No Good Duke Goes Unpunished

Two gentlemen grumbled their congratulations, as Duncan West nodded his appreciation in their direction, his gaze fairly burning as it settled on the other woman. Pippa watched for a moment as one long, porcelain arm reached for her winnings, deliberately brushing against Mr. West’s hand, lingering for a second, maybe less. Long enough for West’s gaze to turn hot. He looked as though he might devour her if they were alone.

The look was familiar.

It was the look Cross gave her when they were alone.

She blushed, looking away, hoping that her new acquaintance would not notice. If she did, it was not obvious when she returned her attention to Pippa. “How did you know I should hit?”

Pippa lifted one shoulder. “A guess.”

“Mere luck?”

Pippa shook her head. “Not lucky, really. The cards on the table were all high. The odds were that you would pull a low one.”

There’s no such thing as luck.

The other woman smiled. “You sound like Cross.”

That the woman gave voice to Pippa’s thoughts did not bother her. That she spoke Cross’s name as though she knew him intimately did. “You have gambled with Cross?” She tried to sound casual. Failed.

The lady turned back to the dealer, indicating that he should deal another round. “Will you play this time, my lady?”

Pippa nodded absently, reaching into her reticule and retrieving a handful of coins. “Please.”

Are you friends with Cross? she wanted to ask. Has he touched you? Kissed you? Have you lain with him? She hated her curiosity. Hated her reticence more.

The cards were dealt. Pippa looked at hers. Ace and three. She and the other woman watched as the dealer attended to the gentlemen at the end of the table for a long moment before her companion said, “I have gambled with him.” The woman asked for a second card. “Hold. But you needn’t worry.”

“I wasn’t—” Pippa stopped. “Hit.”

Six made twenty.

“I shall hold, please. Worry about what?”

The cards were revealed. “Twenty wins.”

The woman clapped politely as two men groaned, and Mr. West raised his glass in their direction. “The student surpasses the teacher.” The woman leaned in. “Cross does not frequent women’s beds.”

Pippa coughed, blindsided by the flood of sensation that coursed through her at the words. She paused, trying to identify it. Relief? No. She didn’t believe it. His reputation preceded him. But hope . . . it might be hope. One could not stop oneself from that errant, unflagging emotion, it seemed.

But even she knew that she should not hope. Not about this.

In fact she should do the opposite of hope. She should . . . unhope. Her winnings slid across the table toward her. “That does not keep him from inviting women to his,” she said, dryly.

The woman laughed. “No, but I’ve never seen that happen either.”

Pippa thought of Sally Tasser. “You haven’t looked hard enough.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Cross is a fair catch. And it’s not just me who thinks it. A dozen I know would have happily joined him there. Most of them for free. Everyone in London wants a piece of Cross. Have for years.”

Pippa stared at her winnings, counting the coins, pretending not to hear. Not to notice the ache in her chest at the thought of other women knowing him. Touching him. Kissing him.

She disliked every one of them.

Irrationally.

She did not like being irrational.

The woman was still talking. “All those long limbs and thick ginger hair. But he’s too good to treat us like the rest. Not one of us has been there—you shouldn’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise.” Pippa’s cheeks warmed, and she was grateful for the mask. Her new acquaintance seemed to notice the flush anyway. “But you have been there, haven’t you?”

God, yes. And it was wonderful.

She shook her head, her body resisting the betrayal in the movement. The lie there. “I am engaged.”

Not that it had mattered an hour earlier.

She started at the thought. At the emotion that came with it.

Guilt.

“That’s not an answer.” Red lips turned up, unaware of her thoughts. “And besides, engaged is not married.”

It was close, though, wasn’t it? It was the closest thing to marriage that there was. Her throat began to tighten.

“You don’t have to admit it, but I think Cross likes you very much, my lady. After all, it is not every day one meets a woman as brilliant as he is.”

She liked him, too.

She shook her head, emotion clouding thought. “I’m not as brilliant as he is.”

If she were, she wouldn’t have landed herself in this moment.

In this mess.

Desperately wanting a man she should not want. Whom she could not have. Not in the long run.

Not unless . . .

She stopped the thought before it could form. She’d made a promise. She would marry Castleton. She had to.

She ignored the ache in her chest at the thought.

She had made a promise.

“If I had to wager, I’d place bets on your being smarter.” The woman turned back to the dealer. “Will you play another round?”

“She will not.”

It was as though they’d conjured him. Pippa turned toward him—unable to stop herself, drawn to his deep voice and his sandalwood scent.

She had the unreasonable desire to toss herself into his arms and press her lips against his and beg him to take her to his office or some dark corner and finish what he’d started earlier in the evening. To make her forget everything else—all of her well-laid plans, all of her carefully constructed research, the fact that she only had six days before she married another man.