Devil in Spring

Pandora sent him a long-suffering glance and heaved a sigh. “Oh, all right. I suppose I’ll have to keep him. And train him not to scare people.” Dramatically she fell backward on the bed, arms and legs akimbo. Her small, glum voice floated up to the ceiling. “My very own footmonster.”

Gabriel regarded the small, splayed figure on the bed, feeling a rush of mingled amusement and lust that made his breath catch. Before another second had passed, he’d climbed over her, crushing her mouth with his.

“What are you doing?” Pandora asked with a spluttering laugh, twisting beneath him.

“Accepting your invitation.”

“What invitation?”

“The one you gave me by reclining on the bed in that seductive pose.”

“I flopped backward like a dying trout,” she protested, squirming as he began to hike up her skirts.

“You knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.”

“Take a bath first,” she implored. “You’re not fit for the house. I should take you out to the stables and scrub you like one of the horses, with carbolic soap and a birch brush.”

“Oh, you naughty girl . . . yes, let’s do that.” His hand wandered lecherously under her skirts.

Pandora yelped with laughter and wrestled him. “Stop, you’re contaminated! Come to the bathroom and I’ll wash you.”

He pinned her down. “You’ll be my bath handmaiden?” he asked provocatively.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I would,” he whispered, touching his tongue to the center of her lower lip.

Her dark blue eyes were bright with mischief. “I’ll bathe you, my lord,” she offered, “but only if you agree to keep your hands to yourself, and remain as still and stiff as a statue.”

“I’m already as stiff as a statue.” He nudged her to demonstrate.

Pandora rolled out from under him with a grin and headed toward the bathroom, while he followed readily.

It amazed Gabriel to reflect that just a short time ago, he’d believed that no woman would ever please him as Nola Black had, with her “subversive talents,” as his father had dryly put it. But even in their most passionate moments, his encounters with Nola had always left him hungering for something nameless and elusive. An intimacy that went beyond the joining of physical parts. Whenever he and Nola had tried to let down their guards with each other, even briefly, her sharp edges—and his—had left mutual scars. Neither of them had been able to take the risk of sharing the flaws and weaknesses they each guarded so fiercely.

But everything was different with Pandora. She was a force of nature, unable to be anything other than entirely herself, and somehow that made it impossible for him to maintain any pretenses around her. Whenever he admitted to having flaws or making mistakes, she seemed to like him all the better for them. She had unlocked his heart with terrifying ease, and thrown away the key.

He loved her more than was good for either of them. She filled him with a wellspring of joy he’d never connected to the sexual act before. No wonder he lusted after her constantly. No wonder he felt so possessive, and worried every moment she was out of his sight. Pandora had no idea how fortunate she was that he didn’t insist on sending her out with a bodyguard of assorted marksmen, cavalry, Scottish archers, and a few Japanese samurai thrown in for good measure.

It was insane to let a creature so perfectly beautiful and artlessly spirited and vulnerable as his wife venture out into a world that could crush her with casual unconcern, and he had no choice but to allow it. But he had no illusions about ever being comfortable with it. For the rest of his life, he would feel a stab of dread every time she walked out the door, leaving him there with his heart wide open.

Before Gabriel departed the next morning for a business meeting with an architect and builder—something about granting a speculative building lease on property he owned in Kensington—he set a stack of letters in front of Pandora.

She looked up from the parlor writing desk, where she was laboriously composing a letter to Lady Berwick. “What are those?” she asked with a slight frown.

“Invitations.” Gabriel smiled slightly at her expression. “The Season isn’t over. I assume you’ll wish to decline them, but there may be one or two of interest.”

Pandora regarded the stack of envelopes as if they were a coiled snake. “I suppose I can’t be unsociable forever,” she said.

“That’s the spirit.” Gabriel grinned at her lackluster tone. “There’s an upcoming reception at the Guildhall for the Prince of Wales, now that he’s returned from his tour of India.”

“I might consider something like that,” she said. “It would be better than attending some small, stuffy dinner, where I would feel as conspicuous as the bearded lady at a country fair. Speaking of beards—is there a reason Drago hasn’t removed his? He really should remove it, now that he’s a footman.”

“I’m afraid it wasn’t open for negotiation,” Gabriel said ruefully. “He’s always had it. In fact, whenever he makes an ironclad vow, he swears by his beard.”

“Well, that’s silly. No one can swear by a beard. What if it catches fire?”

Gabriel smiled and leaned over her. “Take the matter up with Drago, if you wish. But be forewarned: he’s very attached to it.”

“Well, of course he’s attached to it, it’s his beard.”