“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 of 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.”