He stopped her. “They aren’t experiments.”

She looked up at him, eyes black in that ridiculous mask. He’d like to tear it from her, crush it beneath his boot and take a horsewhip to Chase for having it made. “Of course they are.”

“No, Pippa. They aren’t. They’re a desire for knowledge, certainly, a need for it, even. But more than that, they’re a need for understanding of this thing that you are about to do, that you have refused to stop and that terrifies you. They are a desperate ploy to stop yourself from feeling all the doubt and frustration and fear that you must be feeling. You say you want to understand what happens between men and women. Between husbands and wives. But instead of going to any number of those who know better—who know firsthand . . . you come to me. In the darkness.”

She backed away, even as he stalked her. “I came to you in the middle of the day.”

“It’s always night inside the Angel. Always dark.” He paused, loving the way her lips parted, just barely, as though she could not get enough air. Neither could he. “You came to me because you don’t want it. The ordinary. The mundane. You don’t want him.”

She shook her head. “That’s not true. I came to you because I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.”

“You came to me because you fear that it’s not worth the fuss with him.”

“I came to you because I thought you were a man I would not see again.”

“Liar.” The word was harsh in the small space, at once accusation and accolade.

She looked up at him, those black eyes empty. “You would know. You’ve lied to me from the very beginning with your weighted dice and your false promises and your Mr. Cross.”

“I never lied, love.”

“Even that is a lie!”

“I told you from the beginning that I was a scoundrel. That was my truth.”

She gaped at him. “And that absolves you of your sin?”

“I’ve never asked for absolution.” He reached for the horrid mask, pulling it from her face, regretting the movement the moment he saw those enormous blue eyes, swimming with emotion.

Not regretting it at all.

Adoring it.

Adoring her.

“I told you to leave me. I told you never to come near me.” He leaned in, torturing them both—so close and still an unbearable distance. “But you couldn’t resist. You want me to teach you the things you should learn from him. You want my experience. My sin. My kiss. And not his.”

Her gaze was on his mouth, and he held back a groan at the hunger in those blue eyes. God, he’d never wanted anything the way he wanted her.

“You’ve never kissed me,” she whispered.

“I’ve wanted to.” The words were so simple, they felt like a lie. Want didn’t come close to articulating the way he felt. About her touch. About her taste. About her.

Want was a speck in the universe of his desire.

She shook her head. “Another lie. You can’t even touch me without pulling away as though you’ve been burned. You clearly aren’t interested in touching me.”

For someone who prided herself on her commitment to scientific observation, Philippa Marbury was utterly oblivious.

And it was time he set her straight.

But before he could, she added, “At least Castleton kissed me when I asked.”

He froze. Castleton had kissed her.

Castleton had taken what Cross had resisted. What Cross had left.

What should have been Cross’s.

Vicious jealousy flared, and six years of control snapped. He caught her to him without hesitation, lifted her in his arms, pressed her to the richly upholstered wall, and did what he should have done the first moment he met her.

He kissed her, reveling in the feel of her lips on his, of the way she softened instantly against him, as though she belonged in his arms—his and no one else’s.

And she did.

She made a small, irresistible sound of surprise when he aligned his mouth to hers and claimed it for his own, swallowing the gasp and running his tongue along the full curve of her bottom lip until surprise turned to pleasure, and she sighed—giving herself to him.

And there, in that moment, he knew he would not stop until he’d had all of her. Until he’d heard every one of her little squeaks and sighs, until he’d tasted every inch of her skin, until he’d spent a lifetime learning the curves and valleys of her body and her mind.

It was the years of celibacy. After six years, any kiss would be this powerful. This earth-shattering.

Lie.

It was her.

It would always be her.

Lifting his lips from hers, he whispered, “You do burn me, Pippa. You enflame me.” He pressed her into the wall, pinning her with his body so he could free his hands to explore, to cup her jaw in one hand and tilt her lips to his and gain better access. He took her mouth again, throwing himself into the fire, stroking deep, wanting to consume her, wanting to erase every memory of every other man from her mind.

He ran the edge of his teeth along her lower lip, adoring the way she sighed and lifted her arms to wrap around his neck. And then, dear God, she was kissing him back—his brilliant bluestocking—first repeating his movements, then improving on them until the student surpassed the master to tortuous, nearly unbearable effect.

She writhed against him—as eager for him as he was for her—rocking her hips into his, the rhythm promising more than she could possibly know. He broke the kiss on a groan—a low, wicked sound that rumbled around them in this small, private place.