The words did not come, so he settled on, “Pippa . . .”

Color flooded her cheeks, a wicked, wonderful blush—the kind that a younger, reckless Cross would have read as invitation. The kind he would have accepted.

Instead, she looked back at her hands, spread them wide, not knowing how those crooked fingertips tempted him. “I’m sorry. That was thoroughly . . . It was . . . that is . . .” She sighed, her shoulders bowing with near-unbearable weight. Finally, she looked up and said, simply, “I should not have said it.”

Don’t ask her. You don’t want to know.

Except he did. Desperately.

“What did you mean by it?”

“I would rather not tell you.”

One side of his mouth kicked up. Even now, when she no doubt wished to do so, she would not lie. “And yet I would know.”

She spoke to her hands. “It’s just that . . . since we met, I have been rather . . . well, fascinated by . . .”

You.

Say it, he willed, not entirely certain what he would do if she did, but willing to put himself to the test.

She took another breath. “By your bones.”

Would she ever say anything expected? “My bones?”

She nodded. “Yes. Well, the muscles and tendons, too. Your forearms. Your thighs. And earlier—while I watched you drink whiskey—by your hands.”

Cross had been propositioned many times in his life. He’d made a career of refusing women’s requests. But he had never been complimented on his bones.

It was the strangest, sexiest confession he’d ever heard.

And he had no idea how to respond.

He didn’t have to, however, as she was pressing on. “I can’t seem to stop thinking about them,” she said, her voice low and filled with utter misery. “I can’t seem to stop thinking of touching them. Of their . . . touching me.”

God help them both, neither could he.

He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t.

But the King himself could have stormed into the room and it wouldn’t have stopped him. “Touching you where?”

Her head snapped up, fast enough to have done damage if she had been standing any nearer—if she’d been standing as near as he would like for her to be. He’d shocked her. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a simple question, Pippa,” he said, leaning back against the desk, impressed with his ability to seem calm while his heart raced and his fingers itched for her. “Where do you imagine coming into contact with my bones?”

Her mouth fell open, honeyed lips soft in their surprise, and he crossed his arms. Her gaze followed the movement, his hands clutching his biceps, the only thing keeping him from grabbing her and kissing her until they were both gasping for air.

“Your hands,” she whispered.

“What about them?”

“I wonder what they might feel like on . . .” She swallowed, and the movement drew his attention to her throat, where her pulse no doubt pounded. He missed the next words on her lips—which was likely best for them both. “On my skin.”

Skin. The word conjured images of pale, beautiful flesh, heated curves and soft swells, of wide expanses open to exploration. She would be sin and silk, and everywhere he touched, she would respond to him. He imagined the sounds she would make, the way she would gasp as he stroked up one leg, the way she would sigh when he ran the flat of his palm down her torso, the way she would laugh when he inevitably found a place where she was ticklish.

She was riveted by his left hand, braced against his arm, and he knew without question that if he moved it, if he reached for her, she would let him have anything he wanted. Everything he wanted.

He did not move it.

“Where, specifically, Pippa?”

She shouldn’t tell him, of course. She should run from this room as quickly as she could . . . no doubt she would be safer on the floor of the casino than she was here, with him. But he wasn’t about to tell her that.

“My hands,” she started, the hands in question splaying wide. “M—my cheek . . . my neck . . .”

As she spoke, she traced the body parts she named—unbeknownst to her, he would wager—and his desire deepened with every word, with every soft touch. Her fingers trailed down the long column of her neck, across the soft, pale skin of her chest, toward the edge of her bodice, where it stilled, hovering there on the green fabric.

He wanted to reach out and rend it in two, to ease the passage of those marvelously flawed fingertips. He wanted to watch her touch every inch of her body, pretending her hands were his.

Damn that. He wanted her to use his hands.

He wanted to do the touching.

No.

“What else?” he said, moving his hand, releasing her from her trance.

She met his gaze, eyes wide, cheeks pink. “I—” She stopped. Took a breath. “I should like to touch you, as well.”

And there, in the simple, unbridled confession, he discovered the last, fragile thread of his control. He was too close to her. He should move. Should place distance between them. Instead he said, “Where?”

He knew he was asking too much of her—this innocent girl who knew the human body but had no knowledge of it. But he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t have her. But he could have this.

Even if he would burn in Hell for taking it.

Hell would be a welcome respite to the torture he suffered now. Here.

“Where would you like to touch me, Pippa?” he prompted after a long silence.

She shook her head, hands spread wide, and for a moment, he thought she might give up. Go home. Disappointment flared, hot and frustrating.

And then she said, simply, “Everywhere.”

The single word robbed him of strength and breath and control, leaving him shattered and raw. And desperate for her.

Desperate to show her pleasure. Some way. Any way.

“Come here.”

He heard the roughness in his voice, the urgency, and was shocked that she was so quick to do his bidding, coming to stand mere inches from him. Her dress was a collection of layers, the topmost fastened by a thick green belt. He pointed. “Open it.”

God help him, she did, as though it were the most normal thing in the world, the edges of the gown falling open to reveal a finer green fabric beneath. “Take it off.”

She shrugged out of the outermost layer, letting it pool at her feet, her breath coming faster. His, as well. “All of it.”

She turned her back to him. She was saying no. Strength where he was weakness. Frustration flared, and he reached out, stopping just short of touching her, of tearing the cloth from her body and replacing it with his own.

Of course she was saying no. She was a lady. And he should not be near her. He was the worst kind of villain, and he should be flogged for what he had done. For what he demanded.

The heavy green wool of her dress lay on the floor at his feet, and he crouched to retrieve it, fingers brushing the fine fabric in desperation, as though it were her skin. As though it were enough.

It had to be.

He cursed himself, promising Heaven and himself that he would pack her back into this dress and send her home, but it was too late.

A layer of linen joined the heavy wool, the soft fabric brushing against his knuckles, still warm from her body. Scorching. His breath caught at the sensation and he froze, knowing with the keen understanding of one who had fallen before that this moment would be his destruction.

Knowing he shouldn’t look up.

Knowing he couldn’t stop himself.

She was clad in nothing but a corset, pantalettes, and stockings, arms crossed over her chest, cheeks flaming—the red wash an irresistible promise.

He fell to his knees.

She couldn’t believe she’d done it.

Even now, as she stood in this marvelous, wicked room, cool air running across her too-warm skin, she couldn’t quite believe she’d removed her clothes, simply because he’d ordered it in that dark, quiet tone that sent strange, little flutters through the pit of her stomach.

She should research those flutters.

Later.

Now, she was more interested in the man before her, on his knees, hands fisted on his long, lovely thighs, eyes roaming over her body.

“You removed your clothes,” he said.

“You asked me to,” she replied, pushing her spectacles up the bridge of her nose.

One side of his mouth rose in the half smile, and he ran the back of one hand across his lips, slow and languid, as though he might well devour her. “So I did.”

The flutters became more pronounced.

He was staring at her knees, and she was suddenly, very aware of the condition of her stockings, a plain, cream wool, chosen for warmth rather than . . . well . . . than this. No doubt they were hideous in comparison to the silk stockings he was used to women wearing in his presence. Miss Tasser likely had stockings in a score of colors, all laced and lovely.

Pippa had always been practical about her undergarments.

She pressed her knees together and tightened her arms across her chest, uncertain, wishing he would reach out for her. When he didn’t, she wondered if she somehow disappointed him—she wasn’t as beautiful as the women he was no doubt used to, but she’d never thought of herself as being unpleasant-looking.

Why wouldn’t he touch her?

She swallowed back the question, hating the way it whispered through her, making her cold and hot all at once, and said, “What next?”

The words came out sharper than she’d intended, but they served their purpose, bringing his attention instantly to her face. He stared at her for a long moment, and she was distracted by his eyes—more pewter than grey, with little black flecks, framed by long, auburn lashes.

As she watched, his gaze flickered to the large chair several feet to her right, then back to her, slow and languid. “Sit.”

It was not what she’d expected. “Thank you, I prefer to stand.”

“Do you want your lesson or not, Pippa?”

Her heart leapt at the words. “Yes.”

The half smile came again, and he inclined his head toward the chair. “Then sit.”

She moved. Sat as primly as possible, back straight, hands clenched tightly on her lap, legs pressed together, as though she were not alone in a casino with one of London’s most notorious rogues, wearing nothing but a corset and pantalettes. And her spectacles.

She closed her eyes at the thought. Spectacles. There was nothing tempting about spectacles. She reached up to remove them.

“No.”

She stilled, her hand halfway to her face. “But—”

“Leave them.”

“They’re not—” she began. They’re not smoldering. They’re not seductive.

“They’re perfect.” He did not move toward her, instead leaning against the heavy ebony desk, extending one long leg in front of him and raising the other knee, propping his arm on it as he watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. “Lean back.”

“I’m quite comfortable,” she said quickly.

One ginger brow rose. “Lean back anyway.”

She retreated on the chair until she felt the soft leather back against her skin. He hadn’t stopped watching her, eyes narrowed, taking in every bit of her, every movement.

“Relax,” he said

She took a deep breath and exhaled, attempting to follow instructions. “It isn’t easy.”

The smile again. “I know.” There was a long moment of silence, and he said, “You’re very beautiful.”

She flushed. “I’m not.” He did not reply. She filled the silence with, “These underclothes are quite old. They were not meant to be . . .” She trailed off as his gaze flickered to the edge of her corset, suddenly tighter. “ . . . seen.”

“I’m not talking about the clothes,” he said, low and dark. “I’m talking about you. All that skin you want me to touch.”

She closed her eyes at the words, mortification and something much more dangerous coursing through her.

He didn’t stop talking. “I’m talking about your lovely long arms and your perfectly shaped legs . . . I find I am quite jealous of those stockings for knowing the feel of you, the warmth of you.” She shifted, unable to keep still beneath the onslaught of his words. “I’m talking about that corset that hugs you where you are lovely and soft . . . is it uncomfortable?”

She hesitated. “Not usually.”

“And now?” She heard the knowledge in the question.

She nodded once. “It’s rather—constricting.”

He tutted once, and she opened her eyes, instantly meeting his, hot and focused on her. “Poor Pippa. Tell me, with your knowledge of the human body, why do you think that is?”

She swallowed, tried for a deep breath. Failed. “It’s because my heart is threatening to beat out of my chest.”

The smile again. “Have you overexerted yourself?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What, then?”

She was not a fool. He was pushing her. Attempting to see how far she would go. She told the truth. “I think it is you.”

He closed his eyes then, hands fisting again, and pressed his head back against the side of the desk, exposing the long column of his neck and his tightly clenched jaw. Her mouth went dry at the movement, at the way the tendons there bunched and rippled, and she was quite desperate to touch him.

When he returned his gaze to hers, there was something wild in those pewter depths . . . something she was at once consumed and terrified by. “You shouldn’t be so quick with the truth,” he said.

“Why?”