“But if you did?”

And because he seemed genuinely intrigued, she said, “I would have gone to university. I would join the Royal Horticultural Society. Or maybe the Royal Astronomical Society—then I would know the difference between Polaris and Vega.”

He laughed.

She continued, enjoying the way she could be free with him. “I would marry someone I liked.” She paused, instantly regretting the way the words sounded on her tongue. “I mean—I don’t dislike Castleton, he is a nice man. Very kind. It’s just . . .” She trailed off, feeling disloyal.

“I understand.”

And for a moment, she thought he might.

“But all that is silly, you see? Natterings of an odd young lady. I was born into certain rules, and I must follow them. Which is why I think it is likely easier for those who live outside of society.”

“There you are, seeing in black and white again.”

“Are you saying it’s not easier for you?”

“I am saying that we all have our crosses to bear.”

There was something in the words—an unexpected bitterness that made her hesitate before she said, “I suppose you speak from experience?”

“I do.”

Her mind spun with the possibilities. He’d said once that he did not think on marriage. That it was not for him. Perhaps at one time, it had been. Had he wanted to marry? Had he been refused? Because of his name, or his reputation, or his career? Title or no, he was an impressive specimen of man—clever and wealthy and powerful and rather handsome when one considered all factors.

What lady would refuse him?

The mystery lady in the garden had.

“Well, either way, I am happy that you are not a peer.”

“If I were?”

You would be like none I have ever met. She smiled. “I would never have asked you to be my research associate. I have compiled a list, by the way. Of my questions.”

“I expected nothing less. But you don’t think it would make everything easier if I were a peer? No skulking about in gaming hells.”

She smiled. “I rather like skulking about in gaming hells.”

“Perhaps.” He stepped closer, blocking out the light from the house. “But perhaps it is also because when you complete your research, you can walk away and forget it ever happened.”

“I would never forget it,” she said, the truth coming quick and free. Pippa flushed at the words, grateful for the shadows that kept the color from him.

But she wouldn’t forget this. In fact, she had no doubt that she would harken back to this night when she was Lady Castleton, rattling around in her country estate with nothing but her hothouse and her dogs to keep her company.

And she certainly would not forget him.

They were quiet for a long moment, and she wondered if she’d said too much. Finally, he said, “I brought you something.” He extended a brown-paper-wrapped package toward her.

Her breath quickened—a strange response to a small box, no doubt—and she took the parcel, pushing away Trotula’s inquisitive wet nose and quickly unwrapping it to discover a domino mask on a bed of fine paper. She lifted the wide swath of black silk, heart pounding.

She looked up at him, unable to read his gaze in the darkness. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “You will need it.” He turned away from her then, moving quickly across the gardens.

Trotula followed.

Pippa did not wish to be left behind. She hurried to keep up with man and beast.

“Are we . . . we are going somewhere public?”

“Of a sort.”

“I thought . . .” She hesitated. “That is, I was under the impression that the instruction would be in private.” She lifted her reticule. “I cannot ask you about the specifics in public.”

He turned back, and she nearly plowed into him. “Tonight is not about specifics. It is about temptation.”

The word slid through her, and Pippa wondered, fleetingly, if it was possible that language was somehow made more powerful in the absence of light. It was a silly question, of course. Obviously, the senses were heightened when one was removed. She couldn’t see him, so she heard him all the more.

It had nothing to do with the word itself.

Temptation.

He began walking once more, adding, “To understand how to tempt a man, you must first understand temptation yourself.”

She followed, hurrying to catch up. “I understand temptation.”

He slid her a look.

“I do!”

“What tempts you?” They had arrived at a black carriage, and Mr. Cross reached up to open the door and lower the stepping block. The spaniel leapt into the carriage happily, surprising them both into laughter.

She snapped her fingers. “Trotula, out.”

With a sad sigh, the dog did as she was bid.

Pippa pointed to the house. “Go home.”

The hound sat.

Pippa pointed again. “Home.”

The hound refused to move.

Cross smirked. “She’s somewhat unbiddable.”

“Not usually.”

“Perhaps it’s me.”

She cut him a look. “Perhaps so.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re rather unbiddable around me as well.”

She feigned shock. “Sirrah, are you comparing me to a hound?”

He smiled, flashing eyes and white teeth causing a strange little flutter to take up residence in her stomach. “Maybe.” Then, “Now. Let’s return to the task at hand. What tempts you, Pippa?”

“I—” She hesitated. “I care a great deal for meringue.”