Fact #63 I couldn’t marry Lord St. Vincent if for no other reason than the way he looks. People would think I was shallow.

Remembering the erotic pressure of his lips against hers only two hours earlier, Pandora squirmed a little in her chair and tore her gaze from him.

She had been seated close to the duchess’s end of the table, between a young man who seemed not much older than herself, and an older gentleman who was obviously smitten with the duchess and was doing his best to monopolize her attention. There was little hope of any conversation from Phoebe, who sat across from Pandora looking distant and detached, consuming her food in tiny bites.

Risking a glance at the dignified young man beside her—what was his name?—Mr. Arthurson, Arterton?—Pandora decided to try her hand at some small talk.

“It was very fine weather today, wasn’t it?” she said.

He set down his flatware and dabbed at both corners of his mouth with his napkin before replying. “Yes, quite fine.”

Encouraged, Pandora asked, “What kind of clouds do you like better—cumulus or stratocumulus?”

He regarded her with a slight frown. After a long pause, he asked, “What is the difference?”

“Well, cumulus are the fluffier, rounder clouds, like this heap of potatoes on my plate.” Using her fork, Pandora spread, swirled, and dabbed the potatoes. “Stratocumulus are flatter and can form lines or waves—like this—and can either form a large mass or break into smaller pieces.”

He was expressionless as he watched her. “I prefer flat clouds that look like a blanket.”

“Altostratus?” Pandora asked in surprise, setting down her fork. “But those are the boring clouds. Why do you like them?”

“They usually mean it’s going to rain. I like rain.”

This showed promise of actually turning into a conversation. “I like to walk in the rain too,” Pandora exclaimed.

“No, I don’t like to walk in it. I like to stay in the house.” After casting a disapproving glance at her plate, the man returned his attention to eating.

Chastened, Pandora let out a noiseless sigh. Picking up her fork, she tried to inconspicuously push her potatoes into a proper heap again.

Fact #64 Never sculpt your food to illustrate a point during small talk. Men don’t like it.

As Pandora looked up, she discovered Phoebe’s gaze on her. She braced inwardly for a sarcastic remark.

But Phoebe’s voice was gentle as she spoke. “Henry and I once saw a cloud over the English Channel that was shaped in a perfect cylinder. It went on as far as the eye could see. Like someone had rolled up a great white carpet and set it in the sky.”

It was the first time Pandora had ever heard Phoebe mention her late husband’s name. Tentatively she asked, “Did you and he ever try to find shapes in the clouds?”

“Oh, all the time. Henry was very clever—he could find dolphins, ships, elephants, and roosters. I could never see a shape until he pointed it out. But then it would appear as if by magic.” Phoebe’s gray eyes turned crystalline with infinite variations of tenderness and wistfulness.

Although Pandora had experienced grief before, having lost both parents and a brother, she understood that this was a different kind of loss, a heavier weight of pain. Filled with compassion and sympathy, she dared to say, “He . . . he sounds like a lovely man.”

Phoebe smiled faintly, their gazes meeting in a moment of warm connection. “He was,” she said. “Someday I’ll tell you about him.”

And finally Pandora understood where a little small talk about the weather might lead.

After dinner, instead of the customary separation of the sexes, the assemblage retired together to the second floor family room, a spacious area arranged with clusters of seating and tables. Like the downstairs summer parlor, it faced the ocean with a row of screened windows to catch the breeze. A tea tray, plates of sweets, port, and brandy were brought up, and a box of cigars was set out on the shaded balcony for gentlemen who wished to indulge. Now that the formal dinner was concluded, the atmosphere was wonderfully relaxed. From time to time, someone would go to the upright piano and plunk out a tune.

Pandora went to sit in a group with Cassandra and the other young women, but she was obliged to stop as a set of warm masculine fingers closed around her wrist.

Gabriel’s voice fell gently against her ear. “What were you discussing with the prim Mr. Arterson while stirring your potatoes so industriously?”

Pandora turned and looked up at him, wishing she didn’t feel such a leap of gladness at the fact that he’d sought her out. “How did you notice what I was doing all the way from the other end of the table?”

“I nearly did myself injury, straining to see and hear you all through dinner.”

As she stared up into his smiling eyes, she felt as if her heart were opening all its windows. “I was demonstrating cloud formations with my potatoes,” she said. “I don’t think Mr. Arterson appreciated my stratocumulus.”

“I’m afraid we’re all a bit too frivolous for him.”

“No, one can’t blame him. I knew better than to play with my food, and I’ve resolved never to do it again.”

Mischief flickered in his eyes. “What a pity. I was about to show you the one thing carrots are good for.”

“What is it?” she asked, her interest piqued.

“Come with me.”

Pandora followed him to the other side of the room. Their progress was briefly interrupted as a half-dozen children crossed in front of them to pilfer sweets from the sideboard.