Page 10 of The Best Marquess

It seemed he would do literally anything to make Pippa happy. Even suggest going toe to toe with Lady Kingsford in her own damned drawing room, which took an already foolish plan and flew it up to the realm of exceedingly hazardous to one’s health.

But she’d just beamed at him and said he was perfection.

“I do what I can,” he replied, before taking the chewy caramels and eating them two at a time, sighing with happiness when the rich, buttery, burnt sugar taste exploded on his tongue. They didn’t quite soothe his ruffled feathers; this fussy drawing room of watered silk walls, ugly figurines, gilt-framed paintings and backside-hating furniture was like the dowager glaring at him even when she wasn’t present. Such décor had also been replicated in far too many other London townhouses in an attempt to gain her favor. But sweets were a start. Caramels were a reminder that there was good to be had in the world.

Christ. Waxing lyrical over sweets. He truly was a hopeless case.

“Consider those caramels a betrothal gift,” she said impishly. “And no, I don’t expect a gift in return.”

“Too late. Yours should be delivered in the next day or so.”

Pippa hesitated. “It’s not…it’s not a bouquet, is it?”

“Good God no. I think it plainly obvious my rakish ways do not extend to flower beds.”

“Thank heavens. I was concerned that a betrothal might change things between us. That you might think you had to be…romantic or something and start sending posies or complimenting my elbows.”

It was just as well a log in the fireplace chose that moment to move and send a small shower of sparks hissing and crackling into the chimney, for it neatly masked the sound of his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. There. Confirmation once again that Pippa saw him as nothing more than a friend and occasional partner in crime. Forget pain play or the withholding of a lover’s orgasm; a pretend betrothal was a far more devilish torture.

How much easier it would be if his heart weren’t involved, if he could do what so many men with his privilege and position did: set up a mistress with an allowance, cozy townhouse, and carriage; or become a ‘patron’ of the current theater darling.

Except he wasn’t his father and never would be.

It was hard to imagine anything worse than living an empty existence where the only thing that brought joy was cruelly wielding power over women, then discarding them.

“Posies make you sneeze,” said Finn, forcing a jaunty tone. “I believe the scientific reason is…hmmm, now what was the phrase…floral vengeance for being murdered?”

“That is correct.”

“As for your elbows, I cannot in good conscience compliment something that has on several occasions gouged a cavernous pit in my ribcage.”

Pippa nodded. “Fair enough. But do tell me what the gift is. Otherwise, I shall lie awake all night wondering, and the world will regret it tomorrow.”

“Can’t place the world in that much peril. Very well. It will arrive in plain brown paper wrapping. Inside, a book—”

“I love it already.”

“However, you may notice that the cover says something odd like Modern Principles of Chemistry or Learning Mathematical Equations. Trust me when I say the content may differ from that suggested.”

“Oh Finn,” she whispered, her face lighting up as she took his hand. “Is it very naughty? I’ve been searching for another as lusty as The Highland Marauder, but have been sadly disappointed on several occasions. They promise me wickedness, then the next chapter it is morning and they are having a cup of tea!”

“Outrageous.”

“I know! Each time I feel like I’ve been robbed. They toy with me, page after page, then skip away and leave me frustrated. Most recently, in Travails of a Lonely Pirate King, the pirate cut the lady’s stays with his dagger, which I heartily approve of, but then he kicked the cabin door shut, and that was that! Nary a single detail of their bedding. The words fuck or cock or pussy did not appear. I was not impressed. Not impressed at all.”

He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the feel of her fingers covering his, yet willing his body not to react. This whole situation was his personal hell of so close yet so far. Pippa holding his hand but not climbing onto his lap and grinding herself against him. An available chaise, large enough for two, but located in a drawing room rather than a bedchamber. Discussing lusty scenes in books or lack thereof, when they could be creating scorching heat together in real life.

“Exceedingly naughty,” Finn gritted out. “It’s called A Wicked Comte. Set in the Middle Ages, the comte storms a royal castle and takes the king’s bookish sister as his prize. I’ve read it myself, nothing is left to the imagination, and if you gulped wine at each mention of fuck or cock or pussy, you would cast up your accounts within the hour. However, I’d best go now, don’t want the servants reporting back to your grandmother that I stayed here too long. Can’t raise any suspicions before the grand reveal.”

Then, without thinking, he lifted their joined hands and brushed a kiss across her bare knuckles. A mistake, for even as his lips noted skin softer than rose petals, Pippa jerked away from him with a shuddering gasp.

“I…ah…” she stuttered, her cheeks pink. “Was that part of the kissing lessons? Oh dear. I fell at the first hurdle.”

“We’ll have to practice that,” he said quickly. “Forbidden love or passion are the only real reasons for a secret betrothal, and we would be a perfectly acceptable society match. People need to believe we desperately want each other.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” she replied, tentatively holding out her hand again.

Watching Pippa’s face the entire time, Finn kissed her knuckles, then daringly turned her hand over and pressed his mouth to the delicate skin of her wrist. “That’s better.”