by Lisa Kleypas
“Damn it,” the man facing her muttered. “Who are you?”
“Lady Pandora Ravenel. I’ll tell them . . .” Her voice trailed away as she found herself looking up at an arrogant young god, tall and big framed, every line of him taut with feline grace. The tiny pendant lamp overhead sent sunstruck golden glints playing among the thick, well-cut layers of his amber hair. His eyes were winter-blue, his cheekbones high and straight, the line of his jaw hard enough to chisel marble. The full, sensuous curves of his lips lent a note of erotic dissonance to his otherwise classic features. One glance at him was enough to make her feel as if she were trying to breathe at high altitude. What would it do to a man’s character to be so inhumanly beautiful? It couldn’t be anything good.
Shaken, Pandora shoved her hand into the pocket of her gown and dropped the earring inside. “I’ll tell them nothing happened. It’s the truth, after all.”
“The truth isn’t going to matter,” came his curt reply.
He motioned for her to precede him from the summer house, and they were immediately confronted by Lord Chaworth, the host of the ball and owner of the estate. As a friend of the Berwicks, he was one of the last people Pandora would have wanted to discover her in a compromising situation. He was accompanied by a dark-haired man Pandora had never seen before.
Chaworth was short and stocky, shaped like an apple set on a pair of nut picks. A white nimbus of side whiskers and beard quivered tensely around his face as he spoke. “The earl and I were walking to the river’s edge to view the setup for the fireworks, when we happened to hear the young lady’s screams for help.”
“I didn’t scream,” Pandora protested.
“I’ve already walked down there myself to talk to the contractor,” the young man beside her said. “As I was returning to the house, I happened to notice that Lady Pandora was in difficulty, having caught part of her dress in the settee. I was only trying to help her.”
The snowy puffs of Chaworth’s brows ascended to his hairline as he turned to Pandora. “Is that true?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Why, pray tell, were you out here in the first place?”
Pandora hesitated, unwilling to turn evidence against Dolly. “I slipped out for a breath of fresh air. I was . . . bored in there.”
“Bored?” Chaworth echoed in outrage. “With a twenty-piece orchestra and a ballroom full of eligible bucks to dance with?”
“I wasn’t asked to dance,” Pandora mumbled.
“You might have been, had you not been out here consorting with a notorious rake!”
“Chaworth,” the dark-haired man beside him intervened quietly, “if I may speak.”
The speaker was ruggedly attractive, with boldly hewn features and the sun-browned complexion of an avid outdoorsman. Although he was not young—his black locks were liberally shot with steel, and time had deepened the laugh-lines around his eyes and the brackets between his nose and mouth—he certainly couldn’t have been called old. Not with that air of robust health, and the presence of a man with considerable authority.
“I’ve known the lad since the day he was born,” he continued, his voice deep and a bit gravelly. “As you know, his father is a close friend. I’ll vouch for his character, and his word. For the girl’s sake, I suggest that we hold our silence and handle the matter with discretion.”
“I am also acquainted with his father,” Lord Chaworth snapped, “who plucked many a fair flower in his day. Obviously the son is following in his footsteps. No, Westcliff, I will not remain silent—he must be held accountable for his actions.”
Westcliff? Pandora glanced at him with alert interest. She had heard of the Earl of Westcliff, who, after the Duke of Norfolk, held the oldest and most respected peerage title in England. His vast Hampshire estate, Stony Cross Park, was famed for its fishing, hunting, and shooting.
Westcliff met her gaze, seeming neither shocked nor condemning. “Your father was Lord Trenear?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“We were acquainted. He used to hunt at my estate.” The earl paused. “I invited him to bring his family, but he always preferred to come alone.”
That was hardly a surprise. Pandora’s father had considered his three daughters to be parasites. For that matter, her mother had taken little interest in them either. As a result, Pandora, Cassandra, and Helen had sometimes gone for months without seeing their parents. The surprise was that the recollection still had the power to hurt.
“My father wanted as little to do with his daughters as possible,” Pandora said bluntly. “He considered us nuisances.” Lowering her head, she mumbled, “Obviously I’ve proven him right.”
“I wouldn’t say so.” A touch of amused sympathy warmed the earl’s voice. “My own daughters have assured me—more than once—that any well-meaning girl of high spirits can find herself in hot water now and then.”
Lord Chaworth broke in. “This particular ‘hot water’ must be cooled immediately. I will return Lady Pandora to the care of her chaperone.” He turned to the man beside her. “I suggest that you depart for Ravenel House forthwith, to meet with her family and make the appropriate arrangements.”
“What arrangements?” Pandora asked.
“He means marriage,” the cold-eyed young man said flatly.
A chill of alarm went through her. “What? No. No, I wouldn’t marry you for any reason.” Realizing he might take that personally, Pandora added in a more conciliatory tone, “It has nothing to do with you; it’s just that I don’t intend to marry at all.”
Lord Chaworth interrupted smugly. “I believe it will quell your objections to learn that the man standing before you is Gabriel, Lord St. Vincent—the heir to a dukedom.”
Pandora shook her head. “I would rather be a charwoman than a peer’s wife.”
Lord St. Vincent’s cool gaze slid to her scratched shoulders and torn dress, and returned slowly to her strained face. “The fact is,” he said quietly, “you’ve been absent from the ballroom long enough for people to have noticed.”
It began to dawn on Pandora that she was in real trouble, the kind that couldn’t be solved with facile explanations, or money, or even her family’s influence. Her pulse reverberated like a kettledrum in her ears. “Not if you let me go back immediately. No one ever notices whether I’m there or not.”
“I find that impossible to believe.”
The way he said it didn’t sound like a compliment.
“It’s true,” Pandora said desperately, talking fast, thinking even faster. “I’m a wallflower. I only agreed to take part in the Season to keep my sister Cassandra company. She’s my twin, the nicer, prettier one, and you’re the kind of husband she’s been hoping for. If you’ll let me go fetch her, you could compromise her, and then I’ll be off the hook.” Seeing his blank look, she explained, “People certainly wouldn’t expect you to marry both of us.”
“I’m afraid I never ruin more than one young woman a night.” His tone was a mockery of politeness. “A man has to draw the line somewhere.”
Pandora decided to take another tack. “You do not want to marry me, my lord. I would be the worst wife imaginable. I’m forgetful and stubborn, and I can never sit still for more than five minutes. I’m always doing things I shouldn’t. I eavesdrop on other people, I shout and run in public, and I’m a clumsy dancer. And I’ve lowered my character with a great deal of unwholesome reading material.” Pausing to draw breath, she noticed that Lord St. Vincent didn’t appear properly impressed by her list of faults. “Also, my legs are skinny. Like a stork’s.”
At the indecent mention of body parts, Lord Chaworth gasped audibly, while Lord Westcliff developed a sudden keen interest in the nearby cabbage roses.
Lord St. Vincent’s mouth worked against a brief tremor, as if he were amused despite himself. “I appreciate your candor,” he said after a moment. He paused to send Lord Chaworth an icy glance. “However, in light of Lord Chaworth’s heroic insistence on seeing
justice done, I have no choice but to discuss the situation with your family.”
“When?” Pandora asked anxiously.
“Tonight.” Lord St. Vincent stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His head lowered over hers. “Go with Chaworth,” he said. “Tell your chaperone that I’m leaving for Ravenel House immediately. And for God’s sake, try not to be seen. I would hate for people to think I did such an incompetent job of molesting someone.” After a pause, he added in an undertone, “You still have to return Dolly’s earring. Ask a servant to take it to her.”
Pandora made the mistake of looking up. No woman would have been unaffected by the sight of that archangel’s face above hers. So far, the privileged young men she had met during the Season seemed to be striving for a certain ideal, a kind of cool aristocratic confidence. But none of them came remotely close to this dazzling stranger, who had undoubtedly been indulged and admired his entire life.
“I can’t marry you,” she said numbly. “I’d lose everything.” Turning away, she took Chaworth’s arm and accompanied him back toward the house, while the other two stayed behind to talk privately.
Chaworth chortled to himself with infuriating satisfaction. “By Jove, I look forward to seeing Lady Berwick’s reaction when I tell her the news.”
“She’ll murder me on the spot,” Pandora managed to say, nearly choking on misery and desperation.
“For what?” the old man asked incredulously.
“For being compromised.”
Chaworth let out a guffaw. “Dear girl, I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t dance a jig. I’ve just made the match of the year for you!”
Chapter 2
Gabriel swore and shoved his fists in his pockets.
“I’m sorry,” Westcliff said sincerely. “Had it not been for Chaworth—”
“I know.” Gabriel paced back and forth in front of the summer house like a caged tiger. He couldn’t believe it. Of all the clever marital traps he had evaded with ease, he’d finally been caught. Not by a worldly seductress, or a society beauty with finishing-school polish. Instead, his downfall had come in the form of an eccentric wallflower. Pandora was the daughter of an earl, which meant that even if she were a certifiable lunatic—which certainly wasn’t outside the realm of possibility—her honor had to be redeemed.
The overwhelming impression she conveyed was of constant nervous energy, like a thoroughbred waiting for the starter’s flag. Even her smallest movements seemed to hold the potential for explosive action. The effect had been unsettling, but at the same time, he’d found himself wanting to capture all that undirected fire and put it to good use, until she was limp and exhausted beneath him.
Bedding her wouldn’t be a problem.
It was just everything else about her that would be a problem.
Scowling and troubled, Gabriel turned to set his back against one of the summer house’s outer support columns. “What did she mean when she said she would lose everything if she married me?” he asked aloud. “Perhaps she’s in love with someone. If so—”
“There are young women,” Westcliff pointed out dryly, “who have goals other than finding a husband.”
Folding his arms across his chest, Gabriel sent him a sardonic glance. “Are there? I’ve never met one of those.”
“I believe you may have just now.” The earl glanced back in the direction Lady Pandora had gone. “A wallflower,” he said softly, with a faint, reminiscent smile on his lips.
Aside from his own father, there was no man Gabriel trusted more than Westcliff, who had always been like an uncle to him. The earl was the kind of man who would always make the moral choice, no matter how difficult.
“I already know your opinion about what I should do,” Gabriel muttered.
“A girl with a ruined reputation is at the world’s mercy,” Westcliff said. “You’re aware of your obligations as a gentleman.”
Gabriel shook his head with an incredulous laugh. “How could I marry a girl like that?” She would never fit into his life. They would end up killing each other. “She’s only half-civilized.”
“It would seem Lady Pandora hasn’t mixed in society long enough to be familiar with its ways,” Westcliff admitted.
Gabriel watched a yellow brimstone moth, besotted by the torchlight, fluttering past the summer house. “She doesn’t give a damn about society’s ways,” he said with certainty. The moth flew in ever-smaller circles, glancing repeatedly off the wavering heat in its fatal dance with the torch flame. “What kind of family are the Ravenels?”
“The name is an old and respected one, but their fortune dwindled years ago. Lady Pandora had an older brother, Theo, who inherited the earldom upon their father’s passing. Unfortunately he was killed in a riding accident soon afterward.”
“I met him,” Gabriel said with a pensive frown. “Two—no, three—years ago, at Jenner’s.”
Gabriel’s family owned a private gaming house, ostensibly a gentlemen’s club, patronized by royalty, aristocracy, and men of influence. Before inheriting the dukedom, his father, Sebastian, had personally run and managed the club, turning it into one of London’s most fashionable gaming establishments.
In the last few years, many of the family’s business interests had transferred to Gabriel’s shoulders, including Jenner’s. He had always kept a close eye on the place, knowing it was one of his father’s pet concerns. One night, Theo, Lord Trenear, had visited the club. Theo had been a robust, good-looking man, blond and blue-eyed. Charming on the surface, all explosive force beneath.
“He came to Jenner’s with some friends on a night when I happened to be there,” Gabriel continued, “and spent most of his time at the hazard table. He didn’t play well—he was the kind who chased his losses instead of knowing when to quit. Before leaving, he wanted to apply for membership. The manager came to me, somewhat agitated, and asked me to deal with him because of his privilege and rank.”
“You had to turn him down?” Westcliff asked, wincing visibly.
Gabriel nodded. “His credit was bad, and the family estate was drowning in debt. I declined him in private, in as civil a manner as possible. However . . .” He shook his head at the memory.
“He went into a rage,” Westcliff guessed.
“Foaming like a bull in clover,” Gabriel said ruefully, recalling how Theo had launched at him without warning. “He wouldn’t stop swinging until I dropped him to the floor. I’ve known more than a few men who couldn’t control their tempers, especially when they were in their cups. But I’ve never seen anyone explode quite like that.”
“The Ravenels have always been known for their volatile temperaments.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel said sourly. “Now I won’t be surprised when my future offspring emerge with horns and tails.”
Westcliff smiled. “In my experience, it’s all in how you handle them.” The earl was the calm, steady center of his own boisterous family, which included a high-spirited wife and a brood of rambunctious offspring.
And Lady Pandora made them all look like sloths.
Pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, Gabriel muttered, “I don’t have the damned patience, Westcliff.” After a moment, he noticed the brimstone moth had finally ventured too close to the beckoning flame. The delicate wings ignited, and the creature was reduced to a smoldering wisp. “Do you know anything about the new Lord Trenear?”
“His name is Devon Ravenel. From all accounts, he’s well-liked in Hampshire, and has been managing the estate quite competently.” Westcliff paused. “It seems he married the late earl’s young widow, which is certainly not unlawful, but it did raise a few brows.”
“She must have had a massive jointure,” Gabriel said cynically.
“Perhaps. In any event, I wouldn’t expect Trenear to object to a match between you and Lady Pandora.”
Gabriel’s mouth twisted. “Believe me, he’ll be overjoyed to have her taken off his hands.”
Most of th
e mansions on South Audley, a smart address in the heart of Mayfair, were of the standard multi-columned Georgian design. Ravenel House, however, was a Jacobean with triple-story balconies and a hipped roof bristling with slender chimneys.
The great hall was lined with richly carved oak paneling, and a white plasterwork ceiling adorned with mythological figures. The walls were softened with an abundance of rich tapestries and French chinoiserie vases filled with bursts of fresh cut flowers. Judging from the quiet atmosphere, Pandora hadn’t yet returned.
A butler showed him to a well-appointed parlor and announced him. As Gabriel stepped forward and bowed, Devon Ravenel stood to reciprocate.
The new Earl of Trenear was a lean, broad-shouldered fellow of no more than thirty, with dark hair and a shrewd gaze. There was an alert but friendly air about him, a relaxed confidence that Gabriel immediately liked.
His wife Kathleen, Lady Trenear, remained on the sofa. “Welcome, my lord.” One glance was all it took to refute Gabriel’s earlier speculation that Trenear had married her for financial gain. Or at least, that couldn’t have been the only reason. She was a lovely woman, delicately feline, with tip-tilted brown eyes. The way her ruddy curls tried to spring free of their pins reminded him of his mother and older sister.
“I apologize for intruding on your privacy,” Gabriel said.
“No need,” Trenear replied easily. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”