“If she’s forced to marry, it will break her spirit.”

Taking his wife’s small hand, Trenear coaxed her fingers to curl around his. “No one will force her to do anything. Come what may, she and Cassandra can always rely on my protection.”

His wife’s brown eyes were tender and radiant as she smiled at him. “You dear man. You didn’t even have to think about it, did you?”

“Of course not.”

Gabriel was disconcerted—no, baffled—by the way they discussed the situation as if there were a choice to be made. Good God, was he really going to have to explain that the disgrace would cast a shadow over the entire family? That the Ravenels’ friendships and connections would be severed? That Pandora’s twin would have no chance of finding a decent match?

Lady Trenear’s attention returned to him. Taking in his confounded expression, she said carefully, “My lord, I should explain that Pandora is no ordinary girl. She has a free spirit, and an original mind. And . . . well, obviously, she’s a bit impulsive.”

The description was so contrary to the ideal of a proper English bride that Gabriel felt his stomach sink like a millstone.

“. . . she and her sisters,” Lady Trenear was saying, “. . . were raised in extreme seclusion at the family’s country estate. They were all educated, but very unworldly. The first time I met them was the day I married their brother Theo. They seemed like a trio of . . . forest sprites, or wood nymphs, something out of a fairy story. Helen, the oldest, was quiet and shy, but the twins had been left to run wild on the estate, unattended, for most of their lives.”

“Why would their parents allow that?” Gabriel asked.

The earl answered quietly. “They had no use for daughters. The only child they valued was their son.”

“What we’re trying to convey,” Lady Trenear said earnestly, “is that Pandora would never thrive with a husband who expected her to be . . . well, conventional. She needs someone who will appreciate her unique qualities.”

After swirling the brandy in his glass, Gabriel finished it in two expedient gulps, hoping it would ease the chill of dread in his gut.

It didn’t.

Nothing was going to make him feel better about the disastrous turn his life had just taken.

He’d never expected to have a marriage like his parents’—few people on earth ever had. But at the very least Gabriel had hoped to marry an accomplished and respectable woman who would run his household efficiently and raise well-behaved children.

Instead, it seemed he was going to marry a forest sprite. With an original mind.

Gabriel couldn’t begin to imagine the ramifications for his family’s estates, tenants, and servants. Not to mention his offspring. God, she wouldn’t have the first idea of how to mother them.

Setting aside his empty glass, he decided to go home and have a bottle to himself. Or better yet, he would visit his mistress, in whose arms he would find temporary oblivion. Anything would be better than sitting here discussing the peculiar young woman who, in the course of ten minutes, had managed to ruin his life.

“Trenear,” he said grimly, “if you can find a solution other than marriage, I swear I’ll dance a fiddler’s jig on the steps of St. Paul’s. But the most likely outcome of this is that I’ll be performing the wedding march instead.” He reached into an inner pocket of his coat for his card. “I’ll await your decision at my London residence.”

A defiant voice came from the threshold. “It’s my decision, and I’ve already said no.”

Gabriel stood automatically, as did Trenear, as Pandora strode into the room. She was trailed by her twin, a pretty blonde, and Eleanor, Lady Berwick.

Pandora’s dress was disheveled, her bodice askew, and her gloves were missing. A few raised red scratches marred the surface of her shoulder. The pins had been pulled from her ruined coiffure during the carriage ride, allowing a profusion of heavy black-coffee locks to fall to her waist in waves and ripples. Her coltish form quivered like a wild creature held in restraints. She gave off a kind of . . . energy, of . . . there didn’t seem to be a word for it, but Gabriel could feel the irresistible voltage eating up the space between them. Every hair on his body individuated as he was flooded with the hot, humming awareness of her.

Holy hell. With effort, he tore his fascinated gaze from her and bowed to Lady Berwick. “Countess,” he murmured. “A pleasure, as always.”

“Lord St. Vincent.” There was no mistaking the gleam of satisfaction in Lady Berwick’s eyes as she beheld the formerly elusive bachelor, now caught. “You’re acquainted with Lady Pandora, obviously.” Bringing forward the blonde girl, she said, “This is her sister, Lady Cassandra.”

Cassandra curtsied in a graceful, well-practiced movement. “My lord.” She was pretty, demure, every curl and ruffle in place. Her gaze remained modestly downcast, not rising above his collar button. A lovely girl. She didn’t interest him in the least.

Pandora approached Gabriel in a direct way no other young woman of her rank would have dared. She had extraordinary eyes, dark blue rimmed with black, like sapphires charred at the edges. A pair of winged black brows stood out sharply against her snowdrop complexion. She smelled like night air, and white flowers, and a hint of feminine sweat. The fragrance aroused him, all his muscles tightening like bowstrings.

“I know you’re trying to do the right thing, my lord,” she said. “But I don’t need you to save me or my reputation. Please go home.”