by Lisa Kleypas
“He thinks I have the makings of an excellent business woman.”
The countess twitched as if she’d been stung by a wasp. “Pandora, you were born an earl’s daughter. It would be appalling enough if you married a merchant or manufacturer, but to become one yourself is unthinkable. You wouldn’t be received anywhere. You would be ostracized.”
“Why should any of these people”—Pandora cast a quick, wary glance at the crowd in the ballroom—“care what I choose to do?”
“Because you are one of them. A fact that, assuredly, pleases them no more than it does you.” The countess shook her head. “I can’t pretend to understand you, my girl. Your brain has always seemed to me like those fireworks—what are the ones that spin so madly?”
“Catherine wheels.”
“Yes. Whirling and sparking, all light and noise. You make judgments without bothering to find out the particulars. It’s a fine thing to be clever, but too much cleverness usually produces the same result as ignorance. Do you think you can willfully disregard the world’s opinion? Do you expect people to admire you for being different?”
“Of course not.” Pandora fiddled with her empty dance card, fanning it open and closing it repeatedly. “But they might at least try to be accepting.”
“Foolish, cross-grained girl, why should they? Nonconformity is nothing but self-interest in disguise.” Although it was obvious the countess would have liked to deliver a full-blown lecture, she snapped her mouth shut and rose to her feet. “We will continue this discussion later.” Turning away, Lady Berwick headed for a brood of sharp-eyed, vinegar-blooded dowagers at the side of the room.
A metallic sound began in Pandora’s left ear, like a vibrating copper wire, as it sometimes did when she was in distress. To her horror, the stinging pressure of frustrated tears rose behind her eyes. Oh God, that would be the ultimate humiliation: eccentric, clumsy, Pandora-the-wallflower crying in the corner of the ballroom. No, it would not happen. She stood with such haste that her chair nearly toppled backward.
“Pandora,” came an urgent voice from nearby. “I need you to help me.”
Perplexed, she turned just as Dolly, Lady Colwick, reached her.
Dolly, a vivacious, dark-haired girl, was the younger of Lady Berwick’s two daughters. The families had become well acquainted after Lady Berwick had undertaken to teach etiquette and deportment to Pandora and Cassandra. Dolly was pretty and well-liked, and she had been kind to Pandora when other young women had been indifferent or mocking. Last year, during Dolly’s first Season, she had been the toast of London, with a crowd of bachelors collecting around her at every social event. Recently she had married Arthur, Lord Colwick, who, although some twenty years older, had the advantage of a sizeable fortune and a marquessate in his future.
“What’s the matter?” Pandora asked in concern.
“First promise you won’t tell Mama.”
Pandora smiled wryly. “You know I never tell her anything if I can help it. What is the problem?”
“I’ve lost an earring.”
“Oh, bother,” Pandora said sympathetically. “Well, that could happen to anyone. I lose things all the time.”
“No, you don’t understand. Lord Colwick had his mother’s sapphire earrings fetched from the safe for me to wear tonight.” Dolly turned her head to display a heavy sapphire and diamond pendant that dangled from one of her ears. “The problem isn’t just that I lost the other one,” she continued unhappily. “It’s where I lost it. You see, I slipped away from the house for a few minutes with one of my former suitors, Mr. Hayhurst. Lord Colwick would be furious with me if he found out.”
Pandora’s eyes widened. “Why did you do that?”
“Well, Mr. Hayhurst was always my favorite suitor. The poor boy is still heartbroken that I married Lord Colwick, and he insists on pursuing me. So I had to placate him by agreeing to a rendezvous. We went to a summer house beyond the back terraces. I must have lost the earring when we were on the settee.” Her eyes glimmered with tears. “I can’t go back to look for it. I’ve already been absent for too long. And if my husband notices the earring is gone . . . I don’t even want to think about what might happen.”
A moment of expectant silence ensued.
Pandora glanced at the ballroom windows, their panes glittering with coruscating reflected lights. It was dark outside.
Unease slithered down her spine. She didn’t like going anywhere at night, especially alone. But Dolly seemed desperate, and in light of her past kindness, there was no way Pandora could refuse.
“Do you want me to fetch it for you?” she offered reluctantly.
“Would you? You could dash to the summer house, retrieve the earring, and return in a flash. It’s easy to find. Just follow the graveled path across the lawn. Please, please, dear Pandora, I’ll owe you my life.”
“There’s no need to beg,” Pandora said, perturbed and amused. “I’ll do my best to find it. But Dolly, now that you’re married, I don’t think you should rendezvous with Mr. Hayhurst. He can’t be worth the risk.”
Dolly gave her a regretful glance. “I’m fond of Lord Colwick, but I’ll never love him the way I do Mr. Hayhurst.”
“Why didn’t you marry him, then?”
“Mr. Hayhurst is a third son and will never have a title.”
“But if you love him—”
“Don’t be silly, Pandora. Love is for middle-class girls.” Dolly’s gaze chased anxiously around the room. “No one’s looking,” she said. “You could slip out now if you’re quick about it.”
Oh, she was going to be as quick as a March hare. She wouldn’t spend any more time outside at night than absolutely necessary. If only she could recruit Cassandra, always her willing conspirator, to accompany her. But it was better for Cassandra to continue dancing; it would keep Lady Berwick’s attention occupied.
Casually she made her way along the side of the ballroom, past spills of conversation about the opera, the Park, and the latest “new thing.” As she slipped behind Lady Berwick’s back, she half expected her chaperone to turn and dive at her like an osprey sighting a mullet. Fortunately Lady Berwick continued to watch the dancing couples, who circumnavigated the room in a swift current of colorful skirts and trousered legs.
As far as Pandora could tell, her exit from the ballroom went unnoticed. She hurried down the great staircase and through the great balconied hall, and reached a brightly lit gallery that stretched along the entire length of the house. Rows of portraits covered the gallery, generations of dignified aristocrats glowering down at her as she half-walked, half-ran across the inlaid flooring.
Finding a door that opened to the back terrace, she paused at the threshold, staring out like a passenger at the railing of a ship at sea. The night was deep, cool, and dark. She hated to leave the safety of the house. But she was reassured by the procession of oil-burning garden torches, consisting of copper bowls set on tall iron poles that lined the path across the wide lawn.
Focusing on her mission, Pandora skittered across the back terrace toward the lawn. An abundant grove of Scotch firs made the air agreeably pungent. It helped to mask the smell of the Thames, which coursed turgidly at the edge of the estate grounds.
Rough masculine voices and bursts of hammering came from the direction of the river, where workmen reinforced the scaffolding in preparation for a fireworks display. At the end of the evening, the guests would gather on the back terrace and along the upper floor balconies to watch the pyrotechnics.
The graveled path meandered around a giant statue of London’s ancient river deity, Father Thames. Long-bearded and stout of build, the massive figure reclined on an enormous stone plinth with a trident clasped negligently in one hand. He was entirely nude except for a cape, which Pandora thought made him look remarkably silly.
“Au naturel in public?” she asked flippantly as she passed him. “One might expect it of a classical Greek statue, but you, sir, have no excuse.”
She cont
inued to the summer house, which was partially shielded by a yew hedge and a profusion of cabbage roses. The open-sided building, with matchboard walls that went halfway up the columns, was constructed on a brick foundation. It was adorned with colored glass panels, and illuminated only by a tiny Moroccan lamp hanging from the ceiling.
Hesitantly she went up two wooden steps and entered the structure. The only furniture was an openwork settee, which appeared to have been bolted to the nearby columns.
As she searched for the missing earring, Pandora tried not to let the hem of her skirts drag the dirty floor. She was wearing her best dress, a ball gown made of iridescent shot silk, which appeared silver from one angle, and lavender from another. The front was simple in design, with a smooth, tight-fitting bodice and a low scooped neckline. A web of intricate tucks in the back flowed into a cascade of silk that fluttered and shimmered whenever she moved.
After looking beneath the loose cushions, Pandora climbed onto the seat. She squinted at the space between the settee and the curved wall. A satisfied grin crossed her face as she saw a rich glitter at the seam of the wall trim and floor.
Now the only question was how to retrieve the earring. If she knelt on the floor, she would return to the ballroom as dirty as a chimney sweep.
The back of the settee had been carved into an ornate pattern of flourishes and curlicues, with spaces wide enough to reach through. Tugging off her gloves, Pandora tucked them into the concealed pocket of her gown. Gamely she hiked up her skirts, knelt on the settee, and inserted her arm into one of the openwork gaps, all the way to the elbow. Her fingertips wouldn’t quite touch the floor.
Leaning farther into the space, she pushed her head through and felt a slight tug at her coiffure, followed by the delicate ping of a fallen hairpin. “Drat,” she muttered. Angling her body, she twisted to fit her shoulders through the opening, and felt for the earring until her fingers closed around it.
As she tried to pull out, however, she had unexpected difficulty. The settee’s carved woodwork seemed to have closed around her like a shark’s jaws. Backing away more strongly, she felt her dress hook on something and heard a few stitches pop. She went still. It certainly wouldn’t do to return to the ballroom with a rip in her gown.
She strained and struggled to reach the back of her dress, but stopped again as she heard the fragile silk begin to tear. Perhaps if she slid forward a bit and tried to back out at a different angle . . . but the maneuver only trapped her more firmly, the serrated edges of carved wood digging into her skin. After a minute of squirming and floundering, Pandora held motionless except for the fast, anxious jerks of her lungs.
“I’m not stuck,” she muttered. “I can’t be.” She wriggled helplessly. “Oh God, I am, I’m stuck. Blast. Blast.”
If she was found like this, it would mean lifelong ridicule. She might find a way to live with it. But it would reflect on her family and make them look ridiculous too, and it would ruin Cassandra’s Season, and that was unacceptable.
Despairing and frustrated, Pandora tried to think of the worst word she knew. “Bollocks.”
In the next moment, she turned cold with horror as she heard a man clearing his throat.
Was it a servant? A gardener? Please, dear God, please don’t let it be one of the guests.
She heard footsteps as he entered the summer house.
“You seem to be having some difficulty with that settee,” the stranger remarked. “As a rule, I don’t recommend the headfirst approach, as it tends to complicate the seating process.” The voice contained a cool dark resonance that did something pleasant to her nerves. Gooseflesh rose on her bare skin.
“I’m sure this must be amusing,” Pandora said cautiously, straining to see him through the carved woodwork. He was dressed in formal evening clothes. Definitely a guest.
“Not at all. Why would I be amused by the sight of a young woman posing upside-down on a piece of furniture?”
“I’m not posing. My dress is caught in the settee. And I would be much obliged if you would help me out of it!”
“The dress or the settee?” the stranger asked, sounding interested.
“The settee,” Pandora said irritably. “I’m all tangled up in these dratted—” she hesitated, wondering what to call the elaborate wooden curls and twists carved into the back of the settee. “—swirladingles,” she finished.
“Acanthus scrolls,” the man said at the same time. A second passed before he asked blankly, “What did you call them?”
“Never mind,” Pandora said with chagrin. “I have a bad habit of making up words, and I’m not supposed to say them in public.”
“Why not?”
“People might think I’m eccentric.”
His quiet laugh awakened a ticklish feeling in her stomach. “At the moment, darling, made-up words are the least of your problems.”
Pandora blinked at the casual endearment, and tensed as he sat beside her. He was close enough that she caught his fragrance, a spice of amber or something cedary, wrapped around fresh earthy coolness. He smelled like an expensive forest.
“Are you going to help me?” she asked.
“I might. If you tell me what you were doing on this settee in the first place.”
“Is it necessary for you to know?”
“It is,” he assured her.
Pandora scowled. “I was reaching for something.”
A long arm draped along the back of the settee. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”
He was not being very chivalrous, she thought with annoyance. “An earring.”
“How did you lose your earring?”
“It’s not mine. It belongs to a friend and I have to return it to her quickly.”
“A friend,” he repeated skeptically. “What is her name?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“A pity. Well, good luck.” He made as if to leave.
“Wait.” Pandora wriggled, and heard the sound of more stitches popping. She stopped with a sound of exasperation. “It’s Lady Colwick’s earring.”
“Ah. I suppose she was out here with Hayhurst?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Everyone knows, including Lord Colwick. I don’t think he’ll mind Dolly’s affairs later on, but it’s a bit soon before she’s produced a legitimate child.”
No gentleman had ever spoken so frankly to Pandora before, and it was shocking. It was also the first truly interesting conversation she’d ever had with anyone at a ball.
“She’s not having an affair,” Pandora said. “It was only a rendezvous.”
“Do you know what a rendezvous is?”
“Of course I do,” she said with great dignity. “I’ve had French lessons. It means to have a meeting.”
“In context,” he said dryly, “it means a great deal more than that.”
Pandora squirmed miserably. “I don’t give a pickle about what Dolly and Mr. Hayhurst were doing on this settee, I just want to be out of it. Will you help me now?”
“I suppose I must. The novelty of talking to an unfamiliar derrière is beginning to wear off.”
Pandora stiffened, her heart jolting as she felt him lean over her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to molest you. My tastes don’t run to young girls.”
“I’m twenty-one,” she said indignantly.
“Really?”
“Yes, why do you sound skeptical?”
“I wouldn’t have expected to find a woman of your age in such a predicament.”
“I’m almost always in a predicament.” Pandora jerked as she felt a gentle pressure on her back.
“Hold still. You’ve hooked your dress on three different scroll points.” He was pulling deftly at the silk pleats and ruffles. “How did you manage to squeeze through such a small space?”
“It was easy going forward. But I didn’t realize all these dratted swirla—that is, scrolls—were set like backward barbs.”
“Your dress is free now. Try pulling yourself out.”
Pandora began to ease backward, and yelped as the wood dug into her. “I still can’t. Oh, blast—”
“Don’t panic. Twist your shoulders to the . . . no, not that way, the other way. Wait.” The stranger sounded reluctantly amused. “This is like trying to open a Japanese puzzle box.”
“What’s that?”
“A wooden box made of interconnected parts. It can only be opened if one knows the series of moves required to unlock it.” A warm palm settled on her bare shoulder, gently angling it.
His touch sent a strange shock through her. She drew in a sharp breath, cool air swirling inside her hot lungs.
“Relax,” he said, “and I’ll set you free in a moment.”
Her voice came out higher-pitched than usual. “I can’t relax with your hand there.”
“If you cooperate, this will go faster.”
“I’m trying, but it’s a very awkward position.”
“The position was your doing, not mine,” he reminded her.
“Yes, but—ouch.” The point of a scroll had scratched her upper arm. The situation was becoming intolerable. Spurred by the beginnings of alarm, she moved restlessly within the snarls of carved wood. “Oh, this is horriculous.”
“Easy. Let me guide your head.”
They both froze as a gruff shout came from just outside the summer house. “What the devil is going on in there?”
The man leaning over Pandora swore softly beneath his breath. Pandora wasn’t certain what the word meant, but it sounded even worse than “bollocks.”
The enraged outsider continued. “Scoundrel! I wouldn’t have expected this even of you. Forcing yourself on a helpless female, and abusing my hospitality during a charity ball!”
“My lord,” Pandora’s companion called out brusquely, “you misunderstand the situation.”
“I’m sure I understand it quite well. Unhand her this instant.”
“But I’m still stuck,” Pandora said plaintively.
“For shame.” The cantankerous old man seemed to be addressing a third party as he remarked, “Caught in the very act, it seems.”
Bewildered, Pandora felt the stranger prying her out of the settee, one of his hands briefly shielding the side of her face to protect her from scratches. His touch was gentle but wildly unsettling, sending a warm shiver through her body. As soon as she was free of the woodwork, Pandora stood too quickly. Her head spun after having been held down for too long, and her balance went off-kilter. Reflexively the stranger caught her against him as she staggered. She had a brief, dizzying impression of a hard chest and a wealth of tightly knit muscle before he let go. Her loosened coiffure flopped forward over her forehead as she looked down at herself. Her skirts were dirty and rumpled. Red marks scored her shoulders and upper arms.