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.