But she saw the truth in his distant gaze. In the way he did not turn to her. In the way he did not speak. In the way he did not rush to deny the words—words that stung like the worst kind of accusation.
Panicked, Pippa looked to the other woman—black curls and blue eyes and porcelain skin and pretty red lips in a perfect little bow. She looked like she might cast up her accounts. Nothing like a bride.
She looks like you feel whenever you think of marrying Castleton.
She didn’t need to ask, but she couldn’t stop herself. “You are marrying him?”
Black ringlets bobbed.
“Oh.” Pippa looked to Cross, unable to find another word. “Oh.”
He did not look at her when he spoke, voice so soft she would not have heard it if she had not been watching his lips . . . those lips that had changed everything. This man who had changed everything. “Pippa . . .”
Marriage is not for me.
Another lie. One of how many?
Pain shot through her, sharp and almost unbearable, her chest tightening, making it difficult to breathe. He was marrying another.
And it hurt.
She lifted one hand, rubbing at the spot closest to the ache, as though she could massage it away. But as she looked from the man she loved to his future wife, she realized that this pain wouldn’t be so easily assuaged.
Her whole life, she’d heard of it, laughed at it. Thought it a silly metaphor. The human heart, after all, was not made of porcelain. It was made of flesh and blood and sturdy, remarkable muscle.
But there, in that remarkable room, surrounded by a laughing, rollicking, unseeing collection of London’s brightest and wickedest, Pippa’s knowledge of anatomy expanded.
It seemed there was such a thing as a broken heart.
Chapter Fifteen
The human heart weighs (on average) eleven ounces and beats (approximately) one hundred thousand times per day.
In Ancient Greece, the theory was widely held that, as the most powerful and vital part of the body, the heart acted as a brain of sorts—collecting information from all other organs through the circulatory system. Aristotle included thoughts and emotions in his hypotheses relating to the aforementioned information—a fact that modern scientists find quaint in its lack of basic anatomical understanding.
There are reports that long after a person is pronounced dead and a mind and soul gone from its casing, under certain conditions, the heart might continue beating for hours. I find myself wondering if in those instances the organ might continue to feel as well. And, if it does, whether it feels more or less pain than mine at present time.
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
March 31, 1831; five days prior to her wedding
That night, Pippa did not sleep.
Instead, she lay on her bed, Trotula warm and solid against her side, staring at the play of candlelight over the pink satin canopy above, and wondering, alternately, how it was that she had so thoroughly misjudged Cross, herself, and their situation, and how it was that she’d never noticed that she loathed pink satin.
It was a horrid, feminine thing—all emotion.
A lone tear slid down her temple and into her ear, unpleasant, wet discomfort. She sniffed. There was nothing productive about emotion.
She took a deep breath.
He was marrying another.
She loved him, and he was marrying another.
As was she.
But for some reason, it was his impending marriage that seemed to change everything. That seemed to mean more. To represent more.
To hurt more.
Silly, pink satin. Silly canopies. They didn’t serve a single useful purpose.
Trotula lifted her soft brown head as another tear escaped. The hound’s wide pink tongue followed its path, and the quiet canine understanding set off a torrent of the salty things—a flood of wretched drops and hiccups that Pippa could not halt. She turned onto her side, tears obscuring the silver mask from Pandemonium where it lay on the bedside table, gleaming in the candlelight. She should never have accepted the invitation to the event. Should never have believed it would come without cost—that any of this would come without cost.
The candle’s flame burned as she stared at it, whites and oranges barely wavering above a perfect blue orb. She closed her eyes, the memory of the flame bright even then, and took another deep breath, wishing the ache in her chest would go away. Wishing thoughts of him would go away. Wishing sleep would come.
Wishing she could go back to that morning, eight days earlier, when she’d decided to approach him, and stop herself.
How a week had changed everything.
Had changed her.
What a mess she had made.
Aching sadness rolled through her like a storm, cold and tight and bitterly unpleasant. She cried for who knew how long—two minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe an hour.
Long enough to feel sorry for herself. Not long enough to feel any better.
When she opened her eyes, she returned her attention to the candle, still and unmoving even as it burned unbearably bright. And then it did move, dancing and flickering in an unexpected draft.
A draft followed by a great woof and a thud as Trotula left the bed, tail wagging madly, and threw herself at the doors that led out to the narrow balcony just off Pippa’s bedchamber. Doors once closed, now open, now framing the man Pippa loved, frozen just inside the room, tall and serious and beautifully disheveled.
As she watched, he took a deep breath and ran both hands through thick red hair, pushing it off his face, his high cheekbones and long straight nose stark and angled in the candlelight.
He was unbearably handsome. She’d never in her life longed for anything the way she longed for him. He’d promised to teach her about temptation and desire and he’d done powerfully well; her heart raced at the sight of him, at the sound of his heavy breath. And yet . . . she did not know what came next.
“You are beautiful,” he said.
What came next was anything he wished.
Trotula lifted herself onto her hind legs and planted her forepaws on his torso, whining and sighing, quivering with excitement. He caught the dog with strong hands, keeping her upright and giving her all the affection for which she begged, instantly finding the soft spot on her temple that turned her to mush. She groaned and leaned into him, thoroughly smitten.
For the first time in her life, Pippa wished she did not have a pet. “She is a terrible protector.”
He stilled at that, and the three remained that way for a long moment, silent. “You require protection from me?”
Yes.
She did not reply, instead saying, “Trotula, enough.” The dog returned to all-paws, but did not stop staring up at her new love with her enormous, soulful gaze. Pippa could not fault her traitorous nature. “It seems she likes you.”
“I have a special talent for ladies,” he said in a warm, kind voice she at once loved and loathed. A vision of Sally Tasser flashed. And the prostitute at the card table that evening. And Knight’s pretty daughter.
She swung her legs off the side of her bed. “So I’ve seen.” His attention snapped immediately to her, but she changed tack. “This room is on the third floor.”
Another man would have hesitated. Would not have instantly understood. “I would have climbed farther to see you.” He paused. Then, “I had to see you.”
The ache returned. “You could have fallen. Hurt yourself.”
“Rather that than hurt you.”
She looked down at her lap, hands twisted in the white linen of her nightgown, and whispered, “You once told me that if Castleton hurt me, he wasn’t doing it right.”
He stilled. “Yes.”
She met his eyes. “You’re not doing it right.”
He was across the room in an instant, on his knees at the side of the bed, his hands on hers, sending rivers of excitement and heat and elation through her even as she knew she should push him away and return him, immediately, out the window through which he came, three stories be damned.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “I should be anywhere but here.” He bowed his head, his forehead coming to rest on their hands. “But I had to see you. I had to explain.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing to explain,” she said. “You are marrying another.” She heard the hitch in her voice, the slight hesitation between the first and second syllables of another. Hated it.
Closed her eyes. Willed him gone.
Failed.
“You told me you wouldn’t marry. Another lie.”
It was as though she hadn’t spoken. He did not deny it. “You’ve been crying.”
She shook her head. “Not on purpose.”
One side of his beautiful mouth rose in a crooked smile. “No, I don’t imagine it was.”
Something about the words, soft and filled with humor and something else, made her suddenly, startlingly irritated. “You made me cry,” she accused.
He went serious. “I know.”
“You are marrying another.” She repeated the words for what seemed like the hundredth time. The millionth. As though if she said them enough, they would lose their meaning. Their sting.
He nodded. “As are you.”
She’d been engaged for as long as they’d known each other. But somehow, his impending marriage was a greater betrayal. It was illogical, she knew, but logic did not appear to have a place here.
Another reason she did not like it.
“I hate that I’ve made you cry,” he said, his fingers flexing over hers.
She stared down at the place where their hands were intertwined, loving the play of freckles over his skin, the soft down of the ginger hair there, between the first and second knuckle. Her thumb rubbed across his index finger, and she watched the strands move, stretching and bending before they snapped back to their original place, instantly forgetting her touch.
She spoke to those hairs. “When I was a child, I had a friend named Beavin.” She paused, but did not look at him. He did not speak, so she continued, not entirely knowing where she was going. “He was kind and gentle, and he listened ever so well. I used to tell him secrets—things that no one else knew. Things that no one else would understand.”
His grip on her hands tightened, and she met his gaze. “But Beavin understood. He explored Needham Manor with me. He helped me discover my love for science. He was there on the day that I stole a goose from the kitchens and dissected it. I blamed him for it. And he never minded.”
His gaze darkened. “I find I don’t care much for this perfect companion, Pippa. Where is he now?”
She shook her head. “He went away.”
His brows snapped together. “Where?”
She smiled. “Wherever imaginary friends go.”
He exhaled harshly, lifting one hand to her temple, pushing a mass of hair back from her face. “He was imaginary.”
“I never understood why others couldn’t see him,” she whispered. “Penny used to humor me . . . pretend to interact with him, but she never believed in him. My mother tried to shame him away.” She shrugged, then said, simply, “But he was my friend.”
He smiled. “I like the idea of you and your imaginary friend dissecting a goose.”
“There were a great deal of feathers.”
The smile became a laugh. “I imagine there were.”
“And not near as much blood as one might think,” she added. “Though I did scare a maid nearly to death.”
“In the name of science.”
She smiled then. “In the name of science.”
He leaned forward, and she knew he was about to kiss her. Knew, too, that she couldn’t allow it. She pulled back before their lips could touch, and he immediately retreated, releasing her and sitting back on his heels. “I am sorry.”
She stood, placing distance between them, Trotula coming to stand sentry beside her. She let her fingers work the dog’s soft ears for a long moment, unable to look at Cross. Unable to stop looking at him. “I don’t know why I told you that.”
He rose, but did not come closer. “About Beavin?”
She looked down at the floor. “It’s silly, really. I don’t even know why I thought of him. Except . . .” She trailed off.
He waited a long moment before prompting her to continue. “Except . . . ?”
“I’ve always been different. Never had many friends. But . . . Beavin didn’t mind. He never thought I was odd. And then he disappeared. And I never met another person who seemed to understand me. I never thought I would.” She paused. Gave a little shrug. “Until you.”
And now you’ll go away, too.
And it would hurt more than losing an imaginary friend ever could.
She wasn’t sure she would be able to manage it.
“I can’t help but think,” she started, then stopped. Knowing she shouldn’t say it. Knowing, somehow, that it would make everything harder. “I can’t help but think . . . if only I’d . . .”
He knew it, too. “Don’t.”
But she couldn’t stop it. She looked up at him. “If only I’d found you first.”
The words were small and sad, and she hated them, even as they brought him to her—his hands to her face, cupping her cheeks and tilting her up to him. Even as they brought his lips to hers in a kiss that robbed her of strength and will and, eventually, thought.
His long fingers threaded through her hair, holding her still as he lifted his lips, met her gaze, and whispered her name before taking her mouth again in long, lavish strokes. Again and again, he did the same, whispering her name against her lips, her cheek, the heavy pulse at the side of her neck, punctuating the word with licks and nips and sucks that set her aflame.