Duchess of Sin (31 page)

“My sister Eliza would say that we can never stop fighting,” Anna said.

“Your sister is a wise woman.”

“Has she helped you with the Union?”

“She may have written a pamphlet or two,” Conlan said.

“And does anyone else I know help you?”

Conlan paused. “That is their own secret to tell. But there is a network that uses the Olympian Club as their headquarters.”

“Then I can help you, too!” She wound her arms around his neck, staring deeply into his eyes. She wouldn’t let him reject
her now. “I know there are many guests at the Christmas party who have been bribed to be pro-Union. They all think I am a
silly featherbrain, so they will not be careful with what they say to me.”

“Anna, no.” He took her firmly by the shoulders, but she would not be discouraged.

“It’s not like getting into a knife fight by the river, Conlan. It is just listening. You can’t stop me from listening, can
you?” She gave him her brightest smile. “Besides, I have you to protect me.”

He scowled darkly, but she was not frightened. How could she be, when she could be useful at last? “I’m here, not at the Connemaras’,”
he said.

“But you are invited to their Christmas Eve ball, aren’t you? Lady Connemara said you were, though she was sure you would
not come. You will just have to surprise her.”

She kissed his lips softly, once, twice. Then again, deeper. His lips parted under hers, and he tasted of mint and smoke and
himself. She felt her body stir to life again, the kindling of desire deep in her heart.

“Say you will come to the ball,” she whispered. “Say you will dance with me and meet me under the kissing bough.”

“With an incentive like that, how can I refuse?” he muttered. His hands closed around her hips and dragged her against him
again. His mouth closed hard over hers, his tongue sliding inside.

Anna closed her eyes and let herself fall deeply into him, into her feelings for him. Union vanished, everything vanished,
and she wanted just him and this moment. It was where she belonged, with him and with Ireland.

If only he could see that, too.

K
atherine peered into the shop window, holding on to her hat as a cold gust of wind threatened to carry it away. It was Christmas
Eve, and she had slipped away from the party to do a little shopping in the village.

Gifts for Caroline were easy enough—books. The selection in the bookshop here was not as great as in Dublin, but she found
a fine set of Plato for her. Caroline liked the Greeks and Romans as well as the Irish. What to get for Anna, though? Katherine
carefully examined a length of pale green silk that could make a fine ballgown, but it didn’t seem to be exactly what she
was looking for.

She was quite worried about her Anna. Her second daughter, always her most sensitive child, was so quiet lately. She always
seemed to be thinking of things very far away, things no one else could see and which she didn’t share. And Katherine didn’t
know how to reach her.

How could she get Anna to share secrets when she herself held one of her own?

Katherine sighed as she examined a pair of pearl
earrings. She had hoped that by coming to the country, distracting herself with Christmas festivities, she would forget Nicolas
Courtois. That was not so. Among all her old friends, people who had known her so long that they no longer really saw her,
she thought of him more than ever.

There in her library he saw her. And she knew him, too, deep down inside. It seemed she knew nothing of him really—he was
young, handsome, talented, reserved—and so entirely unsuitable for her. Yet that night, she glimpsed the sensitive soul within,
and she longed to know him even better.

“You are being ridiculous,” she muttered to herself. Anyone would think she was just a silly schoolgirl, sighing over a handsome
face. Not a woman with three grown daughters.

She stared at her reflection in the window. Her hair, untidy in the wind, was still blond, her skin white and smooth. But
was that a new line between her brows? Horrors!

Perhaps it was time to give up, to retire to the dower house at Killinan and take up knitting. She could start wearing lace
widow’s caps, especially once Anna was married and Caroline’s Season launched.

But her daughters needed her, even as she feared Anna had misunderstood her words about security and marriage and Grant Dunmore.
She had to try and talk to her again. Maybe when she gave her the perfect Christmas gift.

Reflected in the glass behind her were the bustling Christmas crowds, shoppers flocking in from the countryside to find gifts
and delicacies for their holiday tables. A man emerged from the bakery across the street, and the watery sunlight caught on
his golden hair.

Katherine’s heart leaped, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Nicolas!

Even as she told herself not to be even sillier than she already was, that he was far away in Dublin, she turned to look.

It
was
him, Nicolas. Here in the village. She had the frantic urge to run and hide in the shop until he was gone. But there was
the other, equally strong urge to call out, to run to him.

The decision was taken out of her hands when he saw her standing there. A brilliant smile lit his face, quickly fading into
wary uncertainty. Did he, too, feel torn between running forward and fleeing?

She waved to him, and he made his way across the crowded street between the wagons and carriages. She straightened her hat,
trying to compose herself and put her social mask into place before he reached her. They managed to be coolly polite in Dublin.
Why should they not be here?

“Lady Killinan,” he said with a bow. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Monsieur Courtois,” she answered. Yes, she
could
smile politely. “I did not know you planned to spend the holiday in Kildare.”

“I did not, but I received a commission to paint a portrait of Lord Napier’s daughters after you recommended me to him in
Dublin. He was most insistent I begin at once, so I am here to do as much as I can before I have to return to the city.”

“What a great opportunity for you, monsieur! But rather sad you must work at Christmas.”

“I do not mind. Christmas in the country is charming,
n’est-ce pas?
I love the green wreaths everywhere.”

“It is very pretty, yes. It reminds me of holidays when I was a girl.”

“Are you at Killinan Castle to celebrate?” he asked.

“Not this year. My daughters and I are staying with the Connemaras until the new year. I just came to do a bit of shopping.”

“And I came to fetch supper,” he said, holding up a paper parcel. “
Le pain calendeau,
traditional French bread for Christmas. The baker here kindly made it for me. Cheese, wine, and it is a fine holiday.”

Katherine laughed. She strolled slowly down the walkway, and Nicolas kept pace with her. “What else is done in France for
Christmas?”

“Oh, there is
la buche de Noel,
the Yule log brought in on Christmas Eve, and
le Reveillon,
the great feast. The usual sort of things.”

“And are you lodging with Lord Napier?”

“No, I have rooms here in the village. Just over there, above the bookstore. There is room for my work, and it is very quiet
at night, much more so than in Dublin.”

Katherine hesitated, torn again between the urge to flee and the even crazier urge to dash forward and fling herself over
the cliff.

“I should like to see your work,” she said.

He looked down at her, his brow raised. “You would?”

“Oh, yes. I did love those sketches you showed me in Dublin. They seemed full of a rare talent.”

“Then I am happy to show my work to you. I warn you it is in rather a rough stage.”

“I don’t mind that.”

“Very well, then. When would you like to see them?”

“Why not now? I do not have to return to the party until teatime.”

He nodded and held out his arm to her. Katherine slid her gloved hand over his sleeve, feeling his lean muscles tighten under
her touch. For an artist, a man who worked with paintbrushes in his studio all day, he was surprisingly hard and strong.

He led her to a back door of the shop which opened onto a narrow back staircase. The door swung shut behind them, enclosing
them in sudden quiet. The bustling Christmas world, the real world, was left outside. Katherine followed him up the stairs
to his room.

It was a fairly large chamber, with a tall window looking down on the street and letting in whatever meager light there was.
His easel was set up there, along with a table littered with sketchbooks, paints, and charcoal pencils. The only other furniture
was a narrow bed, a battered dresser, and one threadbare armchair by the tiny fireplace.

Katherine removed her hat and gloves as she went to examine the half-finished portrait. Nicolas leaned back against the closed
door, watching her in silence.

She tried to forget he was there, his beautiful brown eyes on her, and just look at the work. She did know the Napiers and
their daughters, two rather plain but sweet girls. In Nicolas’s painting, they sat, clad in matching ruffled blue gowns, at
a round table, hard at work on their embroidery, surrounded by books, dogs, and parrots. He had managed to make them look
like themselves yet better, glowing with health and good spirits, young ladies ready to be wives.

“I fear that once this portrait is seen Caroline will lose you as her teacher,” she said. “You will be much in demand as a
Society portraitist. Everyone will want you to paint their children.” She studied the smiles on the girls’ faces and wondered
if the sight of the handsome artist had put them there.

Nicolas laughed. He left the door to come stand beside her, studying the portrait with her. “It does pay well, but I should
not like to spend all my time in such scenes. There is no—how do you say?—challenge in it. No fire.”

No fire.
She knew how that felt, the bland, dutiful sameness of days with no passion. “If you could paint whatever you liked, what
would it be?”

“I don’t know. The outdoors maybe, nature: light, storms, water.”

She glanced out the window at the gray sky. Always gray. “There doesn’t seem much scope for that here, monsieur. Do you ever
think of Italy perhaps? Or Lausanne? My daughter Eliza is there, and she says there is a great community of artists.”

“Of course, I think of such places. But I have work to finish here first.”

“Like this portrait?”

He hesitated. “Among other things.”

Other things? Katherine longed to know what they might be. What preoccupied him. But he said nothing else, and she turned
to look at the sketches scattered on the table. Studies of Napier’s daughters, images of their dogs and parrots. But also
trees and streams, and fields bisected by stone walls. Nature in all its wonder.

Plein air
painting was not held in the same esteem as history and mythology scenes, not seen much at the
Academy, but she could see his great skill at such images. There was such passion in every pencil stroke.

“You should go to Italy, monsieur,” she said. “The air there is so clear it makes the light shimmer. And it’s so warm, so
full of life.”

He leaned his elegant artist’s hands on the table beside her, so near she could feel the heat of his body. “It sounds as if
you
should go to Italy as well, my lady. That you should seek the sun.”

“I would love that,” she said. Then she said something she had never admitted, even to herself. “I dream sometimes of escaping,
of running to Tuscany or Capri and spending all day walking in the light. But I have other duties here.”

“What of your duty to yourself?”

“Myself? No, I have to think of Killinan, the girls…”

“Lady Killinan—Katherine,” he said fiercely. He reached for her, clasping her arms to spin her toward him. He wouldn’t let
her go, and the look in his eyes was as warm as that dream of Italian skies. “You are so beautiful, so full of life and warmth.
Why do you hide it so? Why do you deny it?”

She shook her head, balancing on the edge of something like panic. For so long she held herself in check, ferociously suppressing
any hint of emotions or needs. Now all those tightly leashed feelings were slipping free, and she was powerless to imprison
them again.

“I deny nothing,” she insisted. “I am content in my life.”

“Then why do you dream of escaping it? Why do you hide your true beauty?” He released her arms only to catch her face between
his hands. He stared deeply into
her eyes and would not let her turn her face away. “Katherine,
ma belle
, don’t hide from me now. I beg you. I can’t bear it any longer.”

A sob escaped her lips, and she knew she could not hide. Not from him or herself, not now.

He kissed her, and she had never been kissed like that before. Nicolas kissed her as if she was precious and beautiful, as
if he had waited all his life for someone just like her and was filled with awe to find it. She, too, had been waiting, though
she hadn’t realized it until this very moment. Waiting and hoping.