And she’d done it for him.
She loved him.
Not nearly as much as he loved her, he imagined.
He closed his eyes, and a knock came at the door of the suite. He turned toward the already opening door. Chase stood in the shadowy space, and while Cross couldn’t see his partner’s eyes, he could sense the censure in them.
“You’re an idiot.”
He leaned back against the window. “It seems that way. What time is it?”
“Half eight.”
She was to marry in less than two hours. Tightness swelled in his chest.
“Temple is returned.”
Cross moved toward Chase, unable to stop himself. “Is she—”
“Preparing for a wedding to the wrong groom, I would imagine.”
Cross turned away. “She is best with Castleton.”
“That’s shit, and you know it.” When Cross did not reply, Chase continued, “But it’s irrelevant. What’s relevant is that Lady Philippa earned us a new casino tonight.”
There was nothing at all relevant about the casino. Cross cared not a bit about it. Or about the exorbitant sum he’d paid for it. “I had to get her out of there. She could have been hurt. Or worse.”
“And so you bought Knight’s debts.” Chase raised a brow. “Three hundred thousand pounds seems like a great deal of money to spend on a lower hell . . . and a woman.”
He’d have paid five times that. Ten times. “It won’t be a lower hell for long. Not in our hands.”
“We could always give it to Lady Philippa as a wedding gift,” Chase said, casually. “She appears to have a knack for running tables.”
The words stung with memory, and Cross turned away, back to the floor of the hell. “That’s precisely why she’s best with Castleton. I turned her into something dark. Something she will regret.”
“The lady does not strike me as one who makes decisions without considering their consequences.”
Cross wished Chase would leave him in peace. He tossed back the scotch, finally. “She is precisely that kind of lady.”
“And you do not think you would make her happy?”
Her words, spoken over the din of the riot the night before, echoed in his ears. I know what will make me happy—you.
It couldn’t be true.
He’d never in his life made someone happy.
He’d only ever been a disappointment.
“No.”
There was a long pause, long enough for Cross to wonder if Chase had left. When he turned to look, it was to find the founder of the Angel seated in a low chair nearby. “That’s why you’re an idiot.”
“Who’s an idiot?” Temple had arrived. Excellent.
“Cross,” Chase said, cheerfully.
“Damn right he is. After last night, I’m half in love with Pippa myself.”
He spun on the other man. “She’s Lady Philippa to you, and I’ll break any part of you that touches her.”
Temple rocked back on his heels. “If you feel that strongly about it, Cross, it strikes me that you are an idiot.”
“Is she well?”
“She’ll be sporting a purple eye . . . not exactly the most fitting of accessories for a bride.”
She’d still be beautiful. “I don’t mean the eye. I mean . . .” What did he mean?
“You mean, did she weep and wail the whole way home?”
Oh God. Had she? He felt ill.
Temple took pity on him. “No. As a matter of fact, she was grave as granite. Didn’t speak at all.”
He couldn’t have known it, but that was the worst thing Temple could have said. The idea of inquisitive, chatty Pippa without words made Cross ache. “Not at all?” he asked.
Temple met his gaze. “Not a word.”
He’d hurt her.
She’d begged him to stay. To love her. To be with her. And he’d refused, knowing he was not for her. Knowing someone else would make her happy. That she would heal. She had to. “She’ll heal,” he said quietly, as though saying it aloud could make it true.
She would heal, and she would be happy.
And that would be enough for him.
Wouldn’t it?
Chase broke the silence. “She may heal . . . but will you?”
Cross snapped his head up, met first Chase’s gaze, then Temple’s.
And, for the first time in an eternity, he told the truth.
“No.”
He’d actually thought he could resist her pull. He thought back to that first morning in his office, when they’d discussed the coupled pendula, the steel drops moving away from, then toward each other, ever drawn together.
He wanted her. Forever.
He was already headed for the door.
Chase and Temple watched as Cross left the room, desperation propelling him toward the woman he loved before it was too late.
Chase poured two tumblers of scotch and passed one crystal glass to Temple. “To love?”
Temple considered the door for a long moment, and drank without speaking.
“No toast?”
“Not to love,” Temple said wryly. “Women may be warm and welcome . . . but they’re not to be trusted.”
“Now that you’ve said it, you know what that means.” Temple raised a black row as Chase toasted him with a grin. “You’re next.”
Cross covered half of London that morning, having left the Angel and gone straight to Dolby House, thinking he could catch Pippa before she left for the ceremony.
Before she made the biggest mistake of his life.
When he’d arrived there, a very stern butler pronounced that the entire family was not at home. Not, celebrating the marriage of the young ladies of the house. Not even, at church. Simply, not at home.
If Cross hadn’t been so terrified that he’d missed her, he would have laughed at the ridiculous moment—utterly aristocratic in its understatement. Instead, he’d returned to his curricle with a single goal. Get to the church. Immediately.
Immediately on London mornings was easier spoken than done, and by the time he turned down Piccadilly into what appeared to be a never-ending throng of traffic, he’d had enough. Did no one in this entire town understand that the woman he loved was marrying another?
And so, he did what any self-respecting gentleman would do: he left the damned carriage in the middle of the street and took off at a dead run.
Thank heavens for bipedal locomotion.
Moments later, he turned the corner to the final peal of church bells, signifying the call to service at St. George’s.
He tore toward the church, stopping traffic with height and determination, and very likely the fact that few ever raced through Mayfair.
Few ever had anywhere so very important to be.
Few ever had anyone so very important to love.
He climbed the stone steps to the church door two at a time, suddenly quite desperate to be quick about it, in case he missed the bit where he was to now speak, else hereafter forever hold his peace.
Not that he would forever hold his peace if he were too late.
Indeed, he wasn’t leaving this church until he could forever hold Philippa Marbury—soon to be Philippa Arlesey, Countess Harlow if he had anything to do with it.
His hand came to the steel handle, and with a deep breath, he tugged open the door, unlocking the low drone of a minister.
The wedding had begun.
“Dammit,” he said, muscles tensing, ready to carry him straight down the aisle and into Pippa’s arms, damn Castleton, damn the congregation, damn the minister if any of them thought to stop him.
“You shouldn’t curse in church.”
He froze at the words, which came from behind him.
She was several feet away, by one of the great stone columns that marked the exterior gallery of the church.
Not inside.
Not at the altar.
Not marrying Castleton.
The door closed once more, leaving them in the cold, grey quiet, and he couldn’t stop himself. He reached out and pulled her to him, lifting her from the ground, holding her close enough to feel the heat of her through a half dozen layers of clothing, close enough to revel in her smell and her shape and the way she gave herself up to him whenever he touched her. And there, on the steps of St. George’s, in full view of God and London, he kissed her, loving her little sighs and the flexing of her fingers as she threaded them through his hair and forgot that the entire city could see them.
He broke the kiss before it consumed them both and pulled away, cupping her face in his hands. “I love you.” She sucked in a breath at the words, and he ran his thumb gently across the wicked bruise that encircled one of her enormous blue eyes. “My God,” he whispered, consumed by emotion, before he repeated, “I love you so much.”
She shook her head, tears welling. “You never said it.”
“I’m an idiot.”
“You are, rather.”
He gave a little laugh and kissed her again, softly, lingering on her lips, wishing they were anywhere but here, in about the most public place in Mayfair. “I never believed I was worthy,” he said, placing a finger over her lips when she started to speak—to correct him. “I never believed I was worthy of my family . . . of my sister . . . of happiness. And then you came along and made me realize that I am utterly, completely unworthy of you.”
She grabbed his finger, pulled it away. “You’re wrong.”
He smiled. “I’m not. There are a hundred men—many of whom are inside that church right now—who deserve you more. But I don’t care. I’m a greedy bastard, and I want you for myself. I can’t imagine a life without you and your unsettling logic and your beautiful mind and your terribly named hound.”
She smiled at that, and he could breathe again, thinking for a moment that he might win her. That he might succeed. The thought pushed him on. “And I don’t care that I’m unworthy of you. Which probably makes me the worst kind of man . . . precisely the kind of man whom you should not marry. But I vow here and now that I will do everything I can to make myself worthy of you. Of your honesty and your kindness and your love.”
He paused, and she did not speak . . . staring up at him, eyes enormous behind her spectacles.
His salvation. His hope. His love.
“I need you, Pippa . . .” he said, the words soft and ragged. “I need you to be my Orpheus. I need you to lead me out of Hell.”
The tears in her eyes spilled over then, and she threw herself into his embrace. He wrapped her tight in his arms and she whispered in his ear, “Don’t you see? I need you, as well. Two weeks, I’ve struggled under the weight of what you do to me . . . what you make me feel. How you own me, body and soul.” She pulled back, meeting his gaze. “I need you, Cross or Jasper or Harlow or whoever you are. I need you to love me.”
And he would. Forever.
He kissed her again, filling the caress with everything he felt, with everything he believed, with everything he vowed. When it ended, they were both breathing heavily, and he pressed his forehead to hers once more. “You did not marry him.”
“I told you; I couldn’t.” She paused, then, “What were you going to do?”
He wrapped her in his arms again, caring only for being near her. For keeping her close. “Whatever it took.”
“You would have stopped Olivia’s wedding?” She sounded shocked.
“Do you think she would have forgiven me?”
She smiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Do you think you would have forgiven me?”
“Absolutely. But I’d already stopped the wedding.” She grimaced toward the door. “There shall be wicked gossip when everyone realizes it . . . but at least Olivia will be a viscountess by then.”
He’d repair it. He’d make Tottenham prime minister and Olivia the most powerful woman in England.
And he’d make Pippa a countess for the ages.
“You wouldn’t have married him,” he said, rocked by gratitude to whatever higher power had brought her to him. Had kept her from marrying the wrong man.
“I told you once that I do not care for dishonesty,” she said. “And there is nothing more dishonest, I find, than pledging to love one man when I have given my heart entirely to another.”
She loved him.
“It seems impossible,” he whispered, “that you might love me.”
She came up on her toes and pressed a kiss to the point of his chin. No one had ever kissed him there. No one had ever loved him as she did. “How strange,” she said, “as it seems quite impossible that I might not love you.”
They kissed again, long and lush, until his options were end the caress or throw her down onto the great stone steps of Mayfair’s parish church and have his way with her. With regret, he chose the first option, breaking the kiss.
Her eyes remained closed for a long moment, and he stared down at this beautiful, brilliant woman who was to be his forever, quiet satisfaction like he’d never known spreading warm and welcome through him.
“I love you, Philippa Marbury,” he whispered.
She sighed and smiled and opened her eyes. “Do you know, I’ve always heard people say they heard bells ringing when they were very very happy . . . but I’ve always thought it an aural impossibility. And yet . . . now . . .”
He nodded, loving her thoroughly, his strange, scientific beauty. “I hear them, too.” And he kissed her.
The smartest couple in London did hear bells—a happy, cacophonous symphony celebrating the end of the marriage ceremony uniting the new Viscount and Viscountess Tottenham . . . a ceremony both Pippa and Cross seemed to have forgotten.