“It gives me too much control.”

“I trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.” He leaned forward, bracing his arm against his raised knee. “You are not safe with me.”

She had never once felt unsafe with him. “I don’t think that’s correct.”

He laughed, low and dark, and the sound rippled through her, a wave of pleasure and temptation. “You have no idea what I could do to you, Philippa Marbury. The ways I could touch you. The wonders I could show you. I could ruin you without thought, sink with you into the depths of sin and not once regret it. I could lead you right into temptation and never ever look back.”

The words stole her breath. She wanted it. Every bit of it. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but no sound would come.

“You see? I’ve shocked you.”

She shook her head. “I have shocked myself.” His gaze turned curious, and she added, “Because I find that I would like to experience those things.”

There was a long moment of silence, in which she willed him to move, to come to her. To touch her. To show her.

“Show me,” he said, the words seeming to come from her thoughts.

Startled, she said, “I—I beg your pardon?”

“Before, you told me that you wished I would touch you. Show me where.”

She couldn’t. But her hand was already moving, already trailing up the bones of her corset to the place where silk met skin. The edge of the stays was lower than the line of the dress had been, mere centimeters from—

“Your breasts?”

She flushed at the words. “Yes.”

“Tell me how they feel.”

She closed her eyes, focused on the question. On the answer. “Full. Tight.”

“Do they ache?”

So much. “Yes.”

“Touch them.” Her eyes flew open, captured instantly by his. “Show me how you wish I would touch you.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“But why not you? Your hands are here . . . you are here.”

His gaze darkened, and a muscle leapt in his jaw. “This is all there is, Pippa. I won’t touch you. I won’t ruin you.”

Obstinate man. She was aching and frustrated, could he not see that? “I’m ruined, whether you touch me or not.”

“No. If I don’t touch you, you’re safe.”

“And if I don’t wish to be safe?”

“I’m afraid you haven’t a choice.” He flexed one large hand, as though it ached him. “Shall I tell you what I would do if I could touch you?”

The words were soft and dark and all irresistible temptation. “Yes, please.”

“I would lift them from that prison in which you keep them, and I would worship them in the manner they deserve.”

Oh, my. Her hands froze, rendered unusable by his beautiful, liquid voice.

“And then, when they’d forgotten how it felt to be caged by silk and bone, I would teach you about kissing, just as you asked.” Her lips parted, and she met his gaze, filled with dark promise. “But not on your mouth—on your beautiful breasts. On the soft pale skin of them, on the places that have never seen light, that have never felt a man’s touch. You would learn about the tongue, my little scientist . . . there on those pretty, aching tips.”

The image he painted was graphic and groundbreaking, and she was instantly entranced by the idea of his tongue on her—too entranced to be embarrassed, her hands following his words, teasing, touching, and for a moment she could almost believe it was him touching her. Making her ache. She sighed, and he shifted, straightening, but coming no closer, damn him.

“Would you like me to tell you where else I would touch you?”

“Yes, please.” The words were a whisper.

“So polite.” He leaned forward. “There’s no place for politeness here, my bespectacled beauty. Here, you ask and I give. You offer and I take. No please. No thank you.”

She waited for him to continue, every inch of her humming with excitement, with anticipation.

“Hook one leg over the arm of that chair.” Her eyes went wide at the order. She’d never in her life sat in such a way. She hesitated. He pressed on. “You asked.”

So she had. She moved, opening to him, her thighs widening, the cool air of the room rushing through the slit in her pantalettes. Her cheeks burned and she moved her hands to block his view.

He was watching them, and he made a low sound of approval. “That’s where my hands would be as well. Can you feel why? Can you feel the heat? The temptation?”

Her eyes were closed now. She couldn’t look at him. But she nodded.

“Of course you can . . . I can almost feel it myself.” The words were hypnotic, all temptation, soft and lyric and wonderful. “And tell me, my little anatomist, have you explored that particular location, before?”

Her cheeks burned.

“Don’t start lying now, Pippa. We’ve come so far.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ve explored it before.” The confession was barely sound, but he heard it. When he groaned, she opened her eyes to find him pressed back against the desk once more. “Did I say the wrong thing?”

He shook his head, his hand rising to his mouth once more, stroking across firm lips. “Only in that you made me burn with jealousy.”

Her brows furrowed. “Of whom?”

“Of you, lovely.” His grey gaze flickered to the place she hid from him. “Of your perfect hands. Tell me what you found.”

She couldn’t. While she might know the clinical words for all the things she had touched and discovered, she could not speak them to him. She shook her head. “I cannot.”

“Did you find pleasure?”

She closed her eyes, pressed her lips together.

“Did you?” he whispered, the sound loud as a gunshot in this dark, wicked room.

She shook her head. Once, so small it was barely a movement.

He exhaled, the sound long and lush in the room, as though he’d been holding his breath . . . and he moved. “What a tragedy.”

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of him—of trouser against carpet as he crawled toward her, eyes narrow and filled with wicked, wonderful promise.

He was coming for her. Predator stalking prey.

And she could not wait to be caught.

She exhaled, the breath coming out on a low, shaking sigh that could have become a moan if she weren’t careful and, God help her, she moved her hands, opening to his touch and sight, ready to thank God and Lucifer and anyone else who might have had a hand in this moment for finally, finally bringing him to her.

Except, he didn’t touch her.

“Shall I show you how to find it, lovely?” he asked, and she could have sworn she felt his breath against her hands, hot and tempting. “Where to find it?”

She’d never know where the courage came from—how she pushed past the embarrassment and the shame that should have been there. “Please,” she fairly begged, and he did, in soft, devastating words.

She did as he told her, parting folds of fabric, then folds of a more secret kind, following his whispered instructions, answering his wicked questions.

“So pretty and pink . . . does it feel good, love?”

She whimpered her reply.

“Of course it does. I can smell the pleasure on you . . . sweet and soft and very very wet.” The words brought sensation, a thundering pleasure that she’d never felt before, not even in the dark nights when she’d quietly explored on her own.

“Oh, Pippa . . .” he whispered, turning his head, breathing against the curve of her knee, but not touching—never touching. He was destroying her. “If I were there . . . if my fingers were yours, I would spread you wide and show you how much more pleasurable it can be when the experience is shared. I would use my mouth to give you your second lesson in kissing . . . I would teach you everything I know about the act.”

Her eyes went wide at the raw confession, for she could see it. She could see him, on his knees before her, brushing her hands from her and replacing them with his beautiful, firm mouth, stroking, touching . . . loving. She had no reference for the act—she’d never even imagined it before now—but she knew, without question, that it would be magnificent.

“I would feast on you . . . yes . . . right there, lovely,” he urged her on, rewarding the bold, little movements of her fingers with a growl of pleasure, knowing, even before she did, that she was on the edge of something stunning. “Would you like my mouth there, my sweet?”

Did that happen? Dear heaven. Yes. She wanted it.

“I would stay for hours . . .” he promised. “My tongue would show you pleasure you’ve never known. Over and over. Again and again until you were weak from it. Until you couldn’t bear it, and you begged me to stop. Would you like that, love?”

Her body answered him, rocking against the chair and her hand, giving her everything he promised . . . and somehow none of it. She cried out for him, reaching toward him, desperate for the feel of him, for his strength and sinew.

In that moment, she was his, open and raw, racked with pleasure and somehow, still aching with desire.

Desire only he could slake.

She whispered his name, unable to keep the wonder from her voice, and her fingers grazed his hair, gleaming red silk.

He moved like lightning at the touch, rolling to his feet with a grace that defied six and a half feet of man. He crossed the office, turning his lovely lean back to her, one long arm reaching out to brace himself on a pile of ledgers stacked a dozen high in the corner of the room.

The loss of him was like a blow, stripping her of fleeting pleasure. Leaving her wanting. Empty. Unfulfilled.

His head bowed, candlelight highlighting the ginger strands she itched to touch. She did not move as his shoulders rose and fell once, twice, a third time—his breath coming as harshly as hers did.

“That’s enough research for tonight,” he said to the books in front of him, the words firmer, louder than any of the others he’d spoken that evening. “I promised to teach you about temptation, and I believe I’ve accomplished the task. Dress. I’ll have someone take you home.”

Chapter Twelve

Progress has been made. It appears that there are any number of ways in which the female anatomy might be . . . addressed. Associate revealed more than one of those ways last evening—to remarkable physical result. Unfortunately, Interestingly, the results also had a considerable emotional effect. A personal effect.

But he still didn’t touch me. That, too, had a personal effect.

There is no place in research for personal effects.

The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

March 29, 1831; seven days prior to her wedding

Three days later, Pippa was curled on a low settee in the Dolby House library, failing to read an unprecedented text relating to the cultivation of dahlias. The volume had been delivered directly from the publisher, and a month earlier, Pippa had been desperate for its arrival.

Unfortunately, Mr. Cross had ruined even the excitement of a new book.

Irritating man.

How was it that one man, one moment, could bring her such pleasure and such frustration all at once? How was it that one man could simultaneously consume her and hold her at bay?

It did not seem possible and yet, he’d proven it.

With his soft words and his absent touch.

It was the touch that hurt the most. The lack of it. She’d heard the rumors about him, she’d known what she risked when she asked him to assist her in her research. She’d been prepared to fend him off and push him away and resist his charms.

She’d never once considered the possibility that he would have no interest in charming her.

Though she supposed she should have been prepared for it. After all, if Castleton wouldn’t touch her, who would even dream that a man like Mr. Cross would? It was only logical that he would be more difficult to . . . entice.

Not that she should be angling to entice him at all.

Absolutely not. The only man she should even consider enticing was the Earl of Castleton. Her future husband.

Not the other, infuriating, utterly abnormal man. Oh, he looked ordinary enough. Certainly taller and more intelligent than most, but at first glance, he had the same traits that marked the rest of his species: two arms, two legs, two ears, two lips.

Lips.

It was there that things went awry.

She groaned, dropping one hand to her thigh with enough weight to attract the attention of the hound curled at her side. Trotula looked up, soulful brown eyes seeming to understand that Pippa had lost too many waking hours to thoughts about those lips.

It was abnormal. In the extreme.

Trotula sighed and returned to her nap.

“Lady Philippa?”

Pippa started at the words spoken quietly from the door to the library where Carter, the Dolby House butler, stood at the ready, an enormous package in his hands. She smiled. “You surprised me.”

He came forward. “Apologies, my lady.”

“Have the guests begun to arrive?” The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby was hosting a ladies’ tea that afternoon, designed to gather all the women related to The Wedding. Pippa had spent an hour being primped and prodded before her maid had announced her presentable, and she’d come to the library to hide in advance of the event itself. She stood. “I suppose I must into the fray.”

Carter shook his head. “Not yet, my lady. This parcel arrived for you, however. As it is marked urgent, I thought you might like it straightaway.”