Devil in Spring (The Ravenels #3)(6)

Leaning farther into the space, she pushed her head through and felt a slight tug at her coiffure, followed by the delicate ping of a fallen hairpin. “Drat,” she muttered. Angling her body, she twisted to fit her shoulders through the opening, and felt for the earring until her fingers closed around it.

As she tried to pull out, however, she had unexpected difficulty. The settee’s carved woodwork seemed to have closed around her like a shark’s jaws. Backing away more strongly, she felt her dress hook on something and heard a few stitches pop. She went still. It certainly wouldn’t do to return to the ballroom with a rip in her gown.

She strained and struggled to reach the back of her dress, but stopped again as she heard the fragile silk begin to tear. Perhaps if she slid forward a bit and tried to back out at a different angle . . . but the maneuver only trapped her more firmly, the serrated edges of carved wood digging into her skin. After a minute of squirming and floundering, Pandora held motionless except for the fast, anxious jerks of her lungs.

“I’m not stuck,” she muttered. “I can’t be.” She wriggled helplessly. “Oh God, I am, I’m stuck. Blast. Blast.”

If she was found like this, it would mean lifelong ridicule. She might find a way to live with it. But it would reflect on her family and make them look ridiculous too, and it would ruin Cassandra’s Season, and that was unacceptable.

Despairing and frustrated, Pandora tried to think of the worst word she knew. “Bollocks.”

In the next moment, she turned cold with horror as she heard a man clearing his throat.

Was it a servant? A gardener? Please, dear God, please don’t let it be one of the guests.

She heard footsteps as he entered the summer house.

“You seem to be having some difficulty with that settee,” the stranger remarked. “As a rule, I don’t recommend the headfirst approach, as it tends to complicate the seating process.” The voice contained a cool dark resonance that did something pleasant to her nerves. Gooseflesh rose on her bare skin.

“I’m sure this must be amusing,” Pandora said cautiously, straining to see him through the carved woodwork. He was dressed in formal evening clothes. Definitely a guest.

“Not at all. Why would I be amused by the sight of a young woman posing upside-down on a piece of furniture?”

“I’m not posing. My dress is caught in the settee. And I would be much obliged if you would help me out of it!”

“The dress or the settee?” the stranger asked, sounding interested.

“The settee,” Pandora said irritably. “I’m all tangled up in these dratted—” she hesitated, wondering what to call the elaborate wooden curls and twists carved into the back of the settee. “—swirladingles,” she finished.

“Acanthus scrolls,” the man said at the same time. A second passed before he asked blankly, “What did you call them?”

“Never mind,” Pandora said with chagrin. “I have a bad habit of making up words, and I’m not supposed to say them in public.”

“Why not?”

“People might think I’m eccentric.”

His quiet laugh awakened a ticklish feeling in her stomach. “At the moment, darling, made-up words are the least of your problems.”

Pandora blinked at the casual endearment, and tensed as he sat beside her. He was close enough that she caught his fragrance, a spice of amber or something cedary, wrapped around fresh earthy coolness. He smelled like an expensive forest.

“Are you going to help me?” she asked.

“I might. If you tell me what you were doing on this settee in the first place.”

“Is it necessary for you to know?”

“It is,” he assured her.

Pandora scowled. “I was reaching for something.”

A long arm draped along the back of the settee. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

He was not being very chivalrous, she thought with annoyance. “An earring.”

“How did you lose your earring?”

“It’s not mine. It belongs to a friend and I have to return it to her quickly.”

“A friend,” he repeated skeptically. “What is her name?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“A pity. Well, good luck.” He made as if to leave.

“Wait.” Pandora wriggled, and heard the sound of more stitches popping. She stopped with a sound of exasperation. “It’s Lady Colwick’s earring.”

“Ah. I suppose she was out here with Hayhurst?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Everyone knows, including Lord Colwick. I don’t think he’ll mind Dolly’s affairs later on, but it’s a bit soon before she’s produced a legitimate child.”

No gentleman had ever spoken so frankly to Pandora before, and it was shocking. It was also the first truly interesting conversation she’d ever had with anyone at a ball.

“She’s not having an affair,” Pandora said. “It was only a rendezvous.”

“Do you know what a rendezvous is?”

“Of course I do,” she said with great dignity. “I’ve had French lessons. It means to have a meeting.”

“In context,” he said dryly, “it means a great deal more than that.”