Pippa looked past her mother to Olivia, who was already back to watching the half dozen young seamstresses on their knees, pinning the hem of her gown, lifting flounces and moving ribbons. “Very nice, Pippa.” She paused. “Not as nice as mine, of course . . .”

Some things did not change. Thankfully. “Of course not.”

Madame Hebert was already helping Pippa up onto her own raised platform, pins lodged firmly between the dressmaker’s teeth as she cast a disparaging gaze along the bodice of the gown. Pippa turned to look at herself in a large mirror, and the Frenchwoman immediately stepped into her line of vision. “Not yet.”

The seamstresses worked in silence as Pippa ran the tips of her fingers over the bodice of the gown, tracing the curves of lace and the stretches of silk. “Silk comes from caterpillars,” she said, the information a comfort in the odd moment. “Well, not precisely caterpillars—the cocoons of the silkworm.” When no one replied, she looked down at her hands, and added, “The Bombyx mori pupates, and before it can emerge as a moth—we get silk.”

There was silence for long moments, and Pippa looked up to discover everyone in the room staring at her as though she had sprouted a second head. Olivia was the first to reply. “You are so odd.”

“Who can think of worms at a time like this?” the marchioness chimed in. “Worms have nothing to do with weddings!”

Pippa thought it was rather a perfect time to think of worms. Hardworking worms that had left the life they’d known—and all its comforts—and spun cocoons, preparing for a life they did not understand and could not imagine, only to be stopped halfway through the process and turned into a wedding gown.

She did not imagine that her mother would care for that description, however, and so she said nothing as the woman began to pin, and the bodice of the gown grew tighter and tighter. After several long moments, Pippa coughed. “It’s rather constricting.”

Madame Hebert did not seem to hear her, instead pinching a quarter of an inch of fabric at Pippa’s waist and pinning it tight.

“Are you sure—?”

Pippa tried again before the modiste cut her a look. “I am sure.”

No doubt.

And then the dressmaker stepped away and Pippa had a clear line to the looking glass, where she faced her future self. The dress was beautiful, fitted simply to her small bust and long waist without making her look like any kind of long-legged bird.

No, she looked every inch a bride.

The dress seemed to be growing tighter by the moment. Was such a thing possible?

“What do you think?” the dressmaker asked, watching her carefully in the mirror.

Pippa opened her mouth to respond, not knowing what was to come.

“She adores it, of course!” The marchioness’s words came on a squeal. “They both adore them! It shall be the wedding of the season! The wedding of the century!”

Pippa met the modiste’s curious chocolate gaze. “And the century has barely begun.”

The Frenchwoman’s eyes smiled for the briefest of instants before Olivia sighed happily. “It shall indeed. And Tottenham shan’t be able to resist me in this dress. No man could.”

“Olivia!” the marchioness said from her place. “That is entirely unladylike.”

“Why? That is the goal, is it not? To tempt one’s husband?”

“One does not tempt one’s husband!” the marchioness insisted.

Olivia’s smile turned mischievous. “You must have tempted yours once or twice, Mother.”

“Oh!” Lady Needham collapsed back against the settee.

Madame Hebert turned away from the conversation, waving two girls over to work on Pippa’s hem.

Olivia winked at Pippa. “Five times, at least.”

Pippa could not resist. “Four. Victoria and Valerie are twins.”

“Enough! I cannot abide it!” The marchioness was up and through the curtains to the front of the shop, leaving her daughters to their laughter.

“That you might some day be wife to the prime minister worries me not a small amount,” Pippa said.

Olivia smiled. “Tottenham enjoys it. He says the European leaders will all appreciate my increased character.”

Pippa laughed, happy for the distraction from the unsettling view of the bride in the looking glass. “Increased character? That is a kind way of putting it.”

Olivia nodded, waving the dressmaker over. “Madame,” she said, quietly, “now that our mother is gone, perhaps we could discuss the particulars of tempting one’s husband?”

Pippa’s brows rose. “Olivia!”

Olivia waved away the scolding and pressed on. “The trousseaus my mother ordered . . . they’re filled with cotton and linen night rails, aren’t they?”

Madame Hebert’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “I would have to pull the orders, but knowing the preferences of the marchioness, there is little designed to tempt in the collections.”

Olivia smiled her sweetest, brightest smile. The one that could win any man or woman in creation. The one that made her the favorite Marbury girl Britain-wide. “But there could be?”

“Oui. The bedchamber is my specialty.”

Olivia nodded once. “Excellent. We both require your very best in that area.” She waved a hand at Pippa. “Pippa most of all.”

That set her back. “What does that mean?”

“Only that Castleton seems the type to require guideposts along the way.” Olivia looked to the seamstress, and added, “I don’t suppose guideposts are an option?”

The Frenchwoman laughed. “I make certain they find their way.”

Guideposts. Pippa recalled her hand on Castleton’s the prior evening. The way he’d smiled down at her, and she’d felt not a twinge of temptation. Not a hint of the knowledge that she sought.

Perhaps Pippa required guideposts.

How was one to know?

“I’m not worried,” Olivia said, her eyes flashing with a knowledge beyond her years, rubied hand tracing the edge of her gown. “Tottenham has no difficulty finding his way.” Pippa felt her jaw go lax. The words called to mind thoughts of much more than kissing. Olivia looked at her and laughed. “You needn’t look so shocked.”

“You’ve—?” She lowered her voice to a bare whisper. “More than the kissing? With the tongues?”

Olivia smiled and nodded. “Last night. There was still kissing, though. And a lovely amount of tongue. In intriguing locations.” Pippa thought perhaps her eyes would roll from her head. “You did not have a similar experience, I gather?”

No!

“How? Where?”

“Well, there’s the answer to my question,” Olivia said dryly, inspecting one long lace sleeve. “I should think the ordinary way. As for when and where, you’d be surprised by how resourceful an intelligent, eager gentleman can be.”

Little Olivia, the youngest Marbury. Deflowered.

Which made Pippa the only Marbury to remain . . . flowered.

Olivia lowered her voice, and added, “I hope for your sake that Castleton discovers his resourcefulness. It’s a very rewarding experience.”

Pippa shook her head. “You—” She didn’t know what to say.

Olivia gave her a look of surprise. “Really, Pippa. It’s perfectly normal for betrothed couples to . . . experiment. Everyone does it.”

She pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “Everyone?”

“All right, apparently not everyone.”

Olivia turned back to the seamstress to discuss the line of her dress, or the cut of the fabric, or something equally inane, unaware of the thoughts rioting in Pippa’s head.

Experiment.

The word echoed through her, a reminder of her encounter with Mr. Cross. She had planned to gain a semblance of understanding prior to marriage, knowing that her interactions with her husband would be rudimentary at best.

But she’d never once imagined that Olivia would . . . that Lord Tottenham and Olivia would . . . had . . . had knowledge of each other. In the biblical sense.

Castleton had never even tried to kiss her. Not in two years of dancing around the edge of courtship. Not in a month of official courtship. Not even last night, at their betrothal ball, after she’d touched him. He’d had plenty of opportunity to ferret her away as they’d stood to one side of the room in stilted silence.

But he hadn’t.

And she hadn’t thought it at all uncommon.

Until now.

Now, when she required experimentation more than ever.

And she’d wagered away her opportunity for it. Utterly.

I will refrain from asking any other men to assist in my research.

The wager rang in her ears as though she’d spoken the words aloud, there and then. She’d wagered and lost. She’d given her word. But now, as her heart and mind raced, she found herself desperate for a solution. It was one thing, after all, for her not to have the experience she wished on her wedding night; it was another entirely for her not to have the experience she was expected to have.

She was to be married altogether too quickly. She caught her own gaze in the mirror. She was wearing her wedding gown, for heaven’s sake.

There was so little time. Research was imperative. With, or without him.

Perhaps she ought to ask Olivia.

Her gaze slid to her sister’s perfect pink smile—filled with knowledge that Pippa hadn’t before seen but could absolutely now identify.

She needed to act. Immediately.

And like that, the solution was clear.

She had to get to the Angel.

With that keen awareness rocketing through her, Pippa stared at her younger sister, beautiful in her own wedding gown, and announced, the words, not entirely false. “I am unwell.”

Olivia snapped her attention back to Pippa. “What do you mean you are unwell?”

Pippa shook her head and put a hand to her stomach. “I am feeling quite . . . unwell.” She considered the girls at her feet, working furiously, ants charging a discarded sweet at a picnic.

“But what of your gown?” Olivia shook her head.

“It’s lovely. And fine. But I must remove it.” The girls looked up in unison. “Now.”

She had research to conduct. Pressing research.

She looked to Madame Hebert. “I cannot stay. I shall have to come back. What with how unwell I feel.”

The Frenchwoman watched her carefully for a long moment. “Of course.”

Olivia looked horrified. “Well, whatever you feel, I don’t wish to catch it.”

Pippa descended from the platform, hurrying for the changing screen. “No. I wouldn’t like for that. For you to feel . . .”

Madame Hebert filled in the rest. “Unwell?”

Pippa supposed that the repetition of the word might be odd. “Sick,” she blurted out.

Olivia’s pert nose wrinkled. “For heaven’s sake, Pippa. Go home. But take a hack. Mother and I will need the carriage to carry all our parcels.”

She did not wait to be told twice. “Yes. I think I shall do just that.”

Of course, she didn’t.

Instead, she restored her clothing to normal, assured her mother that she would be thoroughly safe to make her way home, and left the dress shop, her destination clear and unequivocal.

Head down, cloak tight around her, Pippa headed right down Bond and across Piccadilly, where she and her maid entered a hack together on one side, and Pippa slid across the seat, pulled up the hood of her cloak and whispered a plea for secrecy before exiting, alone, directly through the door on the opposite side.

She slipped, unnoticed, down a narrow alleyway that ran behind St. James’s and counted the buildings from the rear—one, two, three—before stopping before a heavy steel door and giving it a good, firm rap.

No one answered.

She redoubled her efforts. Banging on the steel with the flat of her palm, making an utter racket.

If she were found—

There were a hundred ways to finish that question. Best not to dwell on them.

She knocked again, harder. Faster.

And then, after what seemed like an age, a hidden slot slid open at the center of the great steel door, and black eyes met hers, irritation quickly giving way to surprised recognition.

“What in hell?” The voice was muffled by the steel.

“I am Lady Philippa Marbury,” she announced, but the words were lost in the sound of the slot closing, several locks being thrown on the opposite side of the door, and the scrape of steel on stone.

The door opened, revealing a great, yawning blackness and the largest, most dangerous-looking man she’d ever seen, tall and broad with a scar at his lip and a nose that appeared to have been broken more than once.

A thread of uncertainty coiled through her as she opened her mouth to speak. “I am . . .”

“I know who you are,” he said curtly. “Get in here.”

“I don’t—” she started, then stopped. “Who are you?”

He reached out, one massive hand grasping her arm and pulling her into the club. “Did it not occur to you that someone might see you out there?” he said, poking his head out the door and looking first one way, then the other, down the alley before, satisfied that she had not been seen, closing the door, throwing the locks and turning away from her, pushing through another set of curtains and into a beautifully appointed hallway before bellowing, “What in hell do we pay doormen for? Why isn’t there anyone manning the goddamned door?”

She called out from her place in the entryway. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone manning most of your doors at this time of day.”