He would save her.

“Maggie’s not a bad hand, Cross. She’ll make you pretty heirs.”

Cross lifted his gaze to follow Knight’s meaning, meeting Maggie’s eyes, recognizing the shock and disappointment there. She didn’t want to marry him any more than he wanted to marry her. He leveled her with a serious look. “Your father is mad.”

“I’m beginning to see that myself,” she replied, and Cross thought that if the situation had been different, he’d have smiled at that.

But the situation was not different.

There was only one course of action.

He approached Knight’s daughter—nineteen years old with mediocre French—dropped to one knee in front of her and said, “I’m afraid I haven’t a choice.”

He had lost so many. This time, he would save one.

The most important one.

Maggie nodded once. “It seems, my lord, that in that, at least, we have a great deal in common.”

Unshed tears shimmered in her brown eyes, and Cross wished he could say something else. Something that would make her feel better about the whole situation. But the truth was, Meghan Margaret Knight believed him a coldhearted man who ran a den of iniquity and made his money on sin. She believed that he consorted with ruffians and prostitutes and scoundrels the likes of her father, and that a marriage to him—once blessed—would be the result of blackmail and coercion, and nothing remotely fonder.

Meghan Margaret Knight, who had not known him for the better part of an hour, already knew more of his truths than Philippa Marbury ever had.

So, instead of comforting her, he lifted one of her gloved hands from where it clutched the green fabric of her skirts, held it in his firm grasp, and said, “Miss Knight, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Pippa was enjoying herself immensely.

She might have spent much of the last weeks unimpressed by the poorly lit, library-quiet main floor of The Fallen Angel, but tonight, she finally understood its appeal. By night, the club filled with light and sound and a long, languorous lick of sin that Pippa could never have imagined if she were not here, now, witnessing it.

Night breathed life into this great stone building, darkness somehow plunging the room into bright, bold light—a whirl of color and sound and thrill that Pippa drank in with heady excitement.

She stood at the center of the main floor of the club, surrounded by masked revelers: men in their dark suits, boldly colored waistcoats their nod to the evening festivities; women in their silks and satins, dresses designed to showcase skin and scandal.

Giving herself up to the movement of the crowd, Pippa allowed them to carry her from one side of the room, where she’d escaped Temple’s chaperone, to the center of the revelry, past piquet and roulette and hazard, and throngs of laughing, masked beauties and their handsome counterparts. She knew better, of course—knew that each of these bodies had flaws, likely significant ones—but somehow, masked, they seemed more than the sum of their parts.

Just as, somehow, suddenly, she seemed more than the sum of hers.

But she did not fool herself into thinking that it was her mask that made her feel so powerful, so different. Nor was it the room.

No, it was the man.

Her heart raced as she recalled the clandestine events of mere moments ago, of the heady, overwhelming touch that she had not expected but that she had craved.

And the kiss.

One hand lifted of its own volition at the thought of that devastating, remarkable caress, the one she had known would be everything she’d imagined and nothing like it, all at once. She regretted the instant that her fingertips brushed her lips—hating that their touch had erased his.

Wishing she could take it back.

Wishing she could find him once more and urge him to restore the memory of his kiss.

A thread of feeling settled deep in her belly, unfurling in slow, steady time as she recalled the moment, as she imagined the softness of his hair in her fingers, of his skin against hers . . . of his lips.

Of his tongue.

The room grew warmer as she realized that even the thought of his touch, of his kiss, of him, made her ache. But it was the location of the ache that unsettled—a deep, secret place that she’d never realized existed.

He showed her things she’d never known about things she’d always thought she understood. And she adored it . . . even as it terrified her.

Even as it made her question everything she thought true.

She resisted the thought, her gaze rising to one large wall of the club, where the Angel’s namesake fell in beautiful glass panels from Heaven to Hell, from good to evil, from sainthood to sin. It was the most beautiful window Pippa had ever seen, the work of true artisans, all reds and golds and violets, at once hideous and holy.

It was the angel himself who fascinated her, the enormous, beautiful man crashing to Earth, without the gifts he’d had for so long. In the hands of a poorer artist, the detail of him would have been less intricate, the hands and feet and face would have been shaped with glass of a single color, but this artist had cared deeply for his subject, and the swirls of darks and lights in the panels were finely crafted to depict movement, shape, and even emotion.

She could not help but stare at the face of the fall—inverted as he fell to the floor of the hell—the arch of his brow, the complex shade of his jaw, the curve of his lip. She paused there, thinking on another pair of lips, another fall. Another angel.

Cross.

Emotion flared, one she did not immediately recognize.

She let out a long breath.

She wanted him—in a way she knew she should not. In a way she knew she should want another. A man destined to be her husband. To be the father of her children.

And yet, she wanted Cross.

This angel.

Was it only desire?

Her heart began to pound—the physical manifestation of a thought she had been unprepared to face. One that overwhelmed and ached and enticed.

“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?”

The words were spoken close and soft, and Pippa spun toward the sound, finding a tall, lithe lady inches away, seated at a card table. She wore the most beautiful gown Pippa had ever seen, a deep, royal purple that fairly glowed against her warm, golden skin. A large topaz hung from a fine gold chain, drawing the attention of all who looked to the decadent plunge of the dress’s bodice. She wore a feathered black mask, too elaborate to see most of her face, but her brown eyes glittered from their frames, and her lips, wine-dark, curved in a wide smile.

The smile was filled with unspoken promise.

The kind of promise Pippa had seen on Miss Tasser’s lips one week prior.

When she did not immediately reply, the woman pointed one long, straight well-manicured finger toward the mural. “The angel.”

Pippa found her voice, nerves and excitement making the words come faster than she’d planned. “It’s beautiful. And very lavish. So much red glass. And violet.”

The lady’s smile broadened. “And the colors mean something?”

Pippa nodded. “To make red glass, they add gold dust. They do it for violet, as well.”

Brown eyes went wide. “How clever of you to know that.”

Pippa looked away; clever was rarely a compliment among women. “I read it once.”

“It’s no wonder Cross enjoys your company, Lady P.”

Pippa’s gaze snapped back to the woman, seeing the knowledge in her gaze. “How did you—”

The lady waved one hand. “Women talk, my lady.”

Sally. Pippa wondered if she should be concerned. Probably.

The woman was still speaking, “He’s a lovely promise, don’t you think?”

“Promise?”

The smile deepened. “Of wickedness. If you’re willing to ask.”

Pippa’s mind spun. How did this woman know what had happened? What they’d done? Had they been spied upon? “Cross?”

She laughed, the sound bright and friendly. “I was referring to the Angel, honestly.” She indicated a chair to her left. “Do you play?”

Grateful for a change of topic, Pippa considered the field of green baize, cards arranged in front of the woman and the four men seated to her right. She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“You should.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s Cross’s favorite.”

She might not have agreed to the game, but the moment the beautiful woman mentioned him, Pippa could not have stopped herself for anything in the world. She sat. “Perhaps I shall watch a round or two.”

The lady smirked. “I suppose understanding the game is important to some.”

Pippa laughed. “I don’t have a great fortune to wager.”

“My guess is that you have more than you think.”

Pippa did not have a chance to reply, as the dealer carefully distributed two cards to the group, one facedown, the second faceup.

“The goal is twenty-one,” the woman said, turning her cards—nine of hearts faceup—to face Pippa and carefully lifting a corner to reveal an eight of clubs. “Knaves, queens, and kings are worth ten,” she said, raising her voice a touch to ensure that the rest of the table heard the reference.

Pippa understood the bluff instantly. “And aces?” she asked, helping her new acquaintance.

“Aces are the best in the deck. Ones or elevens. The card of second chances.”

“Ah. So a good start,” Pippa said, nodding sagely.

“I surrender.”

One of the gentlemen at the table stood, taking half their wagers, and left the table. The mystery woman leaned in to Pippa, and said, “Well done. The man closest to us lacks skill, and the farthest lacks luck.”

“And in the middle?”

The lady made a show of considering the handsome man at the center of the table. “That’s Duncan West. Owns most of the London papers.”

Pippa’s heart began to race. If she were discovered by the newspaperman, she would be ruined. Olivia as well.

Perhaps that would not be so bad. She ignored the thought. “He’s so young,” she whispered, doing her best not to look at the man in question.

“Young and royal-rich. There’s little he lacks. Except, it seems, a night with a good woman.”

Pippa heard the desire in the lady’s tone. “You, I take it?”

The woman turned to her, eyes glittering. “A woman can hope.”

Pippa watched as the gentlemen at the table added cards to the stacks in front of them, quickly learning the simple rules of the game.

When it came time for her companion to wager, the woman turned her shielded gaze to Pippa, and said, “What say you, my lady? Do I hit or hold?”

Pippa considered the table. “You should take a card.”

The other woman inclined her head to the dealer. “The lady suggests I hit.”

Five.

Lips the color of Bordeaux pursed in a perfect moue. “Well, that’s pretty. I shall stay.”

The cards were revealed. Pippa’s companion won. Collecting her winnings, she turned her smile on the rest of the table. “The luck of the novice, don’t you think?”

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.