Devil in Spring (The Ravenels #3) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,12

Pandora would want him to hold his silence on that point.

Trenear came to sit beside his wife and listened intently. After a footman had appeared with a tray of brandy, he poured the vintage into short-stemmed glasses and handed one to Gabriel.

Taking a bracing swallow, Gabriel felt the biting glow sink deep in his throat. “Even if Chaworth hadn’t been determined to hold my feet to the fire,” he said, “Lady Pandora’s reputation was already in ruins. She shouldn’t have left the ballroom.”

Lady Trenear’s shoulders drooped like a weary schoolgirl’s. “This was my fault. I persuaded Pandora to take part in the Season.”

“Don’t start that, for God’s sake,” the earl said gently, guiding her to look at him. “Not everything is your fault, much as you would like to believe otherwise. We all urged Pandora to go out in society. The alternative was to let her stay at home while Cassandra went to balls and parties.”

“If she’s forced to marry, it will break her spirit.”

Taking his wife’s small hand, Trenear coaxed her fingers to curl around his. “No one will force her to do anything. Come what may, she and Cassandra can always rely on my protection.”

His wife’s brown eyes were tender and radiant as she smiled at him. “You dear man. You didn’t even have to think about it, did you?”

“Of course not.”

Gabriel was disconcerted—no, baffled—by the way they discussed the situation as if there were a choice to be made. Good God, was he really going to have to explain that the disgrace would cast a shadow over the entire family? That the Ravenels’ friendships and connections would be severed? That Pandora’s twin would have no chance of finding a decent match?

Lady Trenear’s attention returned to him. Taking in his confounded expression, she said carefully, “My lord, I should explain that Pandora is no ordinary girl. She has a free spirit, and an original mind. And . . . well, obviously, she’s a bit impulsive.”

The description was so contrary to the ideal of a proper English bride that Gabriel felt his stomach sink like a millstone.

“. . . she and her sisters,” Lady Trenear was saying, “. . . were raised in extreme seclusion at the family’s country estate. They were all educated, but very unworldly. The first time I met them was the day I married their brother Theo. They seemed like a trio of . . . forest sprites, or wood nymphs, something out of a fairy story. Helen, the oldest, was quiet and shy, but the twins had been left to run wild on the estate, unattended, for most of their lives.”

“Why would their parents allow that?” Gabriel asked.

The earl answered quietly. “They had no use for daughters. The only child they valued was their son.”

“What we’re trying to convey,” Lady Trenear said earnestly, “is that Pandora would never thrive with a husband who expected her to be . . . well, conventional. She needs someone who will appreciate her unique qualities.”

After swirling the brandy in his glass, Gabriel finished it in two expedient gulps, hoping it would ease the chill of dread in his gut.

It didn’t.

Nothing was going to make him feel better about the disastrous turn his life had just taken.

He’d never expected to have a marriage like his parents’—few people on earth ever had. But at the very least Gabriel had hoped to marry an accomplished and respectable woman who would run his household efficiently and raise well-behaved children.

Instead, it seemed he was going to marry a forest sprite. With an original mind.

Gabriel couldn’t begin to imagine the ramifications for his family’s estates, tenants, and servants. Not to mention his offspring. God, she wouldn’t have the first idea of how to mother them.

Setting aside his empty glass, he decided to go home and have a bottle to himself. Or better yet, he would visit his mistress, in whose arms he would find temporary oblivion. Anything would be better than sitting here discussing the peculiar young woman who, in the course of ten minutes, had managed to ruin his life.

“Trenear,” he said grimly, “if you can find a solution other than marriage, I swear I’ll dance a fiddler’s jig on the steps of St. Paul’s. But the most likely outcome of this is that I’ll be performing the wedding march instead.” He reached into an inner pocket of his coat for his card. “I’ll await your decision at my London residence.”

A defiant voice came from the threshold. “It’s my decision, and I’ve already