Chapter 1
Two days earlier . . .
L ady Pandora Ravenel was bored.
Bored stiff.
Bored of being bored.
And the London Season was barely underway. She would have to endure four months of balls, soirées, concerts, and dinners before Parliament closed and the families of the peerage could return to their county seats. There would be at least sixty dinners, fifty balls, and heaven knew how many soirées.
She would never survive.
Letting her shoulders slump, Pandora sat back in the chair and stared at the crowded ballroom scene.
There were gentlemen dressed in their formal schemes of black and white, officers in uniform and dress boots, and ladies swathed in silk and tulle.
Why were they all there? What could they possibly say to each other that hadn’t been said during the last ball?
The worst kind of alone, Pandora thought morosely, was being the only person in a crowd who wasn’t having a good time.
Somewhere in the whirling mass of waltzing couples, her twin sister danced gracefully in the arms of a hopeful suitor. So far Cassandra had found the Season nearly as dull and disappointing as Pandora did, but she was far more willing to play the game.
“Wouldn’t you rather move about the room and talk to people,” Cassandra had asked earlier in the evening, “instead of staying in the corner?”
“No, at least when I’m sitting here, I can think about interesting things. I don’t know how you can bear keeping company with tiresome people for hours.”
“They’re not all tiresome,” Cassandra had protested.
Pandora had given her a skeptical glance. “Of the gentlemen you’ve met so far, have you met even one you would like to see again?”
“Not yet,” Cassandra had admitted. “But I won’t give up until I’ve met them all.”
“Once you’ve met one,” Pandora had said darkly, “you have met them all.”
Cassandra had shrugged. “Talking makes the evenings pass by more quickly. You should try it.”
Unfortunately, Pandora was abysmal at small talk.
She found it impossible to feign interest when some pompous boor began boasting about himself and his accomplishments, and how well his friends liked him, and how much others admired him.
She couldn’t muster any patience for a peer in his declining years who wanted a young bride to serve as his companion and nurse, or a widower who was obviously searching for potential breeding stock.
The thought of being touched by any of them, even with gloved hands, made her skin crawl.
And the idea of making conversation with them reminded her of how bored she was.
Staring down at the polished parquet floor, she tried to think of how many words she could make out of the word bored . Orbed . . . robed . . . doer . . . rode . . .
“Pandora,” came her chaperone’s crisp voice. “Why are you sitting in the corner again? Let me see your dance card.”
Looking up at Eleanor, Lady Berwick, Pandora reluctantly handed her the small fan-shaped card.
The countess, a tall woman with a majestic presence and a spine like a broomstick, fanned open the dance card’s mother-of-pearl covers and surveyed the thin bone pages with a steely gaze.
All blank.
Lady Berwick’s lips tightened as if they’d been hemmed with a drawstring. “This should have been filled by now.”
“I turned my ankle,” Pandora said, not quite meeting her gaze.
Faking a minor injury was the only way she could sit safely in the corner and avoid committing a serious social blunder.
According to the rules of etiquette, once a lady declined to dance because of fatigue or injury, she couldn’t accept any invitations for the rest of the evening.
Disapproval frosted the older woman’s voice. “Is this how you repay Lord Trenear’s generosity? All your expensive new gowns and accessories—why did you allow him to purchase them for you, if you had already planned to make ill use of your Season?”
As a matter of fact, Pandora did feel bad about that.
Her cousin Devon, Lord Trenear, who had assumed the earldom last year after her brother had died, had been remarkably kind to her and Cassandra.
Not only had he paid for them to be well dressed for the Season, he had also provided for dowries substantial enough to guarantee the interest of any eligible bachelor.
It was certain that her parents, who had passed away several years ago, would have been far less generous .
“I didn’t plan to make ill use of my Season,” she mumbled. “I just didn’t realize how difficult it would be.”
Especially the dancing.
Certain dances, such as the grand march and the quadrille, were manageable.
She could even navigate the galop , as long as her partner didn’t whirl her too quickly.
But the waltz presented dangers at every turn.
.. literally. Pandora lost her equilibrium whenever she spun in a sharp circle.
For that matter, she was also thrown off-balance in darkness, when she couldn’t rely on vision to orient herself.
Lady Berwick didn’t know about her problem, and for reasons of pride and shame, Pandora would never tell her.
Only Cassandra knew her secret and the story behind it, and had helped to conceal it for years.
“It’s only difficult because you make it so,” Lady Berwick said sternly.
“I don’t see why I should go to all this trouble to catch a husband who’ll never like me.”
“Whether or not your husband likes you is immaterial. Marriage has nothing to do with personal feelings. It is a union of interests.”
Pandora held her tongue, although she didn’t agree.
Approximately a year ago, her older sister Helen had married Mr. Rhys Winterborne, a common-born Welshman, and they were exceedingly happy.
So were Cousin Devon and his wife Kathleen.
Love matches might be rare, but they certainly weren’t impossible.
Even so, Pandora found it impossible to imagine that kind of future for herself.
Unlike Cassandra, who was a romantic, she had never dreamed of marrying and having children.
She didn’t want to belong to anyone, and she especially didn’t want anyone to belong to her.
No matter how she had tried to make herself want what she should want, she knew she would never be happy in a conventional life.
Lady Berwick sighed and sat beside her, her spine a rigid parallel to the back of the chair. “The month of May has just begun. Do you remember what I told you about that?”
“It’s the most important month of the Season, when all the great events are held.”
“Correct.” Lady Berwick handed the dance card back to her. “After tonight, I expect you to make an effort. You owe it to Lord and Lady Trenear, and to yourself. I daresay you owe it to me as well, after all my efforts to improve you.”
“You’re right,” Pandora said quietly. “And I’m sorry—truly sorry—for the trouble I’ve caused you.
But it’s become clear to me that I’m not meant for any of this.
I don’t want to marry anyone. I’ve made plans to support myself and live independently.
With any luck I’ll be successful, and no one will have to worry about me any longer. ”
“You’re referring to that parlor game nonsense?” the countess asked, her tone inflected with scorn.
“It’s not nonsense. It’s real. I’ve just been granted a patent. Ask Mr. Winterborne.”
Last year, Pandora, who had always loved toys and parlor amusements, had designed a board game.
With Mr. Winterborne’s encouragement, she had filed for a patent and intended to produce and distribute the game.
Mr. Winterborne owned the largest department store in the world, and had already agreed to place an order for five hundred copies.
The game was a guaranteed success, if for no other reason than that there was hardly any competition: Whereas the board game industry was flourishing in America, thanks to the efforts of the Milton Bradley company, it was still in its infancy here in Britain.
Pandora had already developed two more games and was almost ready to file patents for them.
Someday she would earn enough money to make her own way in the world.
“As fond as I am of Mr. Winterborne,” Lady Berwick said dourly, “I fault him for encouraging you in this folly.”
“He thinks I have the makings of an excellent business woman.”
The countess twitched as if she’d been stung by a wasp. “Pandora, you were born an earl’s daughter. It would be appalling enough if you married a merchant or manufacturer, but to become one yourself is unthinkable. You wouldn’t be received anywhere. You would be ostracized.”
“Why should any of these people”—Pandora cast a quick, wary glance at the crowd in the ballroom—“care what I choose to do?”
“Because you are one of them. A fact that, assuredly, pleases them no more than it does you.” The countess shook her head. “I can’t pretend to understand you, my girl. Your brain has always seemed to me like those fireworks—what are the ones that spin so madly?”
“Catherine wheels.”
“Yes. Whirling and sparking, all light and noise. You make judgments without bothering to find out the particulars. It’s a fine thing to be clever, but too much cleverness usually produces the same result as ignorance.
Do you think you can willfully disregard the world’s opinion?
Do you expect people to admire you for being different? ”
“Of course not.” Pandora fiddled with her empty dance card, fanning it open and closing it repeatedly. “But they might at least try to be accepting.”
“Foolish, cross-grained girl, why should they? Nonconformity is nothing but self-interest in disguise.” Although it was obvious the countess would have liked to deliver a full-blown lecture, she snapped her mouth shut and rose to her feet.
“We will continue this discussion later.” Turning away, Lady Berwick headed for a brood of sharp-eyed, vinegar-blooded dowagers at the side of the room.