Pandora sent him a long-suffering glance and heaved a sigh. “Oh, all right. I suppose I’ll have to keep him. And train him not to scare people.” Dramatically she fell backward on the bed, arms and legs akimbo. Her small, glum voice floated up to the ceiling. “My very own footmonster.”
Gabriel regarded the small, splayed figure on the bed, feeling a rush of mingled amusement and lust that made his breath catch. Before another second had passed, he’d climbed over her, crushing her mouth with his.
“What are you doing?” Pandora asked with a spluttering laugh, twisting beneath him.
“Accepting your invitation.”
“What invitation?”
“The one you gave me by reclining on the bed in that seductive pose.”
“I flopped backward like a dying trout,” she protested, squirming as he began to hike up her skirts.
“You knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.”
“Take a bath first,” she implored. “You’re not fit for the house. I should take you out to the stables and scrub you like one of the horses, with carbolic soap and a birch brush.”
“Oh, you naughty girl . . . yes, let’s do that.” His hand wandered lecherously under her skirts.
Pandora yelped with laughter and wrestled him. “Stop, you’re contaminated! Come to the bathroom and I’ll wash you.”
He pinned her down. “You’ll be my bath handmaiden?” he asked provocatively.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“I would,” he whispered, touching his tongue to the center of her lower lip.
Her dark blue eyes were bright with mischief. “I’ll bathe you, my lord,” she offered, “but only if you agree to keep your hands to yourself, and remain as still and stiff as a statue.”
“I’m already as stiff as a statue.” He nudged her to demonstrate.
Pandora rolled out from under him with a grin and headed toward the bathroom, while he followed readily.
It amazed Gabriel to reflect that just a short time ago, he’d believed that no woman would ever please him as Nola Black had, with her “subversive talents,” as his father had dryly put it. But even in their most passionate moments, his encounters with Nola had always left him hungering for something nameless and elusive. An intimacy that went beyond the joining of physical parts. Whenever he and Nola had tried to let down their guards with each other, even briefly, her sharp edges—and his—had left mutual scars. Neither of them had been able to take the risk of sharing the flaws and weaknesses they each guarded so fiercely.
But everything was different with Pandora. She was a force of nature, unable to be anything other than entirely herself, and somehow that made it impossible for him to maintain any pretenses around her. Whenever he admitted to having flaws or making mistakes, she seemed to like him all the better for them. She had unlocked his heart with terrifying ease, and thrown away the key.
He loved her more than was good for either of them. She filled him with a wellspring of joy he’d never connected to the sexual act before. No wonder he lusted after her constantly. No wonder he felt so possessive, and worried every moment she was out of his sight. Pandora had no idea how fortunate she was that he didn’t insist on sending her out with a bodyguard of assorted marksmen, cavalry, Scottish archers, and a few Japanese samurai thrown in for good measure.
It was insane to let a creature so perfectly beautiful and artlessly spirited and vulnerable as his wife venture out into a world that could crush her with casual unconcern, and he had no choice but to allow it. But he had no illusions about ever being comfortable with it. For the rest of his life, he would feel a stab of dread every time she walked out the door, leaving him there with his heart wide open.
Before Gabriel departed the next morning for a business meeting with an architect and builder—something about granting a speculative building lease on property he owned in Kensington—he set a stack of letters in front of Pandora.
She looked up from the parlor writing desk, where she was laboriously composing a letter to Lady Berwick. “What are those?” she asked with a slight frown.
“Invitations.” Gabriel smiled slightly at her expression. “The Season isn’t over. I assume you’ll wish to decline them, but there may be one or two of interest.”
Pandora regarded the stack of envelopes as if they were a coiled snake. “I suppose I can’t be unsociable forever,” she said.
“That’s the spirit.” Gabriel grinned at her lackluster tone. “There’s an upcoming reception at the Guildhall for the Prince of Wales, now that he’s returned from his tour of India.”
“I might consider something like that,” she said. “It would be better than attending some small, stuffy dinner, where I would feel as conspicuous as the bearded lady at a country fair. Speaking of beards—is there a reason Drago hasn’t removed his? He really should remove it, now that he’s a footman.”
“I’m afraid it wasn’t open for negotiation,” Gabriel said ruefully. “He’s always had it. In fact, whenever he makes an ironclad vow, he swears by his beard.”
“Well, that’s silly. No one can swear by a beard. What if it catches fire?”
Gabriel smiled and leaned over her. “Take the matter up with Drago, if you wish. But be forewarned: he’s very attached to it.”
“Well, of course he’s attached to it, it’s his beard.”
His lips caressed hers with lingering pressure, until her mouth opened to take in more of the sultry heat and sweetness. Tenderly his fingertips stroked her throat, teasing a flush to the surface of her skin. He licked into the kiss, the velvety stroke awakening an erotic pang low in her stomach. Her head swam, and she reached out to steady herself by gripping his forearms. He was slow to finish the kiss, taking a last deep taste before reluctantly easing his mouth from hers. “Be a good girl today,” he murmured.
Pandora smiled, her cheeks aflame, and she tried to gather her wits as he left. Picking up a glass paperweight with little glass flowers embedded within, she rolled it absently between her palms and listened to the sounds of the household around her. Shutters being opened and dusted, things being scoured, polished, and brushed, rooms being aired out and tidied.
Although Pandora agreed with Gabriel’s assertion that they would need to find a bigger house soon, she liked the terrace house, which wasn’t nearly as spare and bachelor-ish as she’d anticipated. It was a corner house in a row of terraces, with wide bay windows, high vaulted ceilings, and balconies with wrought-iron balustrades. The house had every possible modern convenience, including a tiled entrance hall that was heated with hot water coils and fitted with a dinner lift from the basement. While Pandora had been away on the honeymoon, Kathleen and Cassandra had brought a few items from Ravenel House to make her new surroundings feel familiar and cozy. Among them were a flowered needlepoint pillow, a soft lap blanket with tasseled corners, some favorite books, and a collection of tiny colored glass candle cups. From Helen and Winterborne, there had been a beautiful new cabinet desk, with a multitude of drawers and compartments, and a gold clock built into the top panel.
The terrace was well maintained by an amiable group of servants, who were in general quite a bit younger than the staff at Eversby Priory, and Heron’s Point too, for that matter. They all worked hard to please the housekeeper, Mrs. Bristow, who directed their daily tasks with crisp efficiency. She treated Pandora with a mixture of friendliness and deference, although she was understandably perplexed by the new countess’s utter lack of interest in domestic affairs.
Actually, there were a few small things that Pandora was tempted to mention. Afternoon tea, for example. Teatime had always been a cherished ritual for the Ravenels, even in the days when they hadn’t been able to afford it. Every afternoon they indulged in an ample selection of tarts and cream cakes, plates of biscuits and finger rolls, scones, and miniature sweet puddings, while steaming pots of freshly brewed tea were brought out at regular intervals.
Tea in this household, however, consisted o
f either a plain toasted muffin or a lone currant bun, served with butter and a pot of jam. Perfectly nice fare, to be certain, but when Pandora thought of the long, lavish Ravenel teas, this was quite boring and crumb-drum by comparison. The problem was that even minor involvement in household management might lead to more involvement and responsibility. Therefore, it was wiser to stay silent and eat her muffin. Besides, now that she had her own carriage, she could visit Kathleen for tea whenever she wished.
The thought of the carriage reminded her of the footman.
Picking up a brass bell on the desk, Pandora rang it tentatively, wondering if Drago would answer. Within a minute, he was at the threshold.
“Milady.”
“Come in, Drago.”
He was a large, muscular man with the broad-shouldered build that was ideal for a footman’s livery, but for some reason the long-skirted coat, knee breeches and silk stockings didn’t suit him. He seemed ill at ease, as if the dark blue velvet and gold braiding were an affront to his dignity. As he watched her with those alert black eyes, she noticed a small crescent-shaped scar that went from the end of his left brow almost to the outer corner of his eye, a permanent reminder of some dangerous event from long ago. His black beard, short and neatly trimmed, looked as impenetrable as otter fur.
Pandora regarded him thoughtfully. Here was a person who was trying to do his best in a situation that was uncomfortable for him. She understood that feeling. And that beard . . . it was symbolic, whether or not he realized it. A sign that he would only go so far in compromising who he was. She understood that, too.
“How do you like your name to be pronounced?” she asked. “Lord St. Vincent says it with an ah sound, but I heard the butler pronounce it with a long a.”
“Neither’s right.”
As she had learned from their brief, awkward outing yesterday, he preferred to speak with a minimum of words.
She gave him a perplexed glance. “Why haven’t you said anything?”
“No one asked.”
“Well, I’m asking.”
“It’s like dragon, without an n.”
“Oh.” A smile spread across Pandora’s face. “I like that much better. I’ll call you Dragon.”
His brows lowered. “It’s Drago.”
“Yes, but if we add that one extra letter, people would always know how to pronounce it, and more importantly, everyone likes dragons.”
“I don’t want to be liked.”
With that coal-black hair and his dark eyes—and the way he looked just now, as if he were actually capable of breathing fire—the nickname was so perfect as to be sublime. “Won’t you at least consider—” Pandora began.
“No.”
She stared at him speculatively. “If you shaved off your beard, would you turn out to be improbably handsome?”
The quick change of subject seemed to throw him slightly off balance. “No.”
“Well, in any case, footmen can’t have beards. I think it’s the law.”
“It’s not the law.”
“It’s tradition, however,” she said wisely, “and going against tradition is almost like breaking the law.”
“Coachman has a beard,” Drago pointed out.
“Yes, coachmen can have them, but footmen can’t. I’m afraid you’ll have to get rid of it. Unless . . .”
His eyes narrowed as he realized she was going in for the coup de grâce. “Unless?”
“I would be willing to overlook your inappropriate facial foliage,” Pandora offered, “if you let me call you Dragon. If you don’t, the beard goes.”
“The beard stays,” he snapped.
“Very well.” Pandora gave him a satisfied smile. “I’ll need the carriage ready at two o’clock, Dragon. That will be all for now.”
He gave her a surly nod and began to leave, but he stopped at the threshold as Pandora spoke again. “There’s one more thing I want to ask. Do you like wearing livery?” Dragon turned to face her. At his long hesitation, Pandora said, “I have a reason for asking.”
“No, I don’t like it. Too much cloth flying about—” He flipped the skirted hem of the livery coat contemptuously. “And up top, it’s cut too tight to let a man move his arms properly.” Glancing down at himself, he said in disgust, “Bright colors. Gold braid. I look like a great peacock.”
Pandora gave him a sympathetic glance. “The fact is,” she said earnestly, “you’re not really a footman, you’re a bodyguard who sometimes performs the duties of a footman. Inside the house, while you’re assisting the butler with dinner and all that, I’m sure they’ll insist on livery. But whenever you accompany me outside the house, I think it would be best if you wore your own clothes, as befitting a private bodyguard.” She paused before adding frankly, “I’ve seen the way street urchins and ruffians taunt liveried servants, especially in the more common parts of town. There’s no need to subject you to such annoyances.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly. “Yes, milady.” Before he turned away, she could have sworn that a faint smile had stirred within the depths of his beard.
The man who accompanied Pandora out to her carriage was a far different version of Dragon than the awkward footman bound up in livery. He moved with easy confidence in a suit consisting of a well-cut black coat and trousers, and a dark gray waistcoat. The beard that had looked so out of place on a footman now seemed appropriate. One might have even said he looked dashing, were he not so charmless. But then, dragons weren’t supposed to be charming.
“Where do you wish to go, milady?” Dragon asked, after he let down the step of the carriage.
“O’Cairre Print Works, on Farringdon Street.”
He gave her a sharp glance. “In Clerkenwell?”
“Yes. It’s in the Farringdon Works building, behind the—”
“There are three prisons in Clerkenwell.”
“There are also flower-sellers, candle-makers, and other respectable businesses. The area is being reclaimed.”
“By thieves and Irishmen,” Dragon said darkly as Pandora ascended into the carriage. He handed in the leather valise stuffed with papers, sketches, and game prototypes, and she set it on the seat beside her. After closing the carriage door, he went to sit up top with the driver.
Pandora had pored over a list of printers before narrowing down her choices to the final three. O’Cairre Print Works was of special interest because the proprietor happened to be a widow who had run the business since her husband’s death. Pandora liked the idea of supporting other women in business.
Clerkenwell was hardly the most dangerous place in London, although its reputation had been tarnished by a prison bombing nine years ago. The Fenians, a secret society fighting for the cause of Irish self-government, had unsuccessfully tried to free one of their members by blowing a hole in a prison wall, resulting in the deaths of twelve people and injuries to scores of others. It had resulted in a public backlash and resentment against the Irish that had been slow to fade. Which was a shame, in Pandora’s opinion, since the hundred thousand peaceful Irish-born residents of London shouldn’t be punished for the actions of a few.
Once a respectable middle-class area that had fallen to hard times, Clerkenwell bristled with tall, densely crowded buildings sandwiched between tumbledown properties. New road construction would someday ease the warren of congested alleys, but for now the ongoing work had created a series of detours that made parts of Farringdon Street difficult to access. Fleet Ditch, a river that had devolved into a sewer, had been covered by the roadway, but its ominous slushing could occasionally be heard—and unfortunately smelled—through grids in the pavement. The rumbles and whistling of trains cut through the air as they approached the temporary terminus of the Farringdon Street station and a large goods depot that had been built by the railway company.
The carriage stopped in front of a utilitarian red-and-yellow brick warehouse building. Pandora’s heart skipped with excitement as she saw the double-fronted shop faced with segmented w
indows and a carved pediment over the entrance. O’Cairre Print Works had been painted on the pediment in elaborate gold lettering.
Dragon was quick to open the carriage door and reach in for Pandora’s valise before pulling down the step. He was careful not to let Pandora’s skirt touch the wheel as she emerged from the carriage. Efficiently he opened the shop door, and closed it after she entered. However, instead of waiting outside the shop as a footman would, he went inside and stood beside the door.
“You don’t need to wait in the shop with me, Dragon,” Pandora murmured as he gave her the valise. “My appointment will last at least an hour. You can go somewhere and drink some ale, or something.”
He ignored the suggestion and remained exactly where he was.
“I’m visiting a printer,” Pandora couldn’t resist pointing out. “The worst thing that could happen to me is a paper cut.”
No response.
Sighing, Pandora turned and went to the first in a row of counters that extended across the large interior and divided it into several departments. The print works was the most wonderfully cluttery, colorful place she had ever been in, except perhaps Winterborne’s department store, which was an Aladdin’s cave of sparkling glass and jewels and luxury items. But this was a fascinating new world. The walls were liberally papered with caricature prints, cards, playbills, engravings, penny-sheets, and toy theater backdrops. The air was perfumed with an intoxicating mixture of fresh paper, ink, glue, and chemicals, a smell that made Pandora want to snatch up a pen and frantically start drawing something. At the back of the shop, machinery clacked and clattered with a start-run-stop rhythm as apprentices operated hand presses.
Overhead, prints had been hung up to dry on hundreds of lines strung across the room. There were towers of mill-board and card stock everywhere, and high columns of paper in greater quantities and varieties than Pandora had ever seen in one place. The counters were piled with trays of printing blocks carved with letters, animals, birds, people, stars, moons, Christmas symbols, vehicles, flowers, and thousands of other delightful images.