Devil in Spring (The Ravenels 3)

“I understand.”

“Do you?” Pandora asked earnestly. “But you wouldn’t make the same choice, would you?”

“You and I have different fears, and different needs.”

“Kathleen . . . Why did you marry Cousin Devon after Theo treated you so badly? Weren’t you afraid?”

“Yes, I was very afraid.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

“I loved him too much to be without him. And I realized I couldn’t let fear make the decision for me.”

Pandora looked away, while melancholy fell over her like a shadow.

Kathleen smoothed out a wrinkle on the counterpane. “The duchess and I are taking the girls for an outing to the seashore promenade in town. We’re planning to visit some shops and have fruit ices. Would you like to come? We’ll wait until you’re ready.”

Sighing shortly, Pandora pulled the soft linen sheet over her head. “No, I don’t want to pretend to be cheerful when I’m feeling so floppulous.”

Kathleen folded down the sheet and smiled at her. “Then do whatever you like. Everyone has scattered in different directions, and the house is quiet. Devon has gone to the pier with the duke and Ivo to find out if the storm did any damage to the family yacht. Lady Clare is out on a walk with her children.”

“What about Lord St. Vincent? Do you know where he is?”

“I believe he’s taking care of business correspondence in the study.” Kathleen bent to kiss Pandora’s forehead, the movement diffusing a whiff of roses and mint. “Darling, let me leave you with a thought: There’s very little in life that doesn’t require a compromise of one kind or another. No matter what you choose, it won’t be perfect.”

“So much for happy-ever-after,” Pandora said sourly.

Kathleen smiled. “But wouldn’t it be dull if ever-after was always happy, with no difficulties or problems to solve? Ever-after is far more interesting than that.”

Later in the morning, Pandora ventured downstairs in a lavender dress of delicately ribbed grosgrain silk, with layered white underskirts that had been pulled back into a cascade of flounces. Ida, despite her earlier cantankerous attitude, had brought up tea and toast for Pandora, and had taken special pains to arrange her hair. After curling the long dark locks with hot tongs, Ida had carefully pinned it up at the crown of her head into a mass of ringlets and clusters. Whenever a lock of Pandora’s obstinately straight hair had refused to hold a curl, Ida had misted it with quince seed tonic, resulting in a coil as sturdy as a steel spring. As a finishing touch, the lady’s maid had accented the style with a few randomly placed pearls affixed to silver pins.

“Thank you, Ida,” Pandora had said, viewing the results in the looking glass with the aid of a hand mirror. “You’re the only person my hair has ever obeyed.” After a pause, she had added humbly, “I’m sorry I lose things. I’m sure it would drive anyone mad to have to look after me.”

“Keeps me in a job,” Ida had said philosophically. “But don’t apologize, milady—you should never tell a servant you’re sorry. It upsets the order of things.”

“But what if I feel so sorry that I must say it or burst?”

“You can’t.”

“Yes, I can. I’ll look at you and tap my forehead with three fingertips—like this. There—that’s our signal for ‘I’m sorry.’” Enthused by the idea, Pandora had continued, “I could come up with other signals—we’ll have our own language!”

“Milady,” Ida had begged, “please don’t be so odd.”

The house was bright with slants of sunlight, now that the storm had cleared. Although no one was in sight, Pandora heard the bustling of servants in various rooms as she walked along the hallway. There was the rattle of a coal scuttle, the swishing of carpet brooms, the scrape of scouring paper on fire irons. All the industry taking place around her made Pandora long to return home and resume work on her board game business. It was time to visit potential locations for a small factory space, and meet with her printer, and begin to interview prospective employees.

The door of the study had been left open. As Pandora approached the threshold, her pulse escalated until she could feel it beating at her throat, wrists, and knees. She hardly knew how to face Gabriel, after the things they’d done last night. Stopping at the side of the doorway, she peeked around the edge of the jamb.

Gabriel was sitting at a heavy walnut desk, his profile edged in sunlight. He was reading a document with a slight frown of concentration, pausing to write on a scrap of notepaper. Dressed in a morning suit, with his hair neatly brushed and his face clean-shaven, he looked as fresh as a new-minted sovereign.

Although Pandora made no movement or sound, Gabriel’s gaze flickered to her. His slow smile made her lightheaded. “Come in,” he said, pushing back from the desk.

Feeling acutely self-conscious, Pandora approached him with flaming cheeks. “I was on my way to—well, I’m just wandering, but—I wanted to ask you about my slipper. Did you find it? Do you have it?”

He stood and looked down at her, his eyes like hot starlight, and for a moment all she could think of was the lick of firelight on shadowed skin. “I have the slipper,” he said.

“Oh, thank goodness. Because my lady’s maid is on the brink of reporting it to Scotland Yard.”

“That’s too bad. I’ve already decided to keep it.”

“No, you can only do that if it’s a dainty glass slipper. If it’s a big floppy slipper made out of fuzzy wool, you have to give it back.”