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.

A man who was nothing like Cross.

And then she noticed his unmasked grey eyes trained on her companion, the corded muscle in his neck and jaw taut, his lips pressed into a thin, straight line.

He was angry.

“Cross.” The woman laughed his name, apparently fearless. “You should join us. She counts the cards as well as you do.”

His gaze narrowed. “No.”

“So much for Cross and his kindness.” The woman turned back to the baize, lifting a glass of champagne. “I was merely keeping the lady company.”

His fists clenched. “Find other company to keep.”

The woman smiled at Mr. West, dismissing them. “With pleasure.”

Cross turned his grey gaze on her, and his teeth clenched. “My lady,” he intoned, “the tables are no place for you.”

He was angry with her as well.

And, strangely, that made Pippa angry, for certainly she had reason to be. More reason than he did. After all, he wasn’t about to be forced into marriage with a perfectly ordinary, perfectly imperfect for him kind of person. He wasn’t about to have his entire life thrown into disarray. In six days, he would remain fully ensconced in this remarkable existence, all sin and vice and money and beautiful women and food cooked by a chef with more talent than any one man deserved.

And she would be married to another.

No, if someone was going to be angry, it was going to be her.

“Nonsense,” she said, pulling herself straight. “There are women at every one of the tables in this room. And if I were not meant to gamble tonight, I daresay I would not have been invited.”

He leaned close, his words harsh at her ear. “You should not have been invited at all.”

She hated the way the words made her feel, as though she were a small child being punished. “Why not?”

“This place is not for you.”

“As a matter of fact,” she said, allowing her irritation to sound, “I believe I will play another round.”

The woman she’d been speaking to turned back at that, her jaw going lax for an instant before she caught herself and smiled wide. “Excellent.”

He leaned close, his voice lowering to a whisper that only she could hear. “I will not have you here. Not now.”

“I am simply playing cards,” she said, hating the way his words stung, bringing tears to her eyes. She refused to look at him. Refused to risk his seeing the way he moved her.

He sighed, soft and irritated and somehow tempting, the feel of his breath against her shoulder. “Pippa,” he said, the name more breath than sound. “Please.”

There was something in the plea that stopped her. She turned to face him once more, searching his grey eyes, finding something there—pain. Gone so fast she was almost unsure it had been there to begin with. Almost.

She placed one hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles beneath his sleeve flinch at the touch, and whispered back, “Jasper.”

She had no idea where the given name came from; she did not think of him as such. But for the rest of her life, she would remember the way his beautiful grey eyes went wide, then shuttered, as though she’d delivered him a powerful blow. He stepped back, out of her reach, and she couldn’t stop herself from following, coming out of her chair and moving toward him, wanting to take it back—whatever it was she’d done.

For she had absolutely done something.

Something that would change everything. “Wait,” she said, not caring that half of London was in earshot.

He stopped, his hands coming to her shoulders, holding her at a distance. “Go home. Your research is finished.”

Pain shot through her, even as she knew that it was for the best. He had been right, of course. It wasn’t research. It never had been. It had been fear and panic and frustration and nerves, but it had never been research.

And then it had been desire. Temptation. Want.

More.

And if it did not end soon, she might never be able to end it.

Except, she did not want to end it. She wanted it to remain. She wanted to talk and laugh and share with him. She wanted to learn from him. To teach him. She wanted to be with him.

She wanted the impossible.

She shook her head, refusing his request. “No.”

“Yes,” he said once more, the word like ice, before turning and plunging into the crowd. Leaving her. Again.

Infuriating man. God knew she’d had enough of that.

She followed him, tracking his movements above the crowd, where his marvelous hair stood out against the rest of London. Where he stood out against the rest of London. She pushed and elbowed and knocked and strained to catch him, and finally, she did, reaching out for his hand—adoring the fact that neither of them wore gloves, loving the way their skin came together, the way his touch brought wonderful heat in a lush, irresistible current.

He felt it, too.

She knew it because he stopped the instant they touched, turning to face her, grey eyes wild as Devonshire rain. She knew it because he whispered her name, aching and beautiful and soft enough for only her to hear.

And she knew it because his free hand rose, captured her jaw and tilted her face up to him even as he leaned down and stole her lips and breath and thought in a kiss that she would never in her lifetime forget.

The kiss was like food and drink, like sleep, like breath. She needed it with the same elemental desire, and she cared not a bit that all of London was watching. Yes, she was masked, but it did not matter. She would have stripped to her chemise for this kiss. To her skin.

Their fingers still intertwined, he wrapped their arms behind her back and pulled her to him, claiming her mouth with lips and tongue and teeth, marking her with one long, luscious kiss that went on and on until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it. Her free hand was in his hair then, tangling in the soft locks, loving their silky promise.

She was lost, claimed, fairly consumed by the intensity of the kiss, and for the first time in her life, Pippa gave herself up to emotion, pouring every bit of her desire and her passion and her fear and her need into this moment. This caress.

This man.

This man, who was everything she had never allowed herself to dream she would find.

This man, who made her believe in friendship. In partnership.

In love.

Shocked by the thought, she pulled back, breaking the kiss, loving the way his breath came harsh and heavy against her cheek as a collection of whistles and applause sounded around them.

She didn’t care about the onlookers. She cared only for him. For his touch. For this moment.

She hadn’t wanted to stop him—to stop it—but she hadn’t a choice. She had to tell him. Immediately. And she couldn’t tell him while he was kissing her, though she did hope to get back to kissing as soon as possible.

She moved to doff her mask, thinking of nothing but him. “Cross—”

He grabbed her hands, holding them tight. “You’ll be ruined.” He shook his head, urgency coming off him in waves. “You have to leave. Now. Before—”

He was utter confusion—pushing her away even as he held her close. She started to deny him. To tell him what she was feeling, to explain these strange, brave, new emotions. It was there, on her tongue.

I love you.

She was going to say it.

She was going to love him.

And in the wake of her confession, she would resolve the rest.

But before she could speak, a snide voice interrupted. “It seems everyone has been invited to Pandemonium this year. Lady Soon-to-be-a-countess, what a pleasure it is to see you again. And so scandalous now.”

If the voice hadn’t been familiar, the horrid nickname would have identified Digger Knight, suddenly at Pippa’s shoulder. Pippa closed her mouth, turning to face Knight, who had a pretty, unmasked girl in tow, too young and prim to be one of his women.

“Mr. Knight,” Pippa said, unaware of the way she moved, away from the brightly colored man and toward Cross, who stood behind her, warm and firm and right.

Knight smiled, an impressive number of straight white teeth in his head. “You remember me. I’m honored.”

“I don’t imagine you’re easily forgotten,” Pippa said coolly.

He ignored the quip. “You have a particular pleasure this evening, Lady Soon . . .” He trailed off, letting Pippa’s mind go to the kiss, letting her cheeks flush. “. . . You shall be the first to congratulate Cross.”

“Digger,” Cross said, and Pippa realized that he hadn’t spoken since Knight arrived. She looked to him, but he was deliberately not looking at her. “This isn’t part of it.”

“Considering what half of London just witnessed, Cross, I think it is,” Knight said, tone dry and unmoved as he turned to face Pippa.

At the same time, Cross pinned her with his beautiful grey gaze. “Go home,” Cross said urgently. “Hurry. Now.”

His gaze was filled with worry—so much that Pippa was almost willing to agree, her weight shifting, beginning the move to the exit.

Knight cut in. “Nonsense. She can’t leave until she’s heard your news.”

Pippa turned a curious gaze on Cross. “Your news?”

He shook his head, perfectly serious, and a weight dropped in her stomach. Something was wrong. Terribly so.

She looked from him to Knight, to the despondent girl with him. “His news?”

Knight laughed, the sound loud and grating, as though he’d heard a joke that only he found amusing. “I’m afraid I can’t wait for him to tell you himself. I’m too excited. I can’t resist stealing his thunder.”

Her gaze narrowed behind mask and spectacles, and she was grateful for the shield to keep her thoughts from showing. “I don’t imagine I could stop you.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh, I do like a lady with a sharp tongue.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his waistcoat and rocked back on his heels. “You see, darling, you’re not the only one soon-to-be-a-countess . . . the Earl here has asked my daughter to marry him. She has, of course, agreed. I thought you might like to congratulate the pair.” He indicated the couple, neither looking worthy of congratulations. “You have the honor of being the first.”

Her mouth dropped open. It wasn’t true, of course. It couldn’t be.

She looked up at Cross, his grey eyes deliberate in their focus. On anything but her.

She’d misheard. She had to have. He wouldn’t marry another. He’d told her . . . marriage was not in his cards.