Devil in Spring Read online

  St. Vincent smoothed Pandora’s hair back from her face. “Are you hurt?” His gaze ran over her swiftly.

  “No . . . no.” Helpless giggles kept bubbling up as her nervous tension released. She tried to smother the giddy sounds against his shoulder. “I was . . . trying so hard to be ladylike . . .”

  A brief chuckle escaped him, and his hand moved over her upper back in a calming circle. “I would imagine it’s not easy to be ladylike in the midst of a dog mauling.”

  “Milord,” came the voice of a concerned footman from nearby, “has the young lady been injured?”

  Pandora couldn’t quite hear Lord St. Vincent’s reply over the pounding of her heart. His nearness, the protective arm around her, that gently roaming hand . . . all of it seemed to be awakening parts of her, deep inside, that had never been awake before. A strange new pleasure spread through her and lit every nerve ending like a succession of tiny birthday candles. Her gaze dropped to his shirtfront, the fine layer of handkerchief-weight linen doing little to conceal the hard curves and planes of muscle beneath. Seeing a hint of tawny curling hair where the placket of the shirt fell open, she flushed and recoiled in confusion.

  Raising an exploring hand to her hair, she said vaguely, “My hat . . .” She turned to look for it, only to discover that Ajax had found the little velvet hat with its tempting cluster of feathers. Clamping it in his mouth, the dog shook it playfully.

  “Ajax, come,” Lord St. Vincent said immediately, but the unruly retriever cavorted and jumped, keeping it out of reach.

  Ivo approached the dog slowly. “Ajax, let me have it,” he said in a coaxing tone. “Come on, boy . . .” The dog turned and took off at a run. “I’ll fetch it,” Ivo promised, sprinting after the dog.

  “Me too!” Justin followed, his short legs a blur. “But it’s going to be soggy!” came a dire warning from over his shoulder.

  Shaking his head, Lord St. Vincent watched the retriever scamper across the lawn. “I owe you a new hat,” he told Pandora. “That one will return in shreds.”

  “I don’t mind. Ajax is still a pup.”

  “The dog is inbred,” he said flatly. “He doesn’t retrieve or obey commands, he tries to dig holes in carpets, and as far as I can tell, he’s incapable of walking in a straight line.”

  Pandora grinned. “I rarely walk in a straight line,” she confessed. “I’m too distractible to keep to one direction—I keep veering this way and that, to make certain I’m not missing something. So whenever I set out for a new place, I always end up back where I started.”

  Lord St. Vincent turned to face her fully, the beautiful cool blue of his eyes intent and searching. “Where do you want to go?”

  The question caused Pandora to blink in surprise. She’d just been making a few silly comments, the kind no one ever paid attention to. “It doesn’t matter,” she said prosaically. “Since I walk in circles, I’ll never reach my destination.”

  His gaze lingered on her face. “You could make the circles bigger.”

  The remark was perceptive and playful at the same time, as if he somehow understood how her mind worked. Or perhaps he was mocking her.

  As the empty carriages and wagon were drawn away, Lord St. Vincent guided Pandora toward the entrance of the house. “How was your journey?” he asked.

  “You don’t have to make small talk with me,” she said. “I don’t like it, and I’m not very good at it.”

  They paused in the shade of the portico, beside a sweet-scented bower of roses. Casually Lord St. Vincent leaned a shoulder against a cream-painted column. A lazy smile curved his lips as he looked down at her. “Didn’t Lady Berwick teach you?”

  “She tried. But I hate trying to make conversation about weather. Who cares what the temperature is? I want to talk about things like . . . like . . .”

  “Yes?” he prompted as she hesitated.

  “Darwin. Women’s suffrage. Workhouses, war, why we’re alive, if you believe in séances or spirits, if music has ever made you cry, or what vegetable you hate most . . .” Pandora shrugged and glanced up at him, expecting the familiar frozen expression of a man who was about to run for his life. Instead she found herself caught by his arrested stare, while the silence seemed to wrap around them.

  After a moment, Lord St. Vincent said softly, “Carrots.”

  Bemused, Pandora tried to gather her wits. “That’s the vegetable you hate most? Do you mean cooked ones?”

  “Any kind of carrots.”

  “Out of all vegetables?” At his nod, she persisted, “What about carrot cake?”

  “No.”

  “But it’s cake.”

  A smile flickered across his lips. “Still carrots.”

  Pandora wanted to argue the superiority of carrots over some truly atrocious vegetable, such as Brussels sprouts, but their conversation was interrupted by a silky masculine voice.

  “Ah, here you are. I’ve been sent out to fetch you.”

  Pandora shrank back as she saw a tall man approach in a graceful stride. She knew instantly that he must be Lord St. Vincent’s father—the resemblance was striking. His complexion was tanned and lightly time-weathered, with laugh-lines at the outer corners of his blue eyes. He had a full head of tawny-golden hair, handsomely silvered at the sides and temples. Having heard of his reputation as a former libertine, Pandora had expected an aging roué with coarse features and a leer . . . not this rather gorgeous specimen who wore his formidable presence like an elegant suit of clothes.

  “My son, what can you be thinking, keeping this enchanting creature out in the heat of midday? And why is she disheveled? Has there been an accident?”

  “She was assaulted and knocked to the ground,” Lord St. Vincent began to explain.

  “Surely you don’t know her well enough for that yet.”

  “By the dog,” Lord St. Vincent clarified acidly. “Shouldn’t you have him trained?”

  “Ivo is training him,” came his father’s prompt reply.

  Lord St. Vincent cast a pointed glance toward the distance, where the red-headed boy could be seen chasing after the scampering dog. “It would seem the dog is training Ivo.”

  The duke grinned and inclined his head to concede the point. His attention returned to Pandora.

  Desperately trying to remember her manners, she curtseyed and murmured, “Your Grace.”

  The smile lines at his eyes deepened subtly. “You appear to be in need of rescue. Why don’t you come inside with me, away from this riffraff? The duchess is eager to meet you.” As Pandora hesitated, thoroughly intimidated, he assured her, “I’m quite trustworthy. In fact, I’m very nearly an angel. You’ll come to love me in no time.”

  “Take heed,” Lord St. Vincent advised Pandora sardonically, fastening the loose sides of his vest. “My father is the pied piper of gullible women.”

  “That’s not true,” the duke said. “The non-gullible ones follow me as well.”

  Pandora couldn’t help chuckling. She looked up into silvery-blue eyes lit with sparks of humor and playfulness. There was something reassuring about his presence, the sense of a man who truly liked women.

  When she and Cassandra were children, they had fantasized about a handsome father who would lavish them with affection and advice, and spoil them just a little, but not too much. A father who might have let them stand on his feet to dance. This man looked very much like the one Pandora had imagined.

  She moved forward and took his arm.

  “How was your journey, my dear?” the duke asked as he escorted her into the house.

  Before Pandora could reply, Lord St. Vincent spoke from behind them. “Lady Pandora doesn’t like small talk, Father. She would prefer to discuss topics such as Darwin, or women’s suffrage.”

  “Naturally an intelligent young woman would wish to skip over mundane chitchat,” the duke said, giving Pandora such an approving glance that she fairly glowed. “However,” he continued thoughtfully, “most people need to be guided into a feel
ing of safety before they dare reveal their opinions to someone they’ve only just met. There’s a beginning to everything, after all. Every opera has its prelude, every sonnet its opening quatrain. Small talk is merely a way of helping a stranger to trust you, by first finding something you can both agree on.”

  “No one’s ever explained it that way before,” Pandora said with a touch of wonder. “It actually makes sense. But why must it so often be about weather? Isn’t there something else we all agree on? Runcible spoons—everyone likes those, don’t they? And teatime, and feeding ducks.”

  “Blue ink,” the duke added. “And a cat’s purr. And summer storms—although I suppose that brings us back to weather.”

  “I wouldn’t mind talking about weather with you, Your Grace,” Pandora said ingenuously.

  The duke laughed gently. “What a delightful girl.”

  They reached the central hall, which was airy and bright, with plasterwork and polished oak flooring. A colonnaded double staircase led to the upper floor, its wide banister rails perfect for sliding. It smelled like beeswax and fresh air, and the perfume of the large white gardenias arranged in vases on pillars.

  To Pandora’s surprise, the duchess was waiting for them in the hall. She glowed like a flame in the cool white surroundings, with her gold-freckled complexion and a wealth of rose-copper hair that had been pinned up in a braided mass. Her voluptuous but tidy form was covered in a blue muslin dress, with a ribbon belt tied neatly at her trim waist. Everything about her was warm and approachable and soft.

  The duke went to his wife, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back. He seemed to luxuriate in her presence like a great cat. “Darling,” he murmured, “this is Lady Pandora.”

  “At last,” the duchess said cheerfully, reaching out to take Pandora’s hands into her gentle ones. “I w-wondered what they had done with you.”

  Pandora would have curtseyed, but the duchess was still holding her hands. Was she supposed to curtsey anyway?

  “Why did you keep her outside, Gabriel?” the duchess asked, giving Pandora’s hands a little squeeze before letting go. Pandora quickly did a belated curtsey, bobbing like a duck in a mud puddle.

  Lord St. Vincent described the mishap with Ajax, emphasizing the dog’s lack of discipline to great comic effect.

  The duchess laughed. “Poor girl. Come, we’ll relax and have iced l-lemonade in the summer parlor. It’s my favorite room in the house. The breeze comes up from the ocean and blows right thr-through the screened windows.” A stammer interrupted the rhythm of her speech, but it was very slight, and she didn’t seem at all self-conscious about it.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Pandora whispered, determined not to make a mistake. She wanted to be perfect for this woman.

  They began to walk through the staircase hall toward the back of the house, while the men followed. “Now, if there is anything that would make your visit more pleasant,” the duchess said to Pandora, “you must let me know as soon as you think of it. We put a vase of roses in your room, but if you have a f-favorite flower, you have only to tell us. My youngest daughter Seraphina chose some books for your room, but if there is something more to your taste in the library, we’ll switch them out at once.”

  Pandora nodded dumbly. After some laborious thought, she finally came up with something ladylike to say. “Your house is lovely, ma’am.”

  The duchess gave her a radiant smile. “If you like, I’ll take you on a tour later this afternoon. We have some very good art, and interesting old f-furniture, and some beautiful views from the second floor.”

  “Oh, that would be—” Pandora began, but to her annoyance, Lord St. Vincent interrupted from behind them.

  “I had already planned to take Lady Pandora on an outing this afternoon.”

  Pandora glanced over her shoulder with a quick frown. “I would prefer a tour of the house with the duchess.”

  “I don’t trust you around unfamiliar furniture,” Lord St. Vincent said. “It could be disastrous. What if I have to pull you out of an armoire, or God forbid, a credenza?”

  Embarrassed by the reminder of how they’d met, Pandora said stiffly, “It wouldn’t be proper for me to go on an outing without a chaperone.”

  “You’re not worried about being compromised, are you?” he asked. “Because I’ve already done that.”

  Forgetting her resolution to be dignified, Pandora stopped and whirled to face the provoking man. “No, you didn’t. I was compromised by a settee. You just happened to be there.”

  Lord St. Vincent seemed to enjoy her indignation. “Regardless,” he said, “you have nothing to lose now.”

  “Gabriel—” the duchess began, but fell silent as he slid her a glance of bright mischief.

  The duke regarded his son dubiously. “If you’re trying to be charming,” he said, “I should tell you that it’s not going well.”

  “There’s no need for me to be charming,” Lord St. Vincent replied. “Lady Pandora is only pretending disinterest. Beneath the show of indifference, she’s infatuated with me.”

  Pandora was outraged. “That is the most pomposterous thing I’ve ever heard!” Before she had finished the sentence, however, she saw the dance of mischief in Lord St. Vincent’s eyes. He was teasing, she realized. Turning pink with confusion, she lowered her head. Within a few minutes of arriving at Heron’s Point, she had tumbled on the drive, lost her hat and her temper, and had used a made-up word. It was a good thing Lady Berwick wasn’t there, or she’d have had apoplexy.

  As they continued to walk, Lord St. Vincent fell into step beside Pandora while the duchess followed with the duke. “Pomposterous,” he murmured, a smile in his voice. “I like that one.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t tease,” Pandora muttered. “It’s difficult enough for me to be ladylike.”

  “You don’t have to be.”

  Pandora sighed, her momentary annoyance fading into resignation. “No, I do,” she said earnestly. “I’ll never be good at it, but the important thing is to keep trying.”

  It was the statement of a young woman who was aware of her limitations but was determined not to be defeated by them. Gabriel didn’t have to look at his parents to know they were thoroughly charmed by Pandora. As for him . . .

  He hardly recognized himself in his reaction to her. She was full of life, burning like sunflowers in the rime of autumn frost. Compared to the languid and diffident girls of London’s annual marriage mart, Pandora might have been another species altogether. She was just as beautiful as he’d remembered, and as unpredictable. Laughing after the dog had jumped on her in the front drive, when any other young woman in her place would have been angry or humiliated. As she’d stood there wanting to argue with him about carrots, all Gabriel had been able to think of was how much he wanted to carry her somewhere cool and dark and quiet, and have her all to himself.

  But despite Pandora’s compelling attractions, there was no doubt she was ill-suited to the only kind of life he could offer. The life he’d been born into. He couldn’t renounce his title, nor could he turn his back on the families and employees who depended on him. It was his responsibility to manage the Challons’ ancestral lands and preserve their heritage for the next generations. His wife would be saddled with managing multiple households, performing court duties, attending charity organization committee meetings and foundation-layings, and so on.

  Pandora would hate it. All of it. Even if she did grow into the role, she would never inhabit it comfortably.

  They entered the summer parlor, where the Ravenels chatted amiably with his sisters, Phoebe and Seraphina.

  Phoebe, the oldest of the Challon siblings, had inherited their mother’s warm and deeply loving nature, and their father’s acerbic wit. Five years ago she had married her childhood sweetheart, Henry, Lord Clare, who had suffered from chronic illness for most of his life. The worsening symptoms had gradually reduced him to a shadow of the man he’d once been, and he’d finally succumbed while Phoebe was p
regnant with their second child. Although the first year of mourning was over, Phoebe hadn’t yet returned to her former self. She went outdoors so seldom that her freckles had vanished, and she looked wan and thin. The ghost of grief still lingered in her gaze.

  Their younger sister Seraphina, an effervescent eighteen-year-old with strawberry-blonde hair, was talking to Cassandra. Although Seraphina was old enough to have come out in society by now, the duke and duchess had persuaded her to wait another year. A girl with her sweet nature, her beauty, and her mammoth dowry would be targeted by every eligible man in Europe and beyond. For Seraphina, the London Season would be a gauntlet, and the more prepared she was, the better.

  After introductions were made, Pandora accepted a glass of iced lemonade and remained quiet as the conversation flowed around her. When the group discussion turned to the subject of Heron’s Point’s economy, and its tourism and fishing industries, it was obvious to Gabriel that Pandora’s thoughts had drifted in a direction that had nothing to do with the present moment. What was going on in that restless brain?

  Moving closer to her, Gabriel asked quietly, “Have you ever gone to a beach? Waded in the ocean and felt the sand beneath your feet?”

  Pandora glanced up at him, the vacant expression leaving her face. “No, I—there’s a sand beach here? I thought it would be all pebbles and shingle.”

  “The estate has a private sandy cove. We walk to it along a holloway.”

  “What’s a holloway?”

  “It’s what they call a sunken lane, here in the southern counties.” Gabriel loved the way she shaped the word silently with her lips . . . holloway . . . seeming to savor it as if it were a bonbon. Glancing at Seraphina, who was standing nearby, he said, “I’m going to take Lady Pandora to the cove this afternoon. I expect Ivo will come too. Would you like to join us?”

  Pandora frowned. “I didn’t say—”

  “That would be lovely,” Seraphina exclaimed, and turned to Cassandra. “You must come with us. It’s refreshing to splash about in the ocean on a day like this.”

  “Actually,” Cassandra said apologetically, “I would rather take a nap.”