“No.”
She might be inexperienced, but she knew the mechanics of the act. She placed her hands flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat rioting beneath the touch. “Are you sure? I’ve never read anything about—that is, as I understand it, I should be beneath—”
“Which one of us has done this before?” Fingers stroked deep, underscoring his skill, and she sighed, bones turning to jelly at the long, lush movement.
When it ceased, leaving her empty and wanting, logic returned. “Well, it’s been a bit of time for you,” she pointed out.
He huffed a little laugh, the sound soft and strained and wonderful. “Trust me, my brilliant lady.” He rocked his hips—the tip of him easing into her, sending a thread of nearly unbearable pleasure through her. “I recall the basics.”
And then he slid into her with slow, thorough control, and she thought she might die from the hard heat of him, from the feel of him stretching and filling her, the sensation part pain, part strangeness, and, somehow, all pleasure. Her eyes went wide as he allowed her to sink to the hilt of him, and he froze, staring up at her, worry in his gaze. His hands flew to her hips. “Pippa? Does it hurt, love? Shall we stop?”
She would kill him if he stopped. This was the most astounding thing she’d ever experienced. All the fear and questions and concerns she’d had about this act, this moment . . . they were unfounded. She understood it now, the sighs and blushes and knowing smiles she’d seen in her sisters, in women across London. And she wanted it all . . . every bit of it. “Don’t you dare stop,” she whispered. “It is remarkable.”
She lifted, testing the feel of him inside her, and he let out a harsh, broken curse. “It is, isn’t it?” he agreed, adding, “You’re remarkable.” His hands guided her, lifting her, letting her slide up and back along his hard, hot length. “God, Pippa . . . it feels . . . you feel . . .” He lifted her again, and they both groaned as she slid back to the hilt, the pain gone now, chased away by untenable pleasure. “Is this all right, love?”
She loved him all over again for checking on her comfort, on her pleasure. She lifted herself, experimenting, repeating the movement on her own, her hands settling to his chest as she rode him. “Yes . . . it’s perfect,” she said with reverence. “It’s glorious.” She rocked against him, meeting his eyes before his attention slid down her body, his hands and eyes following the movements she couldn’t help but make.
He guided her, whispering as she found her stride, “That’s it, love . . . do nothing that doesn’t feel right. That doesn’t make you ache and want and need. Take your pleasure, gorgeous girl . . .” The whispered encouragement was punctuated by the hot stroke of his hands over her body—exploring the curves of her br**sts and belly, the soft secrets of her thighs and that place between them where he was changing everything. Where she was changing everything. Where he had relinquished power and control and given her the chance to find her own pleasure.
He was devastatingly seductive in the way he talked to her, in the way he watched her, eyes narrow, hands stroking in time to her rhythm—a rhythm that quickly brought them both to the edge. She couldn’t stop the words from coming again, even as she knew she shouldn’t speak them. “I love you,” she whispered, looking down at him, feeling euphoric and royal and like she’d never felt before.
Feeling like she was finally, finally correct.
Even as she did the least correct thing she’d ever done in her life.
He was moving beneath her then, plunging up as she came down around him, loving the feel of him against her, beneath her, inside her . . . rocking hard and fast against him as he returned his fingers to that place between her thighs, where he seemed to know just how to touch her, how to claim her, how to destroy her. His thumb moved in quick, firm circles as she chased her pleasure—and his. “That’s it, love . . . take it for yourself . . . take it for me.”
“I want it,” she said, the honest desire hot and unbridled. “I want it for you.”
“I know.” He leaned up, sucked the peak of one breast into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth, and the sensation was all she could take—surprise and passion crashed over her, and she fell apart in his arms, her body trembling with the intensity of the moment. She put her hands to his shoulders, her eyes locked with his, blue against grey.
“I love you,” she said, the words tumbling out of her again.
The confession seemed to unlock the last vestige of his control—he clasped her h*ps to his, thrusting and arcing against her, taking her mind and body once more in a storm of passion. “Pippa,” he cried out, and the sound of her name hot and ragged on his lips was enough to send her over the edge once more, instantly, headfirst into an ocean of pleasure. He was there with her this time, strong and sure.
Perfection.
She fell to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. “Pippa,” he whispered at her temple, his heart beating rapidly beneath her ear. “Philippa.”
The reverence in his tone made her ache, and she felt him pull away from her even as he remained inside her, closer than anyone had ever been. More important than anyone had ever been.
She loved him.
And he was to marry another.
Because of her.
She couldn’t allow it. There had to be a better way. A solution that made them both happy. She closed her eyes, loving the feel of his warm chest against her cheek, and for one, fleeting moment, she imagined what it would be like to experience happiness with him. To be his wife. His woman. His partner.
His love.
It was no longer a myth, that mysterious emotion—no longer in doubt. It was real, and it held a power that Pippa had never imagined. One she could not deny.
He was whispering at her hairline, the words more breath than sound. “You are so remarkable. I could lie here forever, with you in my arms, the rest of the world distant. I ache for you, love . . . even now. I imagine I will ache for you forever.”
She lifted her head, meeting his pewter gaze. “You don’t have to.”
He looked away. “I do. You’re my great work, Pippa. You’re the one I can save. I can ensure your happiness. And I shall. And it shall be enough.”
She hated the words. “Enough for whom?”
Something flashed in his eyes. Pain? Regret? “Enough for us both.”
It wouldn’t be, though. Not for her. She knew that without question. “No,” she whispered. “No it shan’t.”
He stroked one hand down her bare back, sending a shiver of awareness through her. “It shall have to be.”
“You don’t have to marry her,” she said, softly, hearing the plea in the words. Loathing it.
“But I do, lovely,” he said, the words soft and firm. “You’ll be destroyed if I don’t. And I won’t have that.”
“I don’t care. You could marry me. If I am able to choose the earl whom I marry, then—”
“No.” He tried to cut her off. She pressed on.
“—I choose you,” she said, her voice breaking on the words.
He held her close, kissing at her temple, whispering her name again before saying, “No you don’t. You don’t choose me.”
Except she did. “Why not?”
“Because you choose Castleton.”
It was somehow truth and lie, all at once. “Just as you choose Knight’s daughter?”
Even as you lie here with me?
His hands stilled on her skin. “Yes.”
“But you don’t know her.”
“No.”
“You don’t love her.”
“No.”
Do you love me?
She couldn’t ask him. Couldn’t bear the answer.
But he seemed to hear the question anyway, hand coming to her jaw, lifting her to meet his gaze . . . his lips.
Yes, she imagined he meant.
He rolled her to her back on the bed, keeping them joined as he settled between her thighs and made love to her mind and soul and body with everything he had, moving in her with quiet certainty, holding her gaze with undeniable intensity. Kissing the swell of her br**sts and the column of her neck and worrying the soft lobe of one ear, whispering her name in a long, lovely litany.
There was nothing brute about this. Nothing beastly.
Instead, it was slow and seductive and he moved for what seemed like hours, days, an eternity, learning her, touching and exploring, kissing and stroking. And as pleasure washed over her in lush waves, rocketing through her until she could no longer hold it, he captured her cries with his lips, finding his own release, deep and thorough and magnificent before speaking again, whispering her name again and again, until she no longer heard the word and instead heard only the meaning.
The farewell.
They lay together for long minutes, until their breath was steady again, and the world returned, unable to be refused or ignored, coming with the dawn in great red streaks across the black sky beyond the window.
He pressed a kiss to her hair. “You should sleep.”
She turned away from time and its march, curling into his heat. “I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want you to go. Ever.”
He did not reply, instead wrapping her tight in his arms, holding her until she could no longer feel the place where she ended and he began, where he exhaled and she inhaled.
“I don’t want to sleep,” she repeated, the threat of slumber all around her. “Don’t let me go to sleep. One night isn’t enough.”
“Shh, love,” he said, stroking one wide hand down her back. “I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.”
Tell me you love me, she willed silently, knowing he wouldn’t, but desperately wishing for it anyway.
Wishing that, even if she couldn’t have him, she might have his heart.
Have his heart. As though he could pluck the organ from inside his chest and hand it to her for safekeeping.
Of course, he couldn’t.
Even if it felt as though she’d done that very thing herself.
Even as she knew it wasn’t safe with him.
It couldn’t be.
He waited a long while before he spoke again, until she was asleep. “One night is all there is.”
When she woke, he was gone.
Chapter Seventeen
There are times for experiments that make for blinding, unexpected outcomes, and there are times for those that are directed by the hand of the scientist.
Cross Jasper A great man once told me that there is no such thing as chance. Having come around to his way of thinking, I find that I am no longer willing to leave my work to chance.
Nor my life.
The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury
April 2, 1831; three days prior to her wedding
Pippa and Trotula walked the mile to Castleton’s handsome town house on Berkeley Square two days later, as though it were an entirely ordinary occurrence for a woman to arrive on the steps of her fiancé’s home with none but a dog as a chaperone.
She ignored the curious glances cast in her direction outside the house just as she ignored the surprise on the butler’s face when he opened the door and Trotula rushed into the foyer, uninvited, even as Pippa announced herself. Within moments, she and the hound were ensconced in a lovely yellow receiving room.
Moving to the windows, Pippa looked out over the square, considering the proper façades surrounding the perfectly landscaped green, and imagining her life here as the Countess of Castleton. Every one of the houses was occupied by one of the most important members of the aristocracy—Lady Jersey lived next door, for heaven’s sake.
Pippa couldn’t imagine the patroness of Almack’s finding time or inclination to either visit her new neighbor or support Pippa’s odd interests. There was no room for anatomy or horticulture in this massive, manicured home.
Viscountess Tottenham rode by, proud as ever, head high from the thrill of being the mother of one of the most powerful men in Britain, future prime minister who was three days from marrying Olivia, the favorite of the Marbury daughters.
It occurred to Pippa that this room, bright and filled with lavish furnishings, on the most extravagant square in London, was the ideal home for Olivia, and that was lucky, as her sister would soon live this life. Happily.
But there was nothing about this place that made it the ideal home for Pippa.
Nothing about its master that made him the ideal husband for Pippa.
Nothing at all to recommend her to this place.
There was no Cross here.
No, Cross appeared to live in a cluttered office on the main floor of a gaming hell, surrounded by papers and strange turmoil, globes and abacuses and threatening oil paintings and more books than she’d ever known one man to have in a single room. There was barely room to move in Cross’s quarters, and still she somehow felt more comfortable there than here . . .
She’d happily live there with him.
The dog sat and sighed, drawing Pippa’s attention. She stroked behind the hound’s ear and received a gentle wag for her troubles.
She imagined Trotula would live there with him, too.
Except they were not invited.
He’d disappeared from her bed on the night of Pandemonium, after claiming her body and soul and ensuring that she loved him quite desperately. For two days, she’d waited for him to return; for two nights, she’d lain in bed, starting at every noise, sure he’d scale the house once more and come to her. Sure he wouldn’t leave her.
Sure he’d change his mind.
He hadn’t.
Instead, he’d left her to think on her own future. Her own choices. Her own heart.