She nodded. “Why should men have access to the wide world and women . . . not?”

“Precisely.”

She paused, then blurted, “Will there be pain?”

He nearly choked.

She mistook the sound for misunderstanding, apparently.

“I mean, I know there will likely be pain for me. But will it hurt him as well?”

No. No, he will find pleasure like he’s never known.

Just as you would if I had anything to do with it.

He held back the words. “No.”

Relief shone in her eyes. “Good.” She paused. “I was concerned that it might be possible to perform incorrectly.”

Cross shook his head once, firmly. “I think you won’t find it difficult to learn.”

Pippa smiled at that. “Anatomy helps.”

He did not want to think about her understanding of anatomy in this context. He did not want to imagine how she would use her simple, direct words to guide her husband, to learn with him. Cross closed his eyes against the vision of those words, of that knowledge on her lips. “Castleton may be a fool, but he’s not an idiot. You needn’t worry about his not understanding the mechanics of the situation.”

“You shouldn’t call him that.”

“Why not? He isn’t my betrothed.” Cross lifted the dice, offered them to her. When she reached to take them, he couldn’t stop himself from closing his palm around her fingers—holding her still. He couldn’t stop himself from saying, softly, “Pippa.”

Her gaze locked instantly with his. “Yes?”

“If he hurts you . . .” He paused, hating the way her eyes went wide at the words.

“Yes?”

If he hurts you, leave him.

If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.

“If he hurts you . . . he’s doing it wrong.” It was all he could say. He released her hand. “Roll again.”

Four and three.

“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “I lost.”

“One less day of your research. That makes nine days.”

Her eyes went wide. “An entire day? For one poor roll?”

“Now you know what it feels like to lose as well as win,” he said. “Which is more powerful? The risk? Or reward?”

She thought for a long moment. “I’m beginning to see it.”

“What is that?”

“Why men do this. Why they stay. Why they lose.”

“Why?”

She met his eyes. “Because the winning feels wonderful.”

He closed his eyes at the words, at the way they tempted him to show her how much more wonderful he could make her feel than those cold dice. “Do you wish to continue?”

Say no, he urged her. Pack up and return home, Pippa. This place, this game, this moment . . . none of it is for you.

As she thought, she worried her lower lip between her teeth, and the movement transfixed him, so much so that when she finally released the slightly swollen flesh, and said, “I do,” he had forgotten his question.

When he did not immediately offer up the dice, she extended her hand. “I would like to roll again, if you don’t mind.”

He did mind. But he relinquished the ivory cubes and she tossed them across the baize with gusto.

“Eight days.” She scowled at the four and three at the far end of the table.

“Again,” she said.

He handed her the dice.

She rolled.

“Seven days.”

She turned a narrow gaze on him. “Something is wrong with the dice.”

He collected the ivory cubes and offered them to her, palm up. “Temptation is not always a good thing.”

“It is when one is preparing to tempt one’s spouse.”

He’d almost forgotten her goal. God, he didn’t want to teach her to tempt another man. He wanted to teach her to tempt him.

He wanted to teach her to let him tempt her.

She took the dice. “Once more.”

He raised a brow. “If we had sixpence for every time those words were spoken beneath this roof, we would be rich men.”

She rolled an eight, and met his gaze. “You are rich men.”

He grinned, passing her the ivory blocks once more. “Richer.”

She rolled once—eleven—twice—four—a third time. “Ah-ha!” she celebrated. “Six and three! Again!” She turned to him, something familiar in her eyes—the heady thrill of the win. He’d seen it countless times in the gaze of countless gamers, and it never failed to satisfy him. That look meant one, unassailable truth: that the gamer in question was in for the night. But now, with Pippa, it failed to satisfy. Instead, it made him ache with desire.

Desire to see the same thrill far from a gaming table, as she won something else entirely.

As she won him.

She reached for her reticule. “I have been keeping a log of my research questions.” Of course she had. God knew what extravagant queries Lady Philippa Marbury had in the name of research. She opened the book, worried her lower lip as she considered the considerable amount of text there, and Cross knew, with the keen understanding of one who had been around a number of enormous wagers in his time, that she was about to ask something outrageous.

He turned away from her and the table, walking to a small sideboard and extracting a bottle of Chase’s finest whiskey, blessedly stored there for trials just such as this one. Pouring himself two fingers of the amber liquid, he looked over his shoulder to find her watching him carefully, paper in hand. “Would you like a drink?”

She shook her head instantly. “No, thank you. I couldn’t.”

His lips twisted in a wry smile. “Ladies don’t drink whiskey, do they?”

She shook her head, matching his smile with her own. “The irony of this situation is not lost on me, I assure you.”

He toasted her and drank the entire glass in one great swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol down his throat—embracing its distraction. “Your question?”

She did not answer for a moment, and he forced himself to look in her direction, where he found her gaze trained on the crystal tumbler he clutched in his hand. He set it on the sideboard with a thud, and the soft sound pulled her from her reverie. She dipped her head, focusing on the small book in her hands.

Because she was not looking at him, it gave him leave to watch the pink wash over her cheeks as she framed the question that was sure to destroy his sanity.

God, he loved to watch her blush.

“I suppose I shall start at the beginning. It appears that I’m utterly lacking in knowledge of the basics. I mean, I understand dogs and horses and such, but humans . . . well, they’re different. And so . . .” She paused, then rushed forward, the words pouring out of her. “I wonder if you could explain the use of the tongue.”

The words were a blow, one of Temple’s strong, unpulled punches, and—just as it happened inside the ropes—it took a moment for the ringing in Cross’s ears to subside.

When it did, she had grown impatient, adding softly, “I understand it has its uses in kissing. And other things, too, if Olivia is to be believed—which she isn’t all the time. But I don’t know what to do with it, and if he were to kiss me . . .”

If he were to kiss her, Cross would take great pleasure in destroying him.

It took every ounce of his strength to keep from leaping over the table, lifting her in his arms, pressing her back against the wall, and ravishing her. He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what would come, but knowing, without a doubt, that if she said one more perfectly reasonable, rational, insane thing, he would not be able to resist her.

Before either of them could speak, there was a knock at the door, and he was saved.

Or perhaps ruined.

Either way, Pippa was saved.

They both looked to the door, surprised and confused by the sound for an instant before he was moving to open it, using his tall frame to block the view into the room.

Chase stood on the other side of the door.

“What is it?” Cross snapped. Smirking, Chase attempted to see past him into the room. Cross narrowed the gap between door and jamb. “Chase,” he warned.

There was no mistaking the smug laughter in Chase’s brown eyes. “Hiding something?”

“What do you want?”

“You have a visitor.”

“I am otherwise occupied.”

“Intriguing.” Chase attempted another look into the room, and Cross could not help the low, unintelligible threat that came at the movement. “Did you just growl? How primitive.”

Cross did not rise to his friend’s bait. “Tell someone to handle it. Handle it yourself.”

“As the it in this scenario is your . . . Lavinia, I am not certain you would like me handling it.”

Lavinia.

Surely he’d misunderstood. “Lavinia?”

“She is here.”

She couldn’t be. She wouldn’t risk herself. She wouldn’t risk her children. Fury flared, hot and quick. “Are we simply allowing entry to every woman in London these days?”

Chase was still attempting to see inside the room. “Some of us are more to blame for the recent rash of peeresses than others. She is in your office.”

Cross swore, harsh and soft.

“Shame on you. In front of a lady, no less.”

He closed the door on Chase’s smug face, turning to Pippa.

What a disaster.

She and his sister, under the same, scandalous roof, and it was his fault.

Goddammit.

He was losing control of the situation, and he did not care for it.

She had edged closer, her curiosity making her brave, and she was only a few feet from him. Two minutes earlier, and he would have closed the distance and kissed her senseless.

But Chase’s intrusion was best for both of them, clearly.

Perhaps he could will it to be true.

He had to deal with his sister.

Now.

“I shall be back.”

Her eyes went wide. “You’re leaving me?”

“Not for long.”

She took a step toward him. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

Thank God for that.

He took a step back, reaching for the handle of the door. “I will be back,” he repeated. “You’re safe here.” He opened the door a crack, knowing that there was little he could do. Lavinia could not be left alone in the casino.

Not that Pippa was entirely trustworthy. Indeed, this lady could wreak no small amount of havoc if she were left to her own devices here, on the Other Side.

For a moment, he hovered between staying and going, finally meeting her big blue eyes and saying in his most commanding tone, “Stay.”

Lord, deliver him from women.

Did he think her a hound?

Pippa circled the hazard table, absently collecting the dice and rotating them over and over in the palm of her hand.

She hadn’t heard much, but she’d heard Cross say her name.

Felt the keen disappointment that came—altogether irrationally—with the syllables on his tongue.

He’d left her, for another woman. For Lavinia. The woman from the gardens.

With nothing more than a masterful, “Stay.”

And he hadn’t even answered her question.

She hesitated, turning to face one long edge of the table, placing her hands on the finely carved mahogany bumper that kept the dice from rolling right off the table and clattering to the floor. She tossed the dice that she had been clutching in frustration, not watching as they knocked against the wood and tumbled to a stop.

The man would learn quickly that she was in no way houndlike.

Leaning over the table, she stared long and hard at the hazard field, mind racing, the green baize, with its white and red markings, blurring as she considered her next course of action. For she certainly was not going to stand by and wait in this tiny, constricting chamber as all manner of excitements occurred in the club beyond.

Not while he scurried off to do whatever it was scoundrels did with women for whom they pined.

And he certainly pined for this Lavinia person.

He’d pined enough that he’d met her clandestinely, at Pippa’s betrothal ball. He’d pined enough that he chased after her today. And he clearly pined enough that honoring his commitment to Pippa was easily forgotten in Lavinia’s presence.

Suddenly, her chest felt quite tight.

Pippa coughed, standing straight, her gaze falling on the closed door to the little room where he’d left her. She lifted one hand to her chest, running her fingers along the bare skin above the edge of the wool bodice, attempting to ease the discomfort.

She took a deep breath, the thought of Cross’s rushing through the gaming hell and into the welcoming arms of his lady—who had clearly realized he was a man worthy of forgiving—overwhelming all others.

She was likely beautiful, petite, and perfectly curved. No doubt, she was one of those ladies who knew precisely what to say in any situation and never ever found herself saying the wrong thing or asking an inappropriate question.

Pippa would wager that his Lavinia could not name a single bone in the human body.

No wonder Cross adored her.

The tightness in her chest became an ache, and Pippa’s hand stilled.

Oh, dear. It was not physiological. It was emotional.

Panic flared. No.

She leaned back over the table, closing her eyes tightly and sucking in a long breath. No. She wouldn’t allow emotion into the scenario. She was here in the interest of discovery. In the name of research.

That was all.

She opened her eyes, searched for a point of focus, and found the dice she’d tossed earlier.