Pippa and the Prince of Secrets by Grace Callaway

30

As Pippa ushered Cull into her cottage, he halted abruptly.

Grabbing his chest in an exaggerated manner, he declared, “God’s teeth, woman. Your beauty could stop a man’s heart.”

Cull’s playful appreciation set off happy ripples in Pippa. She had hoped that he would like her new dress. She hadn’t worn anything this beautiful in a long time and had fretted that the golden gown might be a bit much for an intimate night at home. Yet tonight felt like an occasion: the celebration of a new chapter in her relationship with Cull.

Perhaps Cull shared that sentiment, for he’d taken obvious pains with his appearance as well. He removed his stylish new hat, revealing that his chestnut-brown hair had been trimmed and combed into gleaming waves. He wore a Prussian blue frock coat and mustard-yellow brocade waistcoat expertly tailored to his strapping form. A matching stripe of yellow ran down the sides of his dark trousers, which skimmed his muscular legs. Even his cravat was perfection, tied in an elegant De Joinville.

Best of all, he hadn’t bothered with his mask.

“Thank you, sir.” Smiling, she curtsied. “You look exceedingly handsome yourself.”

Color rose on Cull’s broad cheekbones, deepening the chocolate brown of his eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck, muttering, “Fanny has been nagging me to visit her husband’s tailor. I obliged her.”

“I shall have to thank Mrs. Grier when I see her next.”

Cull looked around the small antechamber. “Where are the servants?”

“I dismissed them for the eve. I thought privacy would be nice—”

Her words faded into a gasp as Cull pulled her into his arms and kissed her senseless.

“Now that is a proper hello,” she said breathlessly when they parted.

“Been thinking about kissing you for days.” He brushed his knuckles along her jaw before taking her hand. “Now show me your home, sunshine.”

Pippa gave him a tour of her cottage. Although she didn’t think her residence was all that interesting, Cull studied her belongings as if they were objects on display in a museum. He seemed fascinated by the most ordinary things: the cabinet filled with her collection of ceramic figurines, the ormolu clock and other bric-a-brac on the mantel, her painting implements which had been collecting dust on a shelf.

They ended up in her sitting room, where she’d had a small table set up for supper. Pippa’s heart skipped a beat when he went over to Portrait of a Lady Dreaming, which sat in a corner facing the wall. Crouching, he flipped it around.

He rose and asked, “Wasn’t this the picture at that fancy exhibition?”

Even now, the sight of the painting tightened Pippa’s chest. She saw her hand moving across the canvas, creating the oppressive damask-lined walls and that one bright pane of glass. And the lady herself, with her red-gold hair and longing eyes, staring out the window, dreaming of the love that would set her free.

Looking at the portrait, Pippa saw her loss and guilt immortalized in swirls of paint.

“Yes,” she said tautly. “The Royal Academy selected the piece for its exhibition.”

“Then what’s it doing on the floor?”

She wanted to tell him. The truth she’d buried so long. Yet the old vise of guilt clamped around her throat.

“I am just careless, I guess. Anyway, I don’t want supper to get cold. Let’s eat, shall we?”

Her pulse hammered as he studied her, his head angled.

Then he came over. “Whatever you want, sunshine. As it happens, I’m famished.”

Relieved, she said, “That’s good, because I asked Cook to prepare a special supper.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I suppose I’m hungry for food, too.”

They went to the round table by the fire, which Whitby had set cozily for two. The butler’s romantic soul showed in the crisp white table linens, beeswax tapers, and epergne arranged with fragrant hothouse roses. He’d laid out the best china and silverware, and a cart stood next to the table, the tiers filled with cloche-covered dishes. A frosted bottle of champagne waited in a silver bucket.

Cull held out a chair for her. Then he lifted the champagne bottle, opening it with an expert pop. He filled her glass, then his own.

Sitting, he raised his flute. “To you, sunshine.”

She tapped her glass to his. “To us.”

Cull took a gulp. “Delicious. I wonder what else your cook has in store for us.”

“I was instructed that we are to start at the top of the cart and work our way down.”

Cull removed the covers from the top dishes, serving the hors d’oeuvres, which consisted of oysters au naturel, chilled and served in their shells with lemon and dill. Pippa smiled as Cull consumed his appetizer with gusto.

“You really are hungry,” she commented.

“Spent the day cleaning up after the Squibb mess.” He reached for the basket of bread, slathering butter on the crusty roll. “Didn’t have time to eat.”

“In your note, you said the Squibb matter was handled?”

“The bastard has branded himself a coward,” Cull said matter-of-factly. “No one in the stews will work for him again. And anyone thinking about taking over the mudlarks will think twice.”

“No one was hurt?” she asked worriedly.

“I nicked one bastard in a knife fight, and Fair Molly shot Squibb’s hand when he tried to shoot me in the back.” Cull’s brawny shoulders moved up and down. “The blighters will survive.”

The thought of how close Cull had come to being hurt chilled Pippa to the marrow. Shivering, she made a mental note to thank Molly.

But what if something had happened? I should have been there.

Cull had uncovered the soup tureen, releasing a spicy aroma.

“Mulligatawny is my favorite,” he said with satisfaction.

“If there’s trouble again, I want to help,” Pippa said in a rush.

He looked up at her, his surprise evident. “It’s just mudlark business, sweeting—”

“Mudlark business is your life, and I want to be part of it. I didn’t want to interfere this time because you obviously had everything in motion. But in the future, I want to know what is going on and assist however I can.”

“You want to be involved with the larks?”

She didn’t know what to make of his sudden stillness. He stared at her, his features taut, his eyes dark and watchful. With sudden wrenching anxiety, she wondered if she’d overstepped. Although they’d talked about sharing each other’s lives, maybe he’d only meant certain aspects. Maybe he only wanted companionship…and sex. Most men kept their public and domestic spheres separate, after all.

She remembered how Edwin had hidden his financial problems and use of drugs from her. How he’d berated her whenever she’d asked about money or his strange and secretive behavior.

“A man doesn’t like a woman who meddles,”he would say in tones of frigid displeasure.

“Pippa?”

She started. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“Where did you go just now?” Cull’s tone was quiet.

“Nowhere.” Angry at herself for letting the past dig its claws into her once more, she fumbled for a response. “I…I was thinking about your question. And I don’t want to intrude where I’m not wanted.”

Hearing herself, she cringed. She sounded so meekand pathetic. Where was her spine, her fire? She focused on her soup, stirring the thick golden liquid as she tried to calm her raging emotions.

“You’re wanted.”

Her gaze flew up. Cull was watching her with a burning intensity, as if she were the only thing that existed for him. Her heart thrashed against her ribs.

“I want you, Pippa. Not just in my bed, but in my life,” he went on. “I know we talked about sharing things, but I wasn’t sure how far the sharing went. I’ve never done this before. Never wanted to do this with anyone but you. And if you are saying that you want to help me with the mudlarks, that you want to be part of that life…I cannot tell you what that means to me.”

I want everything with you,her heart cried. What came out was, “Longmere didn’t paint Portrait of a Lady Dreaming. I did.”

Panic besieged her. Why did I blurt that?

Cull cocked his head. “I know.”

She stared at him. “How could you possibly know?”

“I arranged for a private viewing of the exhibition. When I saw the painting, I knew it was your work,” he said steadily. “I’m no art expert, but Longmere wasn’t capable of capturing such…such feeling.”

“The critics hailed it as evidence of Longmere’s buried genius. They praised his technique. Said that if only he’d lived longer, he might have been one of the greatest painters of his generation.”

“They’re idiots.”

“They’re experts,” she countered.

“Experts can be idiots.” Cull reached over and covered her hand where it lay on the table. His strong, callused grip warmed her chilled skin. “I don’t know technique from a toenail, but I do know this: Longmere was not capable of understanding that woman’s feelings, never mind rendering it in paint. A cove like him would never know what it was like to love someone with his whole heart, to be willing to give himself up for that person…only to find that he’d been alone in his dream. Nor would he understand the sadness, yearning, and hope of a dreamer’s heart.”

Cull’s insight pierced her to the quick.

A tear sliding down her cheek, she confessed, “That painting killed my husband. It is my fault he’s dead.”

Unable to stand her pain, Cull pulled Pippa into his arms and carried her over to the turquoise settee. He sat her on his lap and said gently, “Explain.”

“Longmere was obsessed with his art. With showing the world his genius. It was all he cared about, and I wanted him to have his dream.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “One night, I found him passed out in his studio, with this painting half-finished. I thought he’d been drinking…I didn’t know he’d been taking a new drug called Devil’s Bliss, which was more potent than even opium. Because of the upcoming exhibition, he’d put so much pressure on himself, had worked day and night. Yet when I saw this piece, I knew that it wouldn’t gain him the recognition he craved.” Her breath hitched. “So I…I fixed it.”

It was as Cull had suspected. The emotion of the portrait—the luminous longing and pain—was pure Pippa. It was her eyes in the model’s face, her heart that lit up the paint.

“Go on,” he said.

“When Longmere came to, he thought he’d created his masterpiece. I was overjoyed that I’d finally given him what he wanted. I thought we would be happy at last.”

The crack in her voice made Cull want to slam his fist into something. That bacon-brained bastard Longmere had had everything…and he’d thrown it away for his pride. For his insatiable need for glory.

“Longmere never suspected your hand in the painting?” Cull asked.

She shook her head. “Before we were married, he would say he found my artistic endeavors charming. But after we were married…I had the sense that he didn’t like our shared interest.” She bit her lip. “He would make comments about my ‘dabbling’ and how I was wasting time on a hobby instead of properly attending to my role as a countess. I didn’t want to displease him, so I painted less and less.”

Cull struggled to throttle his anger. He stroked her back, soothing himself as well as her.

“Anyway, Longmere attributed his new success to the Devil’s Bliss,” she said in hollow tones. “Unbeknownst to me, he was taking more and more of it in hopes of replicating what he’d done with Portrait of a Lady Dreaming. He got himself entangled with the villains who’d introduced him to the drug and ended up being a part of their nefarious operations. Eventually, Longmere was murdered by one of his depraved cronies.”

When you make your nest with vipers,Cull thought dourly, chances are you were going to get bit.

“I fail to see how that makes you responsible for Longmere’s death,” he said.

Sniffling, she said, “If I hadn’t tampered with his work, maybe he wouldn’t have taken more of the drug. Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten involved with those villains. Maybe he would still be alive today.”

“That reasoning is shit, and you know it,” Cull said.

Her gaze flared, and he was glad for it. Glad to see that golden fire back in her eyes.

“It is not shit—”

“It’s as daft as a brush. You didn’t kill Longmere—his bastard of a crony did.”

“I hastened him down that dark path,” she said stubbornly.

“He took his own bloody self on that trip. With his arrogance and conceit.”

“I was his wife. I should have known…”

“A countess and a mind reader, are you? Never mind that he was deliberately keeping you in the dark about his nasty habits.”

Pippa pinched her brows. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Doing what?”

“Arguing with me so I won’t feel as guilty.”

“And what, exactly, are you guilty of, Pippa?” he challenged. “What is it that you truly cannot forgive yourself for?”

He saw the answer blaze in her eyes.

“I let him do it,” she said hoarsely. “I let him make me feel small and insignificant. Let him cut me off from the people and things I love best. I let him take away who I am.” Rivulets ran down her cheeks. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Even if you are a bit daft,” he said gently, “I love you.”

She made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. He tucked her head against his shoulder, holding her as the poison drained out. He fished out a handkerchief, wiping at her tears.

When the storm passed, he asked, “Better?”

She took his handkerchief and blew her nose. “Yes. But I’ve ruined your nice cravat.”

“It was too tight anyway.”

She let out a watery laugh. “Why do I always end up in tears around you?”

“Must be my charming personality.”

“Being charming isn’t your forte—”

“I know,” he said dryly.

“But you are honest, noble, and kind.” She touched his jaw. “And I’m so lucky that you’re my lover.”

“I’m the lucky one,” he said and meant it.

Her fingers trailed lower, tangling in his damp neckcloth. His breath quickened when she tugged it free. The glow of her smile lit his world.

“Then let’s show each other how lucky we are,” she whispered.

Pippa gradually awakened. Without opening her eyes, she smiled.

She rubbed her cheek against Cull’s warm, naked chest, his clean musk filling her nose. Their limbs were entwined, his burly arm holding her close, her top leg intimately wedged between his. This was the best way to wake up.

And what they’d done before was the best way to fall asleep.

Dreamily, she took in her lover’s boyish yet rugged appeal. The tousled sweep of hair over his brow and the sensual curve of his bottom lip. She ran her gaze over his prime form, from the carved planes of his chest to the delicious trail of hair that disappeared beneath the sheet. She was intimately acquainted with where that hair ended, had worshipped that destination with her hands, mouth, and pussy last night. Cull had let her do whatever she wished.

And he’d made a few requests in return.

Taking her hand, he’d guided it down her stomach…all the way to her sex.

“Touch yourself,”he’d said.

She’d laughed nervously. “Why? You’re here.”

“I like to watch.”

His wicked desire had sent a hot spark dancing along her spine. She’d done what he asked, and he hadn’t lied: his member had grown long and hard as he watched her. Seeing her effect on him and hearing his sensual encouragement had brought her right to the edge.

“Frig your sweet pearl for me,”he’d ordered. “Do it harder. I want your fingers glistening with your pleasure.”

When she climaxed, he stretched atop her, thrusting deep inside. Her spasms were so lush and decadent that she didn’t know if he was prolonging her bliss or making her come again. Snagging her hand, he’d brought it to his mouth, sucking her fingers as he drilled into her.

“Christ’s blood, you’re delicious, Pippa,”he’d growled.

In between the lusty bouts, he’d cuddled her close. His whispered words of love were a balm to her spirit. With that last sliver of the past dislodged, she felt herself finally healing. Forgiving herself for her mistakes allowed her to see the future more clearly. To see what she wanted…and whom she wanted it with.

I love you.Cull had given her that gift as he had so many things, without strings or expectations. While the answering response had thumped in her chest, she hadn’t felt quite ready to give voice to it yet. When she gave her heart to Cull, she wanted it to be fully healed and whole. She wanted to be a woman who was secure in herself and her desires…because Cull deserved no less. A man like him deserved everything.

In time, she was certain she would be the woman to give him that.

Meanwhile, what she could give him was…breakfast. They’d been so busy devouring one another that they’d never gotten back to supper. He would be famished when he woke up, and she wanted to have a nice meal waiting for him.

Extricating herself, she donned a wrapper and slippers and went downstairs. The house was quiet; she’d given the staff the day off to have as much privacy with Cull as possible. Although she had work to do—Marg had sent her a note yesterday, with a list of actresses who’d performed in The Grove of Love—she could at least share a lazy breakfast in bed with Cull before they went their separate ways.

In the kitchen, Pippa hummed as she rummaged through the larder for eggs, butter, and bacon. Her grandmama had taught her the culinary basics, insisting that a lady ought to know how to cook, even if she didn’t do it herself. While Mama didn’t have any interest in domestic matters, Pippa had enjoyed the hours in her grandmama’s kitchen. She put the skills she’d learned to use, frying the bacon and using the rendered fat to cook the eggs.

She inhaled the delicious smells, listened to the sizzle and pop of the eggs. The yolks were a bright yellow against the creamy whites, the edges a lacy golden brown, a beautiful contrast to the ruby-hued bacon and black iron pan. And it was then that she noticed it.

How alive she felt. Her love of the ordinary had returned. She had a sudden desire to dust off her brushes and paint again.

Smiling, she turned to get the bread for toasting—and let out a startled shriek when two figures blocked her path.

Pippa’s scream jolted Cull out of bed. He yanked on his trousers, grabbed his knife, and barreled out of her room. He took the stairs three at a time, smelling bacon… Pippa had dismissed the servants, so she must be cooking. He rushed down to the kitchen, his blood raging at the sound of a booming male voice.

Gripping his knife, Cull charged into the room.

And stopped short.

Pippa stared at him with panic in her eyes. His field of attention expanded to include the man and woman flanking her… Her parents?

Bloody. Fucking. Hell.

In the electrified silence, Cull saw that Gavin Hunt hadn’t changed much over the years, except for some grey mixed into his tawny hair. He was still burly and larger-than-life, the knife scar on his right cheek a memento of his underworld roots. He slitted his gaze at Cull, a muscle ticking on his jaw. Beside him, Mrs. Hunt, a pretty blonde with merry blue eyes, looked like she was trying not to laugh.

Aware that he was half-naked in the presence of his lover’s parents, Cull felt his face burn.

“It’s been a while, Cullen.” Hunt’s deep tones dripped with menace. “Put down the bloody knife. I want a word with you.”