out each Season.’
‘At two and thirty, my taste in women does not include chits barely out of the schoolroom.’ The to-ing and fro-ing of Rupert Stirling’s voice indicated that he was pacing the library in his agitation. ‘I cannot see myself tied for life to a young woman who not only giggles and prattles, but knows nothing of what takes place in the bedchamber,’ he added disdainfully.
‘Perhaps you should not dismiss the existence of that innocence so lightly, Rupert.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, for one thing, no one could ever accuse you of a lack of finesse in the bedchamber, which would surely allow you to tutor your young and innocent wife as to your personal preferences. And secondly, innocence does have the added benefit of ensuring—hopefully—that the future heir to the Dukedom would at least be of your own loins!’
‘Which may not have been the case if Patricia had succeeded in giving my father his “spare”—an occurrence which would have succeeded in rendering me fearful for my very life whilst I slept,’ the Duke of Stratton stated venomously.
Pandora was aware she no longer remained silent outside on the shadowed terrace merely to avoid detection, but was in fact now listening unashamedly to the two gentlemen’s conversation. Two gentlemen, having seen them from a distance but a short time ago, it was all too easy for Pandora to now envisage.
Dante Carfax was tall and dark with wicked green eyes, his impeccable evening attire fitting to perfection his wide and muscled shoulders, flat abdomen and long powerful legs.
Rupert Stirling was equally as tall, if not slightly taller than his friend, his golden locks fashionably styled to curl about his ears and fall rakishly across his intelligent brow, his black evening clothes and snowy white linen tailored to emphasise the powerful width of his shoulders, narrow waist and long and muscled legs. His eyes would no doubt be that cool and enigmatic grey set in his haughtily handsome fallen-angel face, with a narrow aristocratic nose, high cheekbones and a wickedly sensual mouth that could smile with sardonic humour or thin with the coldness of his displeasure.
A displeasure that at present appeared to be directed at the woman his late father had married four years ago.
Pandora had been only twenty at the time, and not long married herself, but she remembered that the whole of society had then been agog with the fact that the long-widowed seventh Duke of Stratton, a man already in his sixtieth year, had decided to take as his second wife the young woman it was strongly rumoured had been romantically involved with that gentleman’s son before he returned to his regiment to fight in Wellington’s army against Napoleon …
Pandora, along with all of society, was also aware that the new Duke and his stepmother had occupied the same house ever since the death of his father the previous year—or rather houses, because whether in town or the country, Rupert Stirling and his father’s widow invariably now occupied the same residence.
‘As I recall, you always did have reason to fear for your life when in the bedchamber with that particular lady,’ Dante drawled drily in reply to the other man’s previous comment.
Pandora felt the colour warm her cheeks at overhearing such intimate details of Rupert Stirling’s relationship with the woman who was now his widowed stepmother. Perhaps, after all, she had listened long enough to the gentlemen’s conversation, and should now return to the ballroom and make her excuses to Sophia before leaving? Yes, that would probably be for the best—
‘Half the gentlemen present this evening are currently following my stepmama about the ballroom with their tongues hanging out,’ the Duke said scathingly.
‘And the other half?’
‘Appear to be panting after a petite golden-haired woman in a purple gown—’
‘I believe you will find that her gown is violet in colour.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Pandora Maybury’s gown is violet, not purple,’ Dante Carfax murmured.
Having already turned towards the house, with the intention of leaving the men to the privacy of their brandy, cigars and conversation, Pandora found herself stilling, a chill of apprehension now running down the length of her spine at suddenly hearing her own name mentioned.
‘Barnaby Maybury’s widow?’ the Duke asked.
‘Just so.’
‘Ah.’
What little colour had returned to Pandora’s cheeks during the minutes she had spent outside in the fresh air now drained away as she heard the unmistakable contempt underlying the Duke of Stratton’s knowing utterance.
Dante gave a throaty chuckle. ‘I know your preference is for women who are dark of hair, tall in stature and voluptuous in figure, Stratton.’
‘And Pandora Maybury, being petite and fair haired and slender of figure, is so obviously none of those things—’
‘I defy even you to notice anything else about her once you have gazed into the exquisite beauty of her eyes!’
‘Should you, in the circumstances, be noticing the beauty of another woman’s eyes, or any other part of her anatomy, Dante?’
The other man chuckled at the sarcasm evident in his friend’s tone. ‘I dare any gentleman, whatever the circumstances, to ignore the beauty of Pandora Maybury’s eyes.’
‘Pray tell what is so special about them?’
‘They are exactly the same shade of colour as the gown she is wearing this evening. Violets in the springtime,’ Dante added with obvious appreciation.
‘Can it be that your prolonged state of unrequited desire for our beautiful hostess has finally succeeded in completely addling your brain?’ Rupert drawled with obvious derision.
‘You are the second person this evening to suggest that might be the case,’ the other man snapped. ‘But, I assure you, where Pandora Maybury’s eyes are concerned, I merely state the truth.’
‘Violets …?’ The Duke was still the sceptic.
‘The deep, dark colour of violets in springtime,’ Dante maintained firmly. ‘And surrounded by the longest, silkiest lashes I have seen on any woman.’
‘And these are the same violet-coloured eyes and long silky lashes, no doubt, which succeeded in luring not one man to his death, but two?’ The Duke’s tone was scathing.
Pandora drew her breath in sharply even as she dropped down weakly on to the wrought-iron bench seat that stood against the wall of Clayborne House, having long been aware of how society thought of her, but never actually having heard anyone openly make the accusation in her presence before.
Except, of course, she was not in the presence of her accusers, merely an eavesdropper who, as the saying went, wasn’t hearing anything good about herself.
‘I believe I might take my leave as you are so out of sorts,’ Dante now told Rupert.
‘I will stay here and finish my brandy and cigar before making my own excuses,’ the Duke answered.
Pandora
