Devil in Spring (The Ravenels #3)(61)

“I’m not listening to you,” Pandora said.

“Of course you’re not, because I’m making sense!” Heaving a tremulous sigh, Ida bit her lip. “Blest me if I’ll ever understand you, milady.”

The outburst from her overbearing lady’s maid did little to improve Pandora’s mood. She went downstairs, feeling like she had a brick in her stomach. If only she’d never met Gabriel, she wouldn’t have to face this right now. If only she hadn’t agreed to help Dolly, and managed to trap herself in a settee. If only Dolly hadn’t lost her earring in the first place. If only she’d never gone to the ball. If only, if only . . .

As Pandora reached the formal drawing room, she heard piano music through the closed doors. Was it Gabriel? Did he play the piano? Perplexed, she opened one of the doors and went inside.

The drawing room was handsome and spacious, with intricate parquetry wood floors, wainscoted walls painted a creamy shade of white, and abundant windows draped with soft folds of pale, semi-transparent silk. The carpets had been rolled back to the side of the room.

Gabriel stood at a mahogany grand piano in the corner, riffling through sheet music, while his sister Phoebe sat on a bench in front of the keyboard. “Try this one,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. He turned at the sound of the door closing, his gaze meeting with Pandora’s.

“What are you doing?” Pandora asked. She approached him in cautious steps, tense as a horse ready to bolt. “Why did you send for me? And why is Lady Clare here?”

“I asked Phoebe to help us,” Gabriel said pleasantly, “and she kindly agreed.”

“I was coerced,” Phoebe corrected.

Pandora shook her head in confusion. “Help us to do what?”

Gabriel came to her, his shoulders blocking them from his sister’s view. His voice lowered. “I want you to waltz with me.”

Pandora felt her face go bleach-white with hurt, then red with shame, then white again, like the alternating stripes on a barber’s pole. She would never have imagined him capable of such vicious mockery. “You know I can’t waltz,” she managed to say. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Just try it with me,” he coaxed. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I believe there are ways I can make waltzing easier for you.”

“No, there aren’t,” Pandora retorted in a scalding whisper. “Did you tell your sister about my problem?”

“Only that you have difficulty dancing. I didn’t tell her why.”

“Oh, thank you, now she thinks I’m clumsy.”

“We’re in a large, basically empty room,” Phoebe said from the piano. “There’s no point in whispering, I can hear everything.”

Pandora turned to flee, but Gabriel moved to block her.

“You’re going to try this with me,” he told her.

“What is the matter with you?” Pandora demanded. “If you deliberately tried to come up with the most unpleasant, embarrassing, frustrating activity for me to attempt in my currently unstable emotional condition, it would be waltzing.” Fuming, she looked at Phoebe and spread her palms upward, as if to ask what could be done with such an impossible human being.

Phoebe gave her a commiserating glance. “We have two perfectly nice parents,” she said. “I have no idea how he turned out this way.”

“I want to teach you how my parents learned to waltz,” Gabriel told Pandora. “It’s slower and more graceful than the current fashion. There are fewer turns, and the steps are gliding rather than springing.”

“It doesn’t matter how many turns there are. I can’t even do one turn.”

Gabriel’s expression was unyielding. Clearly he didn’t intend to let her leave the drawing room until she humored him.

Fact #99 Men are like chocolate bonbons. The ones with the most attractive outsides have the worst fillings.



“I won’t push you too hard,” he said gently.

“You’re pushing me too hard right now!” Pandora found herself trembling with outrage. “What do you want?” she asked through gritted teeth.

Her pulse was pounding in her ears, nearly obscuring his quiet murmur. “I want you to trust me.”

To Pandora’s horror, the tears that wouldn’t come earlier now threatened to burst out. She swallowed repeatedly and willed them back, and stiffened against the caress of his hand at her waist. “Why don’t you trust me?” she asked bitterly. “I’ve already told you this is impossible, but apparently I have to prove it. Very well. I’m not afraid of ritual humiliation: I’ve survived three months of the London Season. I’ll stumble through a waltz for your amusement, if that’s what it takes to be rid of you.”

She dragged her gaze to Phoebe. “I might as well tell you: my father boxed my ears when I was younger, and now one ear is mostly deaf and I have no balance.”

To her relief, Phoebe didn’t look pitying, only concerned. “That’s appalling.”

“I just wanted you to know there’s a reason my dancing resembles the flailing of a demented octopus.”

Phoebe gave her a slight, reassuring smile. “I like you, Pandora. Nothing will change that.”

Some of Pandora’s anguished shame faded, and she took a deep breath. “Thank you.”