by Lisa Kleypas
There was no doubt in Pandora’s mind that Gabriel would rise to the challenges of a fast-changing world. He was astute, intelligent, cool-headed, a natural leader. Still, she thought, it must be difficult for any man to live under the burden of such expectations and responsibilities. Did he ever worry about making mistakes, looking foolish, or failing at something?
On the third day of Pandora’s visit, they spent the afternoon at the estate’s archery grounds with Cassandra, Ivo, and Seraphina. Realizing it was time to go inside and change for dinner, the group went to collect their arrows from the row of targets backed by grass-covered mounds.
“Don’t forget,” Seraphina cautioned, “we’re to dress a bit more formally than usual for dinner tonight. We’ve invited two local families to join us.”
“How formal?” Cassandra asked, instantly worried. “What are you going to wear?”
“Well,” Ivo said thoughtfully, as if the question had been meant for him, “I thought I would wear my black velveteen trousers, and my waistcoat with the fancy buttons—”
“Ivo,” Seraphina exclaimed with mock solemnity, “this is no time for teasing. Fashion is a serious matter.”
“I don’t know why girls keep changing their fashions every few months and making such a fuss about it,” Ivo said. “We men had a meeting a long time ago, and we all decided, ‘It’s trousers.’ And that’s what we’ve worn ever since.”
“What about the Scots?” Seraphina asked slyly.
“They couldn’t give up their kilts,” Ivo said reasonably, “because they’d become so accustomed to having the air swirling around their—”
“Knees,” Gabriel interrupted with a grin, tousling Ivo’s gleaming red hair. “I’ll see to your arrows, brat. Go to the house and find your way into a pair of velveteen trousers.”
Ivo grinned up at his older brother and trotted off.
“Hurry inside with me,” Seraphina told Cassandra, “and we’ll have just enough time for me to show you my dress.”
Cassandra cast a worried glance at her target, which was still bristling with uncollected arrows.
“I’ll take care of it,” Pandora told her. “I never need more than a few minutes to change for dinner.”
Cassandra smiled and blew her a kiss, and ran toward the house with Seraphina.
Grinning at her sister’s haste, Pandora cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted after them in her best imitation of Lady Berwick, “Ladies do not gallop like chaise horses!”
Cassandra’s reply floated back from a distance, “Ladies do not screech like vultures!”
Laughing, Pandora turned and found Gabriel’s intent gaze on her. He seemed fascinated by . . . something . . . although she couldn’t imagine what he would find so interesting about her. Self-consciously she brushed at her cheeks with her fingers, wondering if there were a smudge on her face.
Gabriel smiled absently and gave a slight shake of his head. “Am I staring? Forgive me. It’s only that I adore the way you laugh.”
Pandora blushed up to her hairline. She went to the nearest target and began to jerk out arrows. “Please don’t compliment me.”
Gabriel went to the next target. “You don’t like compliments?”
“No, they make me feel awkward. They never seem true.”
“Perhaps they don’t seem true to you, but that doesn’t mean they’re not.” After sliding his arrows into a leather quiver, Gabriel came to help collect hers.
“In this case,” Pandora said, “it’s definitely not true. My laugh sounds like a serenading tree frog swinging on a rusty gate.”
Gabriel smiled. “Like silver wind chimes in a summer breeze.”
“That’s not at all how it sounds,” Pandora scoffed.
“But that’s how it makes me feel.” The intimate note in his voice seemed to vibrate along the network of fine, taut nerves strung all through her.
Refusing to look at him, Pandora fumbled a little with the cluster of arrows in the canvas target. The shots had landed so deep and close that some of the shafts had wedged against each other in the stuffing of flax tows and shavings. This target had been Gabriel’s, of course. He’d released the arrows with almost nonchalant ease, hitting the gold center every time.
Pandora twisted the arrows carefully as she pulled them free, to keep the poplar shafts from breaking. After extricating the last arrow and handing it to Gabriel, she began to remove her glove, which consisted of leather finger-sheaths attached to flat straps, all leading to a band that buckled around her wrist.
“You’re an excellent marksman,” she said, prying at the stiff little buckle.
“Years of practice.” Gabriel reached for the buckle and unfastened it for her.
“And natural ability,” Pandora said, refusing to let him be modest. “In fact, you seem to do everything perfectly.” She held still as he reached for her other arm and began on the fastenings of her Morocco leather arm-guard. More hesitantly, she said, “I suppose people expect it of you.”
“Not my family. But the outside world—” Gabriel hesitated. “People tend to notice my mistakes, and remember them.”
“You’re held to a higher standard?” Pandora ventured. “Because of your position and name?”
Gabriel gave her a noncommittal glance, and she knew he was reluctant to say anything that might sound like complaining. “I’ve found it’s better to be careful about revealing weaknesses.”
“You have weaknesses?” Pandora asked in pretend surprise, only half-joking.
“Many,” Gabriel said with rueful emphasis. Carefully he drew the arm-guard away from her and dropped it into a side pouch of the quiver.
They were standing so close that Pandora saw the tiny silver threads that striated the translucent blue depths of his eyes. “Tell me the worst thing about yourself,” she said impulsively.
A peculiar expression flashed across his face, uncomfortable and almost . . . ashamed? “I will,” he said quietly. “But I’d rather discuss it later, in private.”
A sick weight of dread settled at the bottom of her stomach. Would her worst suspicion about him turn out to be true?
“Does it have something to do with . . . women?” Pandora brought herself to ask, her pulse beating a rapid tattoo of alarm in her throat and wrists.
He gave her an oblique glance. “Yes.”
Oh God, no, no. Too upset to guard her tongue, she burst out, “I knew it. You have the pox.”
Gabriel shot her a startled look. The quiver of arrows dropped to the ground with a clatter. “What?”
“I knew you’d probably caught it by now,” Pandora said distractedly, as he pulled her around the nearest target and behind one of the earthworks mounds, where they were obscured from the view of the house. “Heaven knows how many kinds. English pox, French pox, Bavarian pox, Turkish—”
“Pandora, wait.” He gave her a slight shake to capture her attention, but the words kept tumbling out.
“—Spanish pox, German pox, Australian pox—”
“I’ve never had the pox,” he interrupted.
“Which one?”
“All of them.”
Her eyes turned huge. “You’ve had all of them?”
“No, damn it—” Gabriel broke off and turned partially away. He began to cough roughly, his shoulders trembling. One of his hands lifted to cover his eyes, and with a pang of horror, she thought he was weeping. But in the next moment, she realized he was laughing. Every time he glanced at her indignant face, it started a new round of irrepressible choking. She was forced to wait, annoyed at finding herself the object of hilarity while he struggled to control himself.
Finally Gabriel managed to gasp, “I’ve had none of them. And there’s only one kind.”
A tide of relief swept away Pandora’s annoyance. “Why are there so many different names, then?”
His chuckles subsided with a last ragged breath, and he wiped at the wet inner corners of his eyes. “The English began calling it French pox when
we were at war, and naturally they returned the favor by calling it English pox. I doubt anyone has ever called it Bavarian or German pox, but if someone did, it would have been the Austrians. The point is, I don’t have it, because I’ve always used protection.”
“What does that mean?”
“Prophylactics. Viscera of ovis aries.” His tone had turned lightly caustic. “French letters, English hats, baudruches. Take your pick.”
Pandora puzzled over the French word, which sounded somewhat familiar. “Isn’t baudruche the fabric made from, er . . . sheep’s innards . . . that they use for making hot air balloons? What does a sheep balloon have to do with warding off the pox?”
“It’s not a sheep balloon,” he said. “I’ll explain if you think you’re ready for that level of anatomical detail.”
“Never mind,” she replied quickly, having no desire to be embarrassed further.
With a slow shake of his head, Gabriel asked, “How the devil did you come by the idea that I had the pox?”
“Because you’re a notorious rake.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Lord Chaworth said you were.”
“My father was the notorious rake,” Gabriel replied with poorly contained exasperation, “in the days before he married my mother. I’ve been tarred by the same brush because I happen to look like him. And because I inherited his old title. But even if I wanted to acquire legions of amorous conquests, which I don’t, I wouldn’t have the damned time.”
“But you’ve ‘known’ many women, haven’t you? In the Biblical sense.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “How are we defining many?”
“I don’t have a particular quantity in mind,” Pandora protested. “I wouldn’t even know—”
“Give me a number.”
Pandora rolled her eyes and sighed shortly to convey that she was humoring him. “Twenty-three.”
“I’ve known fewer than twenty-three women in the Biblical sense,” Gabriel said promptly, seeming to think that would end the discussion. “Now, I think we’ve spent enough time indulging in filthy conversation on the archery grounds. Let’s go back to the house.”
“Have you been with twenty-two women?” Pandora asked, refusing to move.
A rapid succession of emotions crossed his face—annoyance, amusement, desire, warning. “No.”
“Twenty-one?”
There was a moment of absolute stillness before something in him seemed to snap. He pounced on her with a sort of tigerish delight, and clamped his mouth over hers. She squeaked in surprise, wriggling in his hold, but his arms clamped around her easily, his muscles as solid as oak. He kissed her possessively, almost roughly at first, gentling by voluptuous degrees. Her body surrendered without giving her brain a chance to object, applying itself eagerly to every available inch of him. The luxurious male heat and hardness of him satisfied a wrenching hunger she hadn’t been aware of until now. It also gave her the close-but-not-close-enough feeling she remembered from before. Oh, how confusing this was, this maddening need to crawl inside his clothes, practically inside his skin.
She let her fingertips wander over his cheeks and jaw, the neat shape of his ears, the taut smoothness of his neck. When he offered no objection, she sank her fingers into his thick, vibrant hair and sighed in satisfaction. He searched for her tongue, teased and stroked intimately until her heart pounded in a tumult of longing, and a sweet, empty ache spread all through her. Dimly aware that she was going to lose control, that she was on the verge of swooning, or assaulting him again, she managed to break the kiss and turn her face away with a gasp.
“Don’t,” she said weakly.
His lips grazed along her jawline, his breath rushing unsteadily against her skin. “Why? Are you still worried about Australian pox?”
Slowly it registered that they were no longer standing. Gabriel was sitting on the ground with his back against the grass-covered mound, and—heaven help her—she was in his lap. She glanced around them in bewilderment. How had this happened?
“No,” she said, bewildered and perturbed, “but I just remembered that you said I kissed like a pirate.”
Gabriel looked blank for a moment. “Oh, that. That was a compliment.”
Pandora scowled. “It would only be a compliment if I had a beard and a peg leg.”
Setting his mouth sternly against a faint quiver, Gabriel smoothed her hair tenderly. “Forgive my poor choice of words. What I meant to convey was that I found your enthusiasm charming.”
“Did you?” Pandora turned crimson. Dropping her head to his shoulder, she said in a muffled voice, “Because I’ve worried for the past three days that I did it wrong.”
“No, never, darling.” Gabriel sat up a little and cradled her more closely against him. Nuzzling her cheek, he whispered, “Isn’t it obvious that everything about you gives me pleasure?”
“Even when I plunder and pillage like a Viking?” she asked darkly.
“Pirate. Yes, especially then.” His lips moved softly along the rim of her right ear. “My sweet, there are altogether too many respectable ladies in the world. The supply has far exceeded the demand. But there’s an appalling shortage of attractive pirates, and you do seem to have a gift for plundering and ravishing. I think we’ve found your true calling.”
“You’re mocking me,” Pandora said in resignation, and jumped a little as she felt his teeth gently nip her earlobe.
Smiling, Gabriel took her head between his hands and looked into her eyes. “Your kiss thrilled me beyond imagining,” he whispered. “Every night for the rest of my life, I’ll dream of the afternoon in the holloway, when I was waylaid by a dark-haired beauty who devastated me with the heat of a thousand troubled stars, and left my soul in cinders. Even when I’m an old man, and my brain has fallen to wrack and ruin, I’ll remember the sweet fire of your lips under mine, and I’ll say to myself, ‘Now, that was a kiss.’”
Silver-tongued devil, Pandora thought, unable to hold back a crooked grin. Only yesterday, she’d heard Gabriel affectionately mock his father, who was fond of expressing himself with elaborate, almost labyrinthine turns of phrase. Clearly the gift had been passed down to his son.
Feeling the need to put some distance between them, she crawled out of his lap.
“I’m glad you don’t have the pox,” she said, standing and tugging at the wild disorder of her skirts. “And your future wife—whoever she is—will certainly be glad as well.”
The pointed comment didn’t escape him. He gave her an acerbic glance and rose to his feet in an easy movement. “Yes,” he said dryly, brushing at his own trousers, and raking a hand through the brilliant layers of his hair. “Thank God for sheep balloons.”
Chapter 10
The local families that came to dinner were quite sizeable, each with an array of children of varying ages. It was a merry gathering, with lively conversation flowing across the long table where the adults were seated. The youngest children were eating upstairs in the nursery, while the older children occupied their own table in a room adjoining the main dining room. The atmosphere was embellished with the soft music of a harp and a flute, played by local musicians.
The Challons’ cook and kitchen staff had outdone themselves with a variety of dishes featuring spring vegetables and local fish and game. Although the cook back home at Eversby Priory was excellent, the food at Heron’s Point was a cut above. There were colorful vegetables cut into tiny julienne strips, tender artichoke hearts roasted with butter, steaming crayfish in a sauce of white burgundy and truffles, and delicate filets of sole coated with crisp breadcrumbs. Pheasant covered with strips of bacon and roasted to juicy, smoky perfection was served with a side of boiled potatoes that had been whipped with cream and butter into savory melting fluff. Beef roasts with peppery crackled hides were brought out on massive platters, along with golden-crusted miniature game pies, and macaroni baked with Gruyère cheese in clever little tart dishes.
Pandora was quiet, not only ou
t of fear of saying something awkward or gauche, but also because she was determined to eat as much of the delicious food as possible. Unfortunately, a corset was a misery for anyone fond of eating. Swallowing one mouthful beyond the point of comfortable fullness would cause sharp pains behind the ribs, and make it difficult to breathe. She wore her best dinner dress, made of silk dyed in a fashionable shade called bois de rose, a deep earthy pink that flattered her fair complexion. It was a severely simple style, with a low square-cut bodice and skirts pulled back tightly to reveal the shape of her waist and hips.
To her disgruntlement, Gabriel wasn’t seated by her as he had been the past few nights. Instead, he was at the duke’s end of the table, with a matron and her daughter on either side. The women laughed and chatted easily, delighted to have the attention of two such dazzling men.
Gabriel was slim and handsome in formal black evening clothes, a white silk waistcoat, and a crisp white necktie. He was flawless, ice-cool, utterly self-possessed. The candlelight played gently over him, striking golden sparks from his hair, flickering over the high cheekbones and the firm, full curves of his mouth.
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.
