“What’s a holloway?”
“It’s what they call a sunken lane, here in the southern counties.” Gabriel loved the way she shaped the word silently with her lips . . . holloway . . . seeming to savor it as if it were a bonbon. Glancing at Seraphina, who was standing nearby, he said, “I’m going to take Lady Pandora to the cove this afternoon. I expect Ivo will come too. Would you like to join us?”
Pandora frowned. “I didn’t say—”
“That would be lovely,” Seraphina exclaimed, and turned to Cassandra. “You must come with us. It’s refreshing to splash about in the ocean on a day like this.”
“Actually,” Cassandra said apologetically, “I would rather take a nap.”
“How could you possibly want a nap?” Pandora demanded, incredulous. “We’ve done nothing but sit all day.”
Cassandra was instantly defensive. “Doing nothing is exhausting. I need to rest in case we do nothing again later.”
Looking nettled, Pandora turned back to Gabriel. “I can’t go, either. I have no bathing costume.”
“You can wear one of mine,” Seraphina volunteered.
“Thank you, but without a chaperone, I couldn’t—”
“Phoebe has agreed to chaperone us,” Gabriel interrupted.
His older sister, who had been listening to the exchange, raised her brows. “I did?” she asked coolly.
Gabriel gave her a meaningful glance. “We discussed it this morning, remember?”
Phoebe’s gray eyes narrowed. “Actually, I don’t.”
“You said you’d spent too much time inside lately,” he told her. “You said you needed a walk and some fresh air.”
“Goodness, how talkative I was,” Phoebe said in a caustic tone, her gaze promising retribution. But she didn’t argue.
Gabriel grinned as he saw Pandora’s mutinous expression. “Don’t be stubborn,” he coaxed in an undertone. “I promise you’ll enjoy yourself. And if you don’t . . . you’ll have the satisfaction of proving me wrong.”
Chapter 7
After being shown to a pretty bedroom with delicate pink walls, and wide windows opening to a view of the ocean, Pandora changed into a bathing costume that had been brought by Seraphina’s maid. The ensemble consisted of a dress with short puffed sleeves and a shockingly brief skirt, and a pair of Turkish trousers to wear underneath. Sewn of light blue flannel trimmed with white braid, the bathing costume was wonderfully light and loose.
“If only women could dress like this all the time,” Pandora enthused, twirling experimentally. Losing her balance, she fell dramatically backward onto the bed with her white-stockinged legs in the air like an upended tea table. “I feel so free without a creaky old corset.”
Her lady’s maid, a stout fair-haired girl named Ida, regarded her doubtfully. “Ladies need corsets to support their weak backs.”
“I don’t have a weak back.”
“You should pretend to. Gentlemen prefer a delicate lady.” Ida, who had pored over hundreds of ladies’ fashion periodicals, continued with authority. “Take my advice and find a reason to swoon when you’re at the beach, so Lord St. Vincent can catch you.”
“Swoon from what?”
“Say a crab frightened you.”
Still lying on the bed, Pandora began to laugh. “It’s after me!” she exclaimed theatrically, opening and closing her hands like pincers.
“Don’t snort, if you please,” Ida said sourly. “You sound like a trumpet-major.”
Raising up on her elbows, Pandora regarded her with a crooked grin. Ida had been hired at the beginning of the Season, when it had been decided the twins each needed her own lady’s maid. Both Ida and the other maid, Meg, had vied eagerly for the position of attending Cassandra, who had lovely golden hair and a far more compliant disposition than Pandora.
Cassandra had chosen Meg, however, which had forced Ida to settle for becoming Pandora’s maid. Ida had made no secret of her disappointment. To Pandora’s amusement, Ida had dispensed with most of the usual courtesies and pleasantries, and had remained surly ever since. In fact, when the two of them were in private, her remarks bordered on insulting. However, Ida was efficient and hardworking, and determined to make a success of her charge. She went to great lengths to keep Pandora’s clothing in perfect condition, and was proficient at arranging her heavy, slippery hair so that it stayed firmly in its pins.
“Your tone lacks deference, Ida,” Pandora said.
“I’ll treat you with all the deference in the world, milady, if you can manage to bring Lord St. Vincent up to scratch. Word among his servants is, the Challons will arrange for someone else to marry you, if you don’t suit Lord St. Vincent.”
Instantly annoyed, Pandora climbed off the bed and tugged the bathing costume back into place. “As if this were a game of pass-the-parcel? With me as the parcel?”
“It wasn’t Lord St. Vincent who said so,” Ida interrupted. She held up a hooded robe, which had also been brought by Seraphina’s lady’s maid. “It was his servants, and they were only speculating.”
“How do you know what his servants are saying?” Fuming, Pandora turned and thrust her arms into the robe. “We’ve only been here for an hour.”
“It’s all everyone is talking about belowstairs.” Ida fastened the robe at the waist. It matched the rest of the bathing costume and gave the ensemble the appearance of a proper dress. “There, you’re presentable.” She knelt and guided Pandora’s feet into little canvas slippers. “Mind you don’t become loud and wild during your outing. His lordship’s sisters will notice everything, and tell the duke and duchess.”