Devil in Spring

“That’s not a sane comparison,” he said with a scowl.

“Only because in one case, a woman gives up everything, and in the other, a man does.”

His eyes flashed dangerously. “Is there nothing to be gained, then? Does the prospect of living as my wife have no appeal at all?” He took her in both hands, bringing her closer. “Say you don’t want me. Say you don’t want more of what we did last night.”

Pandora turned scarlet, her pulse running riot. She wanted to sink against him right then, and tug his head to hers and let him kiss her into obliviousness. But some stubborn, rebellious part of her brain wouldn’t be subdued.

“Would I have to obey you?” she heard herself ask.

His lashes lowered, and one of his hands came to the back of her head. “Only in bed,” he growled softly. “Outside of that . . . no.”

She took an unsteady breath, aware of strange pangs and zings of heat all through her body. “Then you’ll promise never to stop me from making my own decisions, even if you think it’s a mistake? And if you decide someday that my work isn’t good for me, that it poses a risk to my health or wellbeing or even my safety, you’ll guarantee that you’d never forbid me from doing it?”

Gabriel let go of her abruptly. “Damn it, Pandora, I can’t promise not to protect you.”

“Protecting can turn into controlling.”

“No one has absolute freedom. Not even me.”

“But you have so much of it. When someone has only a little of something, they have to fight to keep from losing any of it.” Realizing she was on the verge of crying, Pandora lowered her head. “You want to argue, and I know if we did, you’d score points and make it seem as if I were being unreasonable. But we could never be happy together. Some problems can never be solved. Some things about me can never be fixed. Marrying me would be just as impossible a compromise for you as it would be for me.”

“Pandora—”

She strode away without listening, nearly breaking into a run.

As soon as Pandora reached her room, she went back to bed, fully dressed, and lay unmoving for hours.

She felt nothing, which should have been a relief. But somehow it was even worse than feeling awful.

Thinking about things that usually made her happy had no effect. It didn’t help to envision her future of independence and freedom, and what it would look like to see stacks of her board games displayed on store tables. There was nothing to look forward to. Nothing would ever give her pleasure again.

Maybe she needed some kind of medicine—she was so terribly cold—could she have a fever?

Kathleen and the others had probably returned from their outing by now. But Pandora couldn’t turn to anyone for comfort. Not even her own twin. Cassandra would try to offer solutions or say something loving and encouraging, and Pandora would end up having to pretend to feel better to keep from worrying her.

Her chest and throat wouldn’t stop hurting. Maybe if she let herself cry, it would make her feel better.

But the tears wouldn’t come. They stayed locked inside the frozen vault of her chest.

This had never happened before. She started to become seriously worried. How long would this go on? She felt like she was turning into a stone statue, starting from the inside out. She would end up on a marble pedestal with birds perched on her head—

Tap, tap, tap. The bedroom door opened slightly. “Milady?”

Ida’s voice.

The lady’s maid came into the dim room, holding a little round tray. “I brought you some tea.”

“Is it morning again?” Pandora asked, in a daze.

“No, it’s three in the afternoon.” Ida came to the bedside.

“I don’t want tea.”

“It’s from his lordship.”

“Lord St. Vincent?”

“He sent for me and asked me to fetch you, and when I said you were resting, he said, ‘Give her some tea, then. Pour it down her throat if necessary.’ Then he handed me a note for you.”

How annoying. How incredibly highhanded. A flicker of actual feeling seared through the numbness. Groggily Pandora struggled to sit up.

After giving her the cup of tea, Ida went to draw back the curtains. The glare of daylight made Pandora flinch.

The tea was hot, but it had no flavor. She forced herself to drink it, and rubbed her dry, burning eyes with her knuckles.

“Here, milady.” Ida gave her a small sealed envelope, and took the empty cup and saucer.

Pandora looked dully at the red wax seal on the envelope, stamped with an elaborate family crest. If Gabriel had written something nice to her, she didn’t want to read it. If he’d written something not nice, she didn’t want to read that either.

“By the holy poker,” Ida exclaimed, “just open it!”

Reluctantly Pandora complied. As she pulled a small folded note from the envelope, a tiny, fuzzy object fell out. Reflexively she yelped, thinking it was an insect. But at second glance, she realized it was a bit of fabric. Picking it up gingerly, she saw that it was one of the decorative felt leaves from her missing Berlin wool slipper. It had been carefully snipped off.

My lady,

Your slipper is being held for ransom. If you ever want to see it again, come alone to the formal drawing room. For every hour you delay, an additional embellishment will be removed.

—St. Vincent

Now Pandora was exasperated. Why was he doing this? Was he trying to draw her into another argument?