but I have no doubt he’ll find his way in the marriage bed.”
Her brows snapped together. “I do have a doubt.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I don’t think you understand,” she said. “It is critical that I know what to expect. That I am prepared for it. Well. Don’t you see? This is all wrapped up in the single most important task I shall have as wife.”
“Which is?”
“Procreation.”
The word—scientific and unemotional—should not have called to him. It should not have conjured long limbs, and soft flesh, and wide, bespectacled eyes. But it did.
He shifted uncomfortably as she went on. “I quite like children, so I’m sure that bit will be fine. But you see, I require the understanding in question. And, since you are purported to be such an expert on the topic, I could not imagine anyone better to assist me in my research.”
“The topic of children?”
She sighed her frustration. “The topic of breeding.”
He should like to teach her everything he knew about breeding.
“Mr. Cross?”
He cleared his throat. “You don’t know me.”
She blinked. Apparently the thought had not occurred to her. “Well. I know of you. That is enough. You shall make an excellent research associate.”
“Research in what?”
“I have done a great deal of reading on the subject, but I would like to better understand it. So that I might happily enter into marriage without any concerns. To be honest, the brute-beast bit is rather unnerving.”
“I imagine it is,” he said dryly.
And still, she talked, as though he weren’t there. “I also understand that for women who are . . . untried . . . sometimes the act in question is not entirely . . . pleasant. In that particular case, the research will help, I should think. In fact, I hypothesize that if I have the benefit of your vast experience, both Castleton and I will have a more enjoyable time of it. We’ll have to do it several times before it takes, I’m guessing, so anything you can do to shed light on the activity . . .”
For some reason, it was growing difficult for Cross to hear her. To hear his own thoughts. Surely she hadn’t just said . . .
“They’re coupled pendula.”
What?
He followed the direction of her gaze, to the swaying metal orbs, set in motion in the same direction, now moving in opposition to each other. No matter how precisely they were set along the same path, one of the large weights would ultimately reverse its position. Always.
“They are.”
“One impacts the movement of the other,” she said, simply.
“That is the theory, yes.”
She nodded, watching the silver orbs swing toward each other, and away. Once. Twice. She looked up at him, all seriousness. “If I am to take a vow, I should like to understand all the bits and pieces of it. Carnal lust is no doubt something I should understand. And do you know why marriage might appeal to men as brute beasts?”
A vision flashed, crooked fingertips on flesh, blue eyes blinking up at him, wide with pleasure.
Yes. He absolutely knew. “No.”
She nodded once, taking him at his word. “It obviously has something to do with coitus.”
Dear God.
She explained. “There’s a bull in Coldharbor, where my father’s estate is. I am not as green as you think.”
“If you think that a bull in a pasture is anything like a human male, you are absolutely as green as I think.”
“You see? That is precisely why I require your assistance.”
Shit. He’d walked right into her trap. He forced himself not to move. To resist her pull.
“I understand you’re very good at it,” she continued, unaware of the havoc she was quietly wreaking. Or, perhaps entirely aware. He could no longer tell. Could no longer trust himself. “Is that true?”
“No,” he said, instantly. Perhaps it would make her leave.
“I know enough about men to know that they wouldn’t admit a lack of faculty in this area, Mr. Cross. Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.” She laughed, the sound bright and fresh and out of place in this dark room. “As an obvious man of science . . . I should think you would be willing to assist me in my research.”
“Your research in the mating habits of bulls?”
Her smile turned amused. “My research in carnal lust and appetites.”
There was only one option. Terrifying her into leaving. Insulting her into it. “You’re asking me to f**k you?”
Her eyes went wide. “Do you know, I’ve never heard that word spoken aloud.”
And, like that, with her simple, straightforward pronouncement, he felt like vermin. He opened his mouth to apologize.
She beat him to it, speaking as though he were a child. As though they were discussing something utterly ordinary. “I see I wasn’t clear. I don’t want you to perform the act, so to speak. I would simply like you to help me to better understand it.”
“Understand it.”
“Precisely. Per the vows and the children and the rest.” She paused, then added, “A lecture of sorts. In animal husbandry. Of sorts.”
“Find someone else. Of another sort.”
Her gaze narrowed at his mocking tone. “There is no one else.”
“Have you looked?”
“Who do you think would explain the process to me? Certainly not my mother.”
“And what of your sisters? Have you asked them?”
“First, I’m not certain that Victoria or Valerie have much interest in or experience with the act itself. And Penelope . . . She turns absurd when asked about anything to do with Bourne. On about love and whatnot.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s no place for love in research.”
His brows rose. “No?”
She looked appalled. “Certainly not. You, however, are a man of science with legendary experience. I’m sure there are plenty of things you are able to clarify. For example, I’m very curious about the male member.”
He choked. Then coughed.
When he regained his ability to speak, he said, “I’m sure you are.”
“I’ve seen drawings of course—in anatomical texts—but perhaps you could help with some of the specifics? For example—”
“No.” He cut her off before she elaborated with one of her straightforward, scientific questions.
“I am happy to pay you,” she announced. “For your services.”
A harsh, strangled sound cut through the room. It came from him. “Pay me.”
She nodded. “Would, say, twenty-five pounds do?”
“No.”
Her brows knit together. “Of course, a person of your—prowess—is worth more. I apologize for the offense. Fifty? I’m afraid I can’t go much higher. It’s quite a bit of money.”
She believed that it was the amount of money that made the offer offensive? She didn’t understand that he was half a tic from doing it for free. From paying her for the chance to show her everything for which she asked.
In all his life, there had never been anything Cross had wanted to do more than throw this strange woman down on his desk and give her precisely that for which she was asking.
Desire was irrelevant. Or perhaps it was the only thing that was relevant. Either way, he could not assist Lady Philippa Marbury.
She was the most dangerous female he’d ever met.
He shook his head and said the only words he trusted himself to say. Short. To the point. “I am afraid I am unable to accommodate your request, Lady Philippa. I suggest you query another. Perhaps your fiancé.” He hated the suggestion even as he made it. Bit back the urge to rescind it.
She was quiet for a long moment, blinking up at him from behind her thick spectacles, reminding him that she was untouchable.
He waited for her to redouble her efforts. To come at him again with her straight looks and her forthright words.
Of course, there was nothing predictable about this woman.
“I do wish you’d call me Pippa,” she said, and with that, she turned and left.
Chapter Two
When Pippa was no more than six or seven, the five daughters Marbury had been paraded about for a musical interlude (as hosts’ children often were) like little blond ducks before a gathering of peers at a country house party, the details of which she could no longer remember.