She couldn’t resist teasing him, “You’re an expert in the classics, as well, I gather?”

“You mean you are not?” he retorted, drawing a laugh from her before adding, “Orpheus is one of my favorites.”

She looked to him. “Why?”

His gaze was locked on the night sky. “He made a terrible mistake and paid dearly for it.”

With the words, everything grew more serious. “Eurydice,” she whispered. She knew the story of Orpheus and his wife, whom he loved more than anything and lost to the Underworld.

He was quiet for a long moment, and she thought he might not speak. When he did, the words were flat and emotionless. “He convinced Hades to let her go, to return her to the living. All he had to do was lead her out without looking back into Hell.”

“But he couldn’t,” Pippa said, mind racing.

“He grew greedy and looked back. He lost her forever.” He paused, then repeated, “A terrible mistake.”

And there was something there in his tone, something that Pippa might not have noticed at another time, in another man. Loss. Sorrow. Memory flashed—the whispered conversation in this very garden.

You shouldn’t have married him.

I didn’t have a choice. You didn’t leave me with one.

I should have stopped it.

The woman in the garden . . . she was his Eurydice.

Something unpleasant flared in her chest at the thought, and Pippa couldn’t resist reaching out to touch him, to settle her hand on his arm. He jerked at the touch, pulling away as though she’d burned him.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Until she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “You made a mistake.”

He slid his gaze to her fleetingly, then stood. “It’s time to go. Your lesson awaits.”

Except she did not want to go anymore. She wanted to stay. “You lost your love.” He did not look to her, but she could not have looked away if a team of oxen had driven through the gardens of Dolby House in that moment. “The woman in the gardens. Lavinia,” she said, hating that she could not simply keep quiet. Don’t ask, Pippa. Don’t. “You . . . love her?”

The word was strange on her tongue.

It should not surprise her that he had a paramour, after all, there were few men in London with the kind of reputation that Mr. Cross had as both a man and a lover. But she confessed, he did not seem the kind of man who would be drawn to more serious emotions—to something like love. He was, after all, a man of science. As she was a woman of science. And she certainly did not expect for love to ever make an appearance in her own mind.

And yet, in this strange moment, she found she was desperate to hear his answer. And there, in the desperation, she discovered that she was hoping that his answer would be no. That there was no unrequited love lurking deep in his breast.

Or requited love, for that matter.

She started at the thought.

Well.

That was unexpected.

His lips twisted at the question, as he turned his face from the light and into the darkness. But he did not speak. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Lady Philippa.”

She rose to face him, keenly aware of how much taller he was than she, keenly aware of him. “I find I cannot help myself.”

“I have noticed that.”

“I only ask because I am intrigued by the idea of your loving someone.” Stop it, Pippa. This is not the path down which intelligent young ladies tread. She changed tack. “Not you, that is. Anyone. Loving someone.”

“You have opposition to love?”

“Not opposition so much as skepticism. I make it a practice not to believe in things I cannot see.”

She’d surprised him. “You are no ordinary female.”

“We have established that. It is why you are here, if you recall.”

“So it is.” He crossed his long arms over his chest, and added, “So you wish to tempt your husband, whom you do not expect to love.”

“Precisely.” When he did not immediately respond, she added, “If it helps, I do not think he expects to love me, either.”

“A sound English marriage.”

She considered the words. “I suppose it is, isn’t it? It’s certainly like any of the marriages to which I am close.”

His brows rose. “You doubt the fact that Bourne cares deeply for your sister?”

“No. But that’s the only one.” She paused, considering. “Maybe Olivia and Tottenham, too. But my other sisters married for much the same reason as I shall.”

“Which is?”

She lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. “It is what we are expected to do.” She met his gaze, unable to read it in the darkness. “I suppose that doesn’t make sense to you, seeing as you are not an aristocrat.”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “What does being an aristocrat have to do with it?”

She pushed her spectacles up on her nose. “You may not know this, but aristocrats have a great many rules with which to contend. Marriages are about wealth and station and propriety and position. We cannot simply marry whomever we wish. Well, ladies can’t at least.” She thought for a moment. “Gentlemen can weather more scandal, but so many of them simply flop over and allow themselves to be dragged into uninspired marriages anyway. Why do you think that is?”

“I wouldn’t like to guess.”

“It is amazing what power men have and how poorly they use it. Don’t you think?”

“And if you had the same powers?”

“I don’t.”