Now it seemed that Gabriel and Winterborne would be seeing a great deal of each other. Not only had they both married into an extraordinarily close-knit family, but Winterborne was a mentor to Pandora. For the past year, he had encouraged and advised Pandora about her board game company, and had made a firm commitment to stock her game in his department store. Pandora made no secret of her gratitude and affection for the man. In fact, she hung on to his every word, and glowed at his attention.
As Gabriel had seen how comfortable they were with each other, he’d struggled with an unexpected pang of jealousy. The realization appalled him. He’d never been jealous or possessive of anyone in his life, having considered himself above such petty emotions. But when it came to Pandora, he was no better than a primitive brute. He wanted her all to himself, every word and glance, every touch of her hand, every glint of light on her hair and breath from her lips. He was jealous of the air that touched her skin.
It didn’t help that Pandora was so determined to remain independent from him, like a small sovereign nation afraid of being conquered and absorbed by a powerful neighbor. Every day she added more conditions to her list of marital boundaries, as if she needed to protect herself from him.
When Gabriel had discussed it privately with Phoebe, his sister had given him an incredulous glance and said, “There are items in the meat larder that are older than your relationship with Pandora. You can’t expect eternal love and devotion from a woman after a mere two weeks’ acquaintance.” She had laughed affectionately at his disgruntled expression. “Oh, I forgot. You’re Gabriel, Lord St. Vincent—of course you would expect that.”
His thoughts were drawn back to the present as Pandora lifted her face to the cooling breeze.
Wondering what was going on in her restless brain, Gabriel stroked back a lock of loose hair that clung to her cheek. “What are you thinking about?” he asked. “The wedding? Your family?”
“A rhombus,” Pandora said absently.
His brows lifted. “You’re referring to the parallelogram with opposite equal obtuse angles?”
“Yes, Cousin West told me the Isle of Wight is shaped like a rhombus. I was just thinking that if ‘rhombus’ were an adjective . . .” Raising a gloved hand to her chin, Pandora tapped her fingertips against her lips. “It would be rhombuseous.”
Gabriel toyed with a tiny silk flower on her hat. “Rhombusphobia,” he said, entering into the game. “Fear of rhombus.”
That earned him a spontaneous grin. Her deep blue eyes became places to frolic and revel in. “Rhombusolotry. Worship of rhombus.”
Stroking the exquisite line of her cheek, Gabriel murmured, “I’d like to worship you.”
Pandora barely seemed to have heard him, her mind still occupied with the word game. Smiling, Gabriel kept an arm around her as the steamer approached the dock.
After disembarking, they went to a horse-drawn tram which would convey them to the fashionable promenade a mile away. In the meantime, Gabriel’s valet, Oakes, directed porters and managed the transfer of luggage from the steamer. The valet would then travel separately to the hotel along with the lady’s maid.
Once they reached the promenade, it was only a five-minute carriage ride to the Empire, an opulent seafront hotel situated on a sand beach. The magnificent lodging was equipped with every possible modern convenience, such as hydraulic lifts for conveying packages to all floors, and suites with private bathrooms.
Having never stayed in a hotel before, Pandora was mesmerized by the lush surroundings. She turned in circles to take in every detail of the blue, gold, and white interior, lavishly appointed with marble pillars, hand-painted wallpaper and Italian plasterwork. The maître d’hôtel, who could hardly fail to notice Pandora’s interest, offered to give the newlywed couple a personal tour around the public rooms.
“Thank you, but—” Gabriel began.
“We would love that,” Pandora exclaimed, bouncing slightly on her heels before she recalled herself and went still in a belated attempt at dignity. Gabriel bit back a smile.
Gratified by her enthusiasm, the maître d’hôtel gave her his arm and escorted her through the hotel, while Gabriel followed behind. They went first to the picture gallery, where their guide proudly pointed out the fine portraits of the hotel owner’s family, as well as a landscape by Turner and a painting of children and dogs by the Dutch master Jan Steen.
Next they visited the hotel’s French restaurant, where Pandora was shocked and delighted to observe that mixed dining was allowed in the main room, instead of relegating ladies to small private rooms. The maître d’hôtel assured Pandora that men and women dining together in fine hotel restaurants was already the done thing in Paris. In a manner of highest confidentiality, he discreetly pointed out a table occupied by an Indian prince and his wife, and another where a renowned American financier dined with his wife and daughters.
The tour continued along a wide gallery surrounding an indoor garden with a soaring roof of iron and glass. As the maître d’hôtel expounded on the amenities of the hotel . . . a water supply drawn from its own artesian well . . . sea-breeze gardens where afternoon tea was served daily . . . a full ballroom paneled with red Verona marble and lit with Louis XIV crystal chandeliers . . . Gabriel’s patience rapidly wore thin.
“Thank you for the tour,” Gabriel finally interrupted as they neared the grand staircase with its balustrade of wrought bronze imported from Brussels, decorated with scenes of the twelve feats of Hercules. There was no doubt the maître d’hôtel would describe each feat in excruciating detail. “We are much obliged. However, I’m afraid Lady St. Vincent and I have already taken up too much of your time. We’ll retire to our suite now.”