“You told me the same thing just before I left for the Chaworth ball.”
“Did I?” Kathleen smiled. “Well, I suppose I have to be wrong about something every now and then.” After a pause, she added gently, “I know you’d rather be safe and snug at home, dear. But I’m glad you agreed to come.”
Pandora nodded, squirming uncomfortably as she pulled at the sleeves of her light woolen traveling dress, which was sticking to her skin. “People like me should avoid new experiences,” she said. “It never turns out well.”
“Don’t say that,” Cassandra protested.
Devon spoke then, his voice gentle. “Everyone has faults, Pandora. Don’t be hard on yourself. You and Cassandra began at a disadvantage after having been raised in seclusion for so long. But you’re both learning fast.” He smiled down at Kathleen as he added, “As I can personally attest, making mistakes is part of the learning process.”
As the carriage proceeded past the main gate, the estate mansion came into view. Contrary to Pandora’s expectations, it wasn’t at all cold and imposing. It was a gracious, low-slung residence of two stories, inhabiting its surroundings with comfortable ease. Its classic lines were softened by an abundance of glossy green ivy that mantled the cream stucco fa?ade, and arbors of pink roses that arched cheerfully over the courtyard entrance. Two extended wings curved around the front gardens, as if the house had decided to fill its arms with bouquets. Nearby, a slope of dark, dreaming forest rested beneath a blanket of sunlight.
Pandora’s interest was caught by the sight of a man making his way to the house. A young child sat on his shoulders, while an older, red-haired boy kept pace at his side. A tenant farmer, perhaps, out walking with his two sons. It was odd that he would stride across the front lawn in such a bold manner.
He wore only trousers, a thin shirt, and an open vest, with no hat or necktie anywhere in sight. He walked with the loose-jointed grace of someone who spent a great deal of time outdoors. It was obvious that he was extraordinarily fit, the simple garments draping lightly over the lean, powerful lines of his body. And he carried the child on his shoulders as if he weighed nothing.
Cassandra leaned closer to stare through Pandora’s window. “Is that a worker?” she asked. “A farmer?”
“I would think so. Dressed like that, he couldn’t be—” Pandora broke off as the carriage followed the wide arc of the drive, affording her a better view. The man’s hair was a distinctive color she’d seen only once before, the dark gold of antique bullion coins. Her insides began to rearrange themselves as if they’d decided to play musical chairs.
The man reached the carriage as it stopped in front of the portico. The driver said something to him, and Pandora heard his relaxed reply, in a cool, deep baritone.
It was Lord St. Vincent.
Chapter 6
After swinging the child easily from his shoulders to the ground, Lord St. Vincent opened the carriage door on Pandora’s side. The full blaze of midday gilded his perfect features and struck brilliant lights in his bronze-gold hair.
Fact #13 she wanted to write. Lord St. Vincent walks around with his own personal halo.
The man had too much of everything. Looks, wealth, intelligence, breeding, and virile good health.
Fact #14 Some people are living proof of an unjust universe.
“Welcome to Heron’s Point,” Lord St. Vincent said, his gaze encompassing the entire group. “My apologies—we went to the shore to test my younger brother’s new kite design, and it took longer than we expected. I intended to be back in time for your arrival.”
“That’s quite all right,” Kathleen assured him cheerfully.
“The important question is,” Devon said, “how did the kite fly?”
The red-headed boy came to the doorway of the carriage. Ruefully he held up a bundle of slender dowels held together by scraps of red fabric and string, so Devon could see it. “Broke apart in mid-flight, sir. I’ll have to make modifications to my design.”
“This is my brother, Lord Michael,” St. Vincent said. “We call him by his middle name, Ivo.”
Ivo was a handsome lad of perhaps ten or eleven, with deep auburn hair, sky-blue eyes, and a winning smile. He executed an awkward bow, in the way of someone who’d just had a growth spurt and was trying to manage the new length of his arms and legs.
“What about me?” the barefoot boy on Lord St. Vincent’s other side demanded. He was a sturdy, dark-haired, pink-cheeked child, no more than four years old. Like Ivo, he was dressed in a bathing tunic attached at the waist to a pair of short trousers.
Lord St. Vincent’s lips twitched as he looked down at the impatient boy. “You’re my nephew,” he said gravely.
“I know that!” the child said in exasperation. “You’re supposed to tell them.”