Another lie. One of how many?

Pain shot through her, sharp and almost unbearable, her chest tightening, making it difficult to breathe. He was marrying another.

And it hurt.

She lifted one hand, rubbing at the spot closest to the ache, as though she could massage it away. But as she looked from the man she loved to his future wife, she realized that this pain wouldn’t be so easily assuaged.

Her whole life, she’d heard of it, laughed at it. Thought it a silly metaphor. The human heart, after all, was not made of porcelain. It was made of flesh and blood and sturdy, remarkable muscle.

But there, in that remarkable room, surrounded by a laughing, rollicking, unseeing collection of London’s brightest and wickedest, Pippa’s knowledge of anatomy expanded.

It seemed there was such a thing as a broken heart.

Chapter Fifteen

The human heart weighs (on average) eleven ounces and beats (approximately) one hundred thousand times per day.

In Ancient Greece, the theory was widely held that, as the most powerful and vital part of the body, the heart acted as a brain of sorts—collecting information from all other organs through the circulatory system. Aristotle included thoughts and emotions in his hypotheses relating to the aforementioned information—a fact that modern scientists find quaint in its lack of basic anatomical understanding.

There are reports that long after a person is pronounced dead and a mind and soul gone from its casing, under certain conditions, the heart might continue beating for hours. I find myself wondering if in those instances the organ might continue to feel as well. And, if it does, whether it feels more or less pain than mine at present time.

The Scientific Journal of Lady Philippa Marbury

March 31, 1831; five days prior to her wedding

That night, Pippa did not sleep.

Instead, she lay on her bed, Trotula warm and solid against her side, staring at the play of candlelight over the pink satin canopy above, and wondering, alternately, how it was that she had so thoroughly misjudged Cross, herself, and their situation, and how it was that she’d never noticed that she loathed pink satin.

It was a horrid, feminine thing—all emotion.

A lone tear slid down her temple and into her ear, unpleasant, wet discomfort. She sniffed. There was nothing productive about emotion.

She took a deep breath.

He was marrying another.

She loved him, and he was marrying another.

As was she.

But for some reason, it was his impending marriage that seemed to change everything. That seemed to mean more. To represent more.

To hurt more.

Silly, pink satin. Silly canopies. They didn’t serve a single useful purpose.

Trotula lifted her soft brown head as another tear escaped. The hound’s wide pink tongue followed its path, and the quiet canine understanding set off a torrent of the salty things—a flood of wretched drops and hiccups that Pippa could not halt. She turned onto her side, tears obscuring the silver mask from Pandemonium where it lay on the bedside table, gleaming in the candlelight. She should never have accepted the invitation to the event. Should never have believed it would come without cost—that any of this would come without cost.

The candle’s flame burned as she stared at it, whites and oranges barely wavering above a perfect blue orb. She closed her eyes, the memory of the flame bright even then, and took another deep breath, wishing the ache in her chest would go away. Wishing thoughts of him would go away. Wishing sleep would come.

Wishing she could go back to that morning, eight days earlier, when she’d decided to approach him, and stop herself.

How a week had changed everything.

Had changed her.

What a mess she had made.

Aching sadness rolled through her like a storm, cold and tight and bitterly unpleasant. She cried for who knew how long—two minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe an hour.

Long enough to feel sorry for herself. Not long enough to feel any better.

When she opened her eyes, she returned her attention to the candle, still and unmoving even as it burned unbearably bright. And then it did move, dancing and flickering in an unexpected draft.

A draft followed by a great woof and a thud as Trotula left the bed, tail wagging madly, and threw herself at the doors that led out to the narrow balcony just off Pippa’s bedchamber. Doors once closed, now open, now framing the man Pippa loved, frozen just inside the room, tall and serious and beautifully disheveled.

As she watched, he took a deep breath and ran both hands through thick red hair, pushing it off his face, his high cheekbones and long straight nose stark and angled in the candlelight.

He was unbearably handsome. She’d never in her life longed for anything the way she longed for him. He’d promised to teach her about temptation and desire and he’d done powerfully well; her heart raced at the sight of him, at the sound of his heavy breath. And yet . . . she did not know what came next.

“You are beautiful,” he said.

What came next was anything he wished.

Trotula lifted herself onto her hind legs and planted her forepaws on his torso, whining and sighing, quivering with excitement. He caught the dog with strong hands, keeping her upright and giving her all the affection for which she begged, instantly finding the soft spot on her temple that turned her to mush. She groaned and leaned into him, thoroughly smitten.

For the first time in her life, Pippa wished she did not have a pet. “She is a terrible protector.”

He stilled at that, and the three remained that way for a long moment, silent. “You require protection from me?”

Yes.

She did not reply, instead saying, “Trotula, enough.” The dog returned to all-paws, but did not stop staring up at her new love with her enormous, soulful gaze. Pippa could not fault her traitorous nature. “It seems she likes you.”