Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(6)

Unexpectedly, rather sweetly, the duke seemed more than a little enamored of his own wife. One of his hands lingered idly at the small of her back, his enjoyment in touching her covert but unmistakable. One could hardly blame him. Evangeline, the duchess, was a spectacularly voluptuous woman with apricot-red hair, and merry blue eyes set in a lightly freckled complexion. She looked warm and radiant, as if she’d been steeped in a long autumn sunset.

“What do you think of Lord St. Vincent?” Pandora asked eagerly.

West’s gaze moved to a man who appeared to be a younger version of his sire, with bronze-gold hair that gleamed like new-minted coins. Princely handsome. A cross between Adonis and the Royal Coronation Coach.

With deliberate casualness, West said, “He’s not as tall as I expected.”

Pandora looked affronted. “He’s every bit as tall as you!”

“I’ll eat my hat if he’s an inch over four foot seven.” West clicked his tongue in a few disapproving tsk-tsks. “And still in short trousers.”

Half annoyed, half amused, Pandora gave him a little shove. “That’s his younger brother Ivo, who is eleven. The one next to him is my fiancé.”

“Aah. Well, I can see why you’d want to marry that one.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Pandora let out a long sigh. “Yes. But why does he want to marry me?”

West took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “Why wouldn’t he?” he asked, his voice gentling with concern.

“Because I’m not the sort of girl everyone expected him to marry.”

“You’re what he wants, or he wouldn’t be here. What is there to fret about?”

Pandora shrugged uneasily. “I don’t really deserve him,” she confessed.

“How splendid for you.”

“Why is that splendid?”

“There’s nothing better than having something you don’t deserve. Just say to yourself, ‘Hooray for me, I’m so very lucky. Not only do I have the biggest piece of cake, it’s a corner piece with a sugar-paste flower on top, and everyone else is sick with envy.’”

A slow grin spread across Pandora’s face. After a moment, she said in an experimental undertone, “Hooray for me.”

Glancing over her head, West saw someone approach—someone he had not expected to see on this occasion—and a breath of annoyed disbelief escaped him. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to start off your wedding festivities with a small murder, Pandora. Don’t worry, it will be over quickly, and then we’ll go back to celebrating.”





Chapter 3




“Who are you going to do away with?” Pandora sounded more interested than alarmed.

“Tom Severin,” West said grimly.

She turned to follow his gaze, as the lean, dark figure approached. “But you’re one of his close friends, aren’t you?”

“None of Severin’s friends are what I would call close. Generally, we all try to keep out of stabbing distance.”

It would be difficult to find a man still on the early side of his thirties who had acquired wealth and power at the speed that Tom Severin had. He’d started as a mechanical engineer designing engines, then progressed to railway bridges, and had eventually built his own railway line, all with the apparent ease of a boy playing leapfrog. Severin could be generous, mischievous, and considerate, but his better qualities were unanchored by anything resembling a conscience.

Severin bowed as he reached them.

Pandora curtsied in return.

West leveled a cold stare at him.

Severin wasn’t handsome in comparison to the Challons—of course, what man would be?—nor was he handsome by strictly conventional standards. But there was something about him that women seemed to like. West was damned if he knew what it was. Severin’s face was lean and angular, his build lanky and almost rawboned, his complexion librarian pale. His eyes were an unevenly distributed mixture of blue and green, so that in strong lighting they appeared to be two entirely different colors.

“London was boring,” Severin said, as if that explained his presence.

“I feel quite sure you’re not on the guest list,” West said acidly.

“Oh, I never need invitations,” came Severin’s matter-of-fact reply. “I go wherever I want. I’m owed favors by so many people, no one would dare ask me to leave.”

“I would dare,” West said. “In fact, I can tell you exactly where to go.”

Before West could continue, Severin turned quickly to Pandora. “You’re the bride-to-be. I can tell by sparkle in your eyes. An honor to be here, delighted, felicitations, et cetera. What would you like for a wedding present?”

Despite Lady Berwick’s rigorous instruction in etiquette, the question caused Pandora’s propriety to collapse like a pricked balloon. “How much are you going to spend?” she asked.

Severin laughed, delighting in the innocently crass question. “Ask for something big,” he said. “I’m very rich.”

“She needs nothing,” West said curtly. “Especially from you.” Glancing down at Pandora, he added, “Mr. Severin’s gifts always come with strings. And the strings are attached to rabid badgers.”