Devil in Spring (The Ravenels #3)(8)

Chaworth was short and stocky, shaped like an apple set on a pair of nut picks. A white nimbus of side whiskers and beard quivered tensely around his face as he spoke. “The earl and I were walking to the river’s edge to view the setup for the fireworks, when we happened to hear the young lady’s screams for help.”

“I didn’t scream,” Pandora protested.

“I’ve already walked down there myself to talk to the contractor,” the young man beside her said. “As I was returning to the house, I happened to notice that Lady Pandora was in difficulty, having caught part of her dress in the settee. I was only trying to help her.”

The snowy puffs of Chaworth’s brows ascended to his hairline as he turned to Pandora. “Is that true?”

“It is, my lord.”

“Why, pray tell, were you out here in the first place?”

Pandora hesitated, unwilling to turn evidence against Dolly. “I slipped out for a breath of fresh air. I was . . . bored in there.”

“Bored?” Chaworth echoed in outrage. “With a twenty-piece orchestra and a ballroom full of eligible bucks to dance with?”

“I wasn’t asked to dance,” Pandora mumbled.

“You might have been, had you not been out here consorting with a notorious rake!”

“Chaworth,” the dark-haired man beside him intervened quietly, “if I may speak.”

The speaker was ruggedly attractive, with boldly hewn features and the sun-browned complexion of an avid outdoorsman. Although he was not young—his black locks were liberally shot with steel, and time had deepened the laugh-lines around his eyes and the brackets between his nose and mouth—he certainly couldn’t have been called old. Not with that air of robust health, and the presence of a man with considerable authority.

“I’ve known the lad since the day he was born,” he continued, his voice deep and a bit gravelly. “As you know, his father is a close friend. I’ll vouch for his character, and his word. For the girl’s sake, I suggest that we hold our silence and handle the matter with discretion.”

“I am also acquainted with his father,” Lord Chaworth snapped, “who plucked many a fair flower in his day. Obviously the son is following in his footsteps. No, Westcliff, I will not remain silent—he must be held accountable for his actions.”

Westcliff? Pandora glanced at him with alert interest. She had heard of the Earl of Westcliff, who, after the Duke of Norfolk, held the oldest and most respected peerage title in England. His vast Hampshire estate, Stony Cross Park, was famed for its fishing, hunting, and shooting.

Westcliff met her gaze, seeming neither shocked nor condemning. “Your father was Lord Trenear?” he asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“We were acquainted. He used to hunt at my estate.” The earl paused. “I invited him to bring his family, but he always preferred to come alone.”

That was hardly a surprise. Pandora’s father had considered his three daughters to be parasites. For that matter, her mother had taken little interest in them either. As a result, Pandora, Cassandra, and Helen had sometimes gone for months without seeing their parents. The surprise was that the recollection still had the power to hurt.

“My father wanted as little to do with his daughters as possible,” Pandora said bluntly. “He considered us nuisances.” Lowering her head, she mumbled, “Obviously I’ve proven him right.”

“I wouldn’t say so.” A touch of amused sympathy warmed the earl’s voice. “My own daughters have assured me—more than once—that any well-meaning girl of high spirits can find herself in hot water now and then.”

Lord Chaworth broke in. “This particular ‘hot water’ must be cooled immediately. I will return Lady Pandora to the care of her chaperone.” He turned to the man beside her. “I suggest that you depart for Ravenel House forthwith, to meet with her family and make the appropriate arrangements.”

“What arrangements?” Pandora asked.

“He means marriage,” the cold-eyed young man said flatly.

A chill of alarm went through her. “What? No. No, I wouldn’t marry you for any reason.” Realizing he might take that personally, Pandora added in a more conciliatory tone, “It has nothing to do with you; it’s just that I don’t intend to marry at all.”

Lord Chaworth interrupted smugly. “I believe it will quell your objections to learn that the man standing before you is Gabriel, Lord St. Vincent—the heir to a dukedom.”

Pandora shook her head. “I would rather be a charwoman than a peer’s wife.”

Lord St. Vincent’s cool gaze slid to her scratched shoulders and torn dress, and returned slowly to her strained face. “The fact is,” he said quietly, “you’ve been absent from the ballroom long enough for people to have noticed.”

It began to dawn on Pandora that she was in real trouble, the kind that couldn’t be solved with facile explanations, or money, or even her family’s influence. Her pulse reverberated like a kettledrum in her ears. “Not if you let me go back immediately. No one ever notices whether I’m there or not.”

“I find that impossible to believe.”

The way he said it didn’t sound like a compliment.

“It’s true,” Pandora said desperately, talking fast, thinking even faster. “I’m a wallflower. I only agreed to take part in the Season to keep my sister Cassandra company. She’s my twin, the nicer, prettier one, and you’re the kind of husband she’s been hoping for. If you’ll let me go fetch her, you could compromise her, and then I’ll be off the hook.” Seeing his blank look, she explained, “People certainly wouldn’t expect you to marry both of us.”