Devil in Spring Read online

  Dedication

  To Carrie Feron,

  for all your incredible kindness, hard work, and insight,

  and for making my life and my books more joyful.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Pandora’s Favorite Blancmange

  About the Author

  By Lisa Kleypas

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Evangeline, the Duchess of Kingston, lifted her infant grandson from the nursery tub and wrapped him snugly in a soft white towel. Chortling, the baby braced his sturdy legs and attempted to stand in her lap. He explored her face and hair with grasping wet hands, and Evie laughed at his affectionate mauling. “Be gentle, Stephen.” She winced as he grabbed the double strand of pearls around her neck. “Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have worn those at your bath time. Too much t-temptation.” Evie had always spoken with a stammer, although it was now very slight compared to what it had been in her youth.

  “Your Grace,” the young nursemaid, Ona, exclaimed, hurrying toward her. “I would have lifted Master Stephen out of the tub for you. A fair armful, he is. Solid as a brick.”

  “He’s no trouble at all,” Evie assured her, kissing the baby’s rosy cheeks and prying his grip from her pearls.

  “Your Grace is very kind to help with the children on Nanny’s day off.” Carefully the nursemaid took the baby from Evie’s arms. “Any of the housemaids would be glad to do it, since you have more important things to attend to.”

  “There’s n-nothing more important than my grandchildren. And I enjoy spending time in the nursery—it reminds me of when my children were small.”

  Ona chuckled as Stephen reached for the white ruffled cap on her head. “I’ll powder and dress him now.”

  “I’ll tidy up the bath things,” Evie said.

  “Your Grace, you mustn’t.” Clearly the nursemaid was trying to strike an effective balance between sternness and pleading. “Not in your fine silk dress—you must sit in the parlor and read a book, or embroider something.” As Evie parted her lips to argue, Ona added meaningfully, “Nanny would have my head if she knew I’d let you help as much as I have.”

  Checkmate.

  Knowing that Nanny would have both their heads, Evie responded with a resigned nod, although she was unable to resist muttering, “I’m wearing an apron.”

  The nursemaid left the bathroom with a satisfied smile, carrying Stephen to the nursery.

  Still kneeling on the bath rug in front of the tub, Evie reached behind her back for the flannel apron ties. Ruefully she reflected that it was no easy task to satisfy the servants’ expectations of how a duchess should behave. They were determined to prevent her from doing anything more strenuous than stirring her tea with a silver spoon. And while she was a grandmother of two, she was still slim and fit—easily able to lift a slippery infant from a washtub, or romp with the children through the orchard. Just last week, she had been lectured by the master gardener for climbing over a stacked stone wall to retrieve a few stray toy arrows.

  As she fumbled with the stubborn apron knot, Evie heard a footstep behind her. Although there was no other sound or sign of the visitor’s identity, she knew who it was, even before he sank to his knees behind her. Strong fingers brushed hers away, and the knot was freed with a deft tug.

  A low, silken murmur caressed the sensitive skin at the back of her neck. “I see we’ve hired a new nanny. How delightful.” Clever masculine hands slipped beneath the loosening apron, moving in a supple caress from her waist to her breasts. “What a buxom little wench. I predict you’ll do well here.”

  Evie closed her eyes, leaning back between his spread thighs. A gentle mouth, designed for sin and sensation, wandered lightly over her neck.

  “I should probably warn you,” the seductive voice continued, “to keep your distance from the master. He’s an infamous lecher.”

  A smile came to her lips. “So I’ve heard. Is he as wicked as they say?”

  “No. Much worse. Especially when it comes to women with red hair.” He plucked a few pins from her coiffure until a long braid fell over her shoulder. “Poor lass—I’m afraid he won’t leave you alone.”

  Evie shivered in reflexive pleasure as she felt him kiss his way along the side of her neck. “H-how should I handle him?”

  “Frequently,” he said in between kisses.

  A helpless giggle escaped her as she twisted in his arms to face him.

  Even after three decades of marriage, Evie’s heart still skipped a beat at the sight of her husband, formerly Lord St. Vincent, now the Duke of Kingston. Sebastian had matured into a magnificent man with a presence that both intimidated and dazzled. Since ascending to the dukedom ten years ago, he had acquired a veneer of dignity that befitted a man of his considerable power. But no one could look into those remarkable light blue eyes, alive with glints of fire and ice, without recalling that he had once been the most wicked rake in England. He still was—Evie could attest to that.

  Time had treated Sebastian lovingly, and always would. He was a beautiful man, lean and elegant, his tawny-golden hair now lightly brushed with silver at the temples. A lion in winter, whom no one would cross except at their peril. Maturity had given him a look of cool, incisive authority, the sense of a man who had seen and experienced enough that he could rarely, if ever, be outmaneuvered. But when something amused or touched him, his smile was both incandescent and irresistible.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Sebastian said in a tone of mild surprise, seeming to ponder how he had ended up kneeling on a bathroom rug with his wife in his arms. “I was prepared to debauch a resisting servant girl, but you’re a more difficult case.”

  “You can debauch me,” Evie offered cheerfully.

  Her husband smiled, his glowing gaze moving gently over her face. He smoothed back a few escaping curls that had lightened from ruby to soft apricot. “My love, I’ve tried for thirty years. But despite my dedicated efforts . . .” A sweetly erotic kiss grazed her lips. “. . . you still have the innocent eyes of that shy wallflower I eloped with. Can’t you try to look at least a little jaded? Disillusioned?” He laughed quietly at her efforts and kissed her again, this time with a teasing, sensuous pressure that caused her pulse to quicken.

  “Why did you come to find me?” Evie asked languidly, her head tilting back as his lips slid to her throat.

  “I’ve just received news about your son.”

  “Which one?”

  “Gabriel. There’s been a scandal.”

  “Why is he your son when you’re pleased with him, and my son whenever he’s done something wicked?” Evie asked as Sebastian removed her apron and began to unfasten the front of her bodice.

  “Since I’m the virtuous parent,” he said, “it only stands to reason that his wickedness must come from you.”

  “You h-have that exactly backward,” she informed him.

  “Do I?” Sebastian fondled her slowly as he considered her words. “I
’m the wicked one? No, my pet, that can’t be right. I’m sure it’s you.”

  “You,” she said decisively, and her breath hastened as his caresses became more intimate.

  “Hmm. This must be sorted out at once. I’m taking you straight to bed.”

  “Wait. Tell me more about Gabriel. Does the scandal have something to do with . . . that woman?” It was more or less public knowledge that Gabriel was having an affair with the American ambassador’s wife. Evie had heartily disapproved of the relationship from the beginning, of course, and had hoped it would end soon. That had been two years ago.

  Lifting his head, Sebastian looked down at her with a slight frown. He sighed shortly. “He’s managed to compromise an earl’s daughter. One of the Ravenels.”

  Evie frowned, pondering the name, which sounded familiar. “Do we know that family?”

  “I was acquainted with the old earl, Lord Trenear. His wife was a flighty, shallow sort—you met her once at a garden show and discussed her orchid collection.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Unfortunately, Evie hadn’t liked the woman. “They had a daughter?”

  “Twins. Out for their first Season this year. It seems that your idiot son was caught in flagrante delicto with one of them.”

  “He takes after his father,” Evie said.

  Looking highly insulted, Sebastian rose to his feet in a graceful motion and pulled her up with him. “His father was never caught.”

  “Except by me,” Evie said smugly.

  Sebastian laughed. “True.”

  “What does in flagrante delicto mean, exactly?”

  “The literal translation? ‘While the crime is blazing.’” Picking her up easily, he said, “I believe a demonstration is in order.”

  “But what about the s-scandal? What about Gabriel, and the Ravenel girl, and—”

  “The rest of the world can wait,” Sebastian said firmly. “I’m going to debauch you for the ten thousandth time, Evie—and for once, I want you to pay attention.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said demurely, and looped her arms around her husband’s neck as he carried her to their bedroom.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1876

  Two days earlier . . .

  Lady Pandora Ravenel was bored.

  Bored stiff.

  Bored of being bored.

  And the London Season was barely underway. She would have to endure four months of balls, soirées, concerts, and dinners before Parliament closed and the families of the peerage could return to their county seats. There would be at least sixty dinners, fifty balls, and heaven knew how many soirées.

  She would never survive.

  Letting her shoulders slump, Pandora sat back in the chair and stared at the crowded ballroom scene. There were gentlemen dressed in their formal schemes of black and white, officers in uniform and dress boots, and ladies swathed in silk and tulle. Why were they all there? What could they possibly say to each other that hadn’t been said during the last ball?

  The worst kind of alone, Pandora thought morosely, was being the only person in a crowd who wasn’t having a good time.

  Somewhere in the whirling mass of waltzing couples, her twin sister danced gracefully in the arms of a hopeful suitor. So far Cassandra had found the Season nearly as dull and disappointing as Pandora did, but she was far more willing to play the game.

  “Wouldn’t you rather move about the room and talk to people,” Cassandra had asked earlier in the evening, “instead of staying in the corner?”

  “No, at least when I’m sitting here, I can think about interesting things. I don’t know how you can bear keeping company with tiresome people for hours.”

  “They’re not all tiresome,” Cassandra had protested.

  Pandora had given her a skeptical glance. “Of the gentlemen you’ve met so far, have you met even one you would like to see again?”

  “Not yet,” Cassandra had admitted. “But I won’t give up until I’ve met them all.”

  “Once you’ve met one,” Pandora had said darkly, “you have met them all.”

  Cassandra had shrugged. “Talking makes the evenings pass by more quickly. You should try it.”

  Unfortunately, Pandora was abysmal at small talk. She found it impossible to feign interest when some pompous boor began boasting about himself and his accomplishments, and how well his friends liked him, and how much others admired him. She couldn’t muster any patience for a peer in his declining years who wanted a young bride to serve as his companion and nurse, or a widower who was obviously searching for potential breeding stock. The thought of being touched by any of them, even with gloved hands, made her skin crawl. And the idea of making conversation with them reminded her of how bored she was.

  Staring down at the polished parquet floor, she tried to think of how many words she could make out of the word bored. Orbed . . . robed . . . doer . . . rode . . .

  “Pandora,” came her chaperone’s crisp voice. “Why are you sitting in the corner again? Let me see your dance card.”

  Looking up at Eleanor, Lady Berwick, Pandora reluctantly handed her the small fan-shaped card.

  The countess, a tall woman with a majestic presence and a spine like a broomstick, fanned open the dance card’s mother-of-pearl covers and surveyed the thin bone pages with a steely gaze.

  All blank.

  Lady Berwick’s lips tightened as if they’d been hemmed with a drawstring. “This should have been filled by now.”

  “I turned my ankle,” Pandora said, not quite meeting her gaze. Faking a minor injury was the only way she could sit safely in the corner and avoid committing a serious social blunder. According to the rules of etiquette, once a lady declined to dance because of fatigue or injury, she couldn’t accept any invitations for the rest of the evening.

  Disapproval frosted the older woman’s voice. “Is this how you repay Lord Trenear’s generosity? All your expensive new gowns and accessories—why did you allow him to purchase them for you, if you had already planned to make ill use of your Season?”

  As a matter of fact, Pandora did feel bad about that. Her cousin Devon, Lord Trenear, who had assumed the earldom last year after her brother had died, had been remarkably kind to her and Cassandra. Not only had he paid for them to be well dressed for the Season, he had also provided for dowries substantial enough to guarantee the interest of any eligible bachelor. It was certain that her parents, who had passed away several years ago, would have been far less generous.

  “I didn’t plan to make ill use of my Season,” she mumbled. “I just didn’t realize how difficult it would be.”

  Especially the dancing.

  Certain dances, such as the grand march and the quadrille, were manageable. She could even navigate the galop, as long as her partner didn’t whirl her too quickly. But the waltz presented dangers at every turn . . . literally. Pandora lost her equilibrium whenever she spun in a sharp circle. For that matter, she was also thrown off-balance in darkness, when she couldn’t rely on vision to orient herself. Lady Berwick didn’t know about her problem, and for reasons of pride and shame, Pandora would never tell her. Only Cassandra knew her secret and the story behind it, and had helped to conceal it for years.

  “It’s only difficult because you make it so,” Lady Berwick said sternly.

  “I don’t see why I should go to all this trouble to catch a husband who’ll never like me.”

  “Whether or not your husband likes you is immaterial. Marriage has nothing to do with personal feelings. It is a union of interests.”

  Pandora held her tongue, although she didn’t agree. Approximately a year ago, her older sister Helen had married Mr. Rhys Winterborne, a common-born Welshman, and they were exceedingly happy. So were Cousin Devon and his wife Kathleen. Love matches might be rare, but they certainly weren’t impossible.

  Even so, Pandora found it impossible to imagine that kind of future for herself. Unlike Cassandra, who was a romantic, she had never dreamed of marrying and having ch
ildren. She didn’t want to belong to anyone, and she especially didn’t want anyone to belong to her. No matter how she had tried to make herself want what she should want, she knew she would never be happy in a conventional life.

  Lady Berwick sighed and sat beside her, her spine a rigid parallel to the back of the chair. “The month of May has just begun. Do you remember what I told you about that?”

  “It’s the most important month of the Season, when all the great events are held.”

  “Correct.” Lady Berwick handed the dance card back to her. “After tonight, I expect you to make an effort. You owe it to Lord and Lady Trenear, and to yourself. I daresay you owe it to me as well, after all my efforts to improve you.”

  “You’re right,” Pandora said quietly. “And I’m sorry—truly sorry—for the trouble I’ve caused you. But it’s become clear to me that I’m not meant for any of this. I don’t want to marry anyone. I’ve made plans to support myself and live independently. With any luck I’ll be successful, and no one will have to worry about me any longer.”

  “You’re referring to that parlor game nonsense?” the countess asked, her tone inflected with scorn.

  “It’s not nonsense. It’s real. I’ve just been granted a patent. Ask Mr. Winterborne.”

  Last year, Pandora, who had always loved toys and parlor amusements, had designed a board game. With Mr. Winterborne’s encouragement, she had filed for a patent and intended to produce and distribute the game. Mr. Winterborne owned the largest department store in the world, and had already agreed to place an order for five hundred copies. The game was a guaranteed success, if for no other reason than that there was hardly any competition: Whereas the board game industry was flourishing in America, thanks to the efforts of the Milton Bradley company, it was still in its infancy here in Britain. Pandora had already developed two more games and was almost ready to file patents for them. Someday she would earn enough money to make her own way in the world.

  “As fond as I am of Mr. Winterborne,” Lady Berwick said dourly, “I fault him for encouraging you in this folly.”