Devil in Spring

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 pregnant 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.”