Sweeter Than Sin (3 page)

The Scottish doctor clasped his hands behind his back. "You are wasting your guineas on me as well, Your Grace, if you expect me to work a miracle cure."

Kyra liked McTavish even more for his blunt honesty. Of all the medical men who had poked and prodded at her body, he was the only one who seemed to understand where the real injuries lay.

"But—" began Pierpont.

"Her leg is healing quite nicely. The truth is, other than the broken bone, there is nothing really wrong with your daughter."

Her father's eyes widened in disbelief. "The devil there isn't. She won't eat! She won't speak!"

Kyra bit at her lip.

"There is nothing physically wrong with your daughter. As for her state of mind..."

The color leached from the duke's face. He whispered an oath. "Y-You think the fall has damaged her wits?"

"No, not at all. The symptoms you describe are not uncommon in this situation. Indeed, they are especially apt to occur in young ladies." McTavish stroked his chin. "You say that Lady Kyra's sister was killed in the same riding accident that resulted in her own injuries?"

"Yes."

"Likely she blames herself for the mishap."

"My nephew, who played a regrettable role in the dare, did say that Alexandra tried to warn Kyra of the danger," replied her father.

"Ah." Removing his spectacles, the doctor pinched the bridge of his nose.

Kyra did not wait to hear any more. Stepping back from her hiding place, she limped the length of the corridor and quietly closed the door of her workroom. Solitude was her only solace these days.

The duke, however, stood still as stone, anxiously waiting for the doctor to go on. Coals crackled in the hearth. A log snapped. From its perch on the mantel, an ormolu clock chimed the hour. As the last ring died away, he slapped a palm to the polished marble.

"Well? What do you prescribe?"

"Patience. Understanding."

Skepticism arched Pierpont's brow. "You are suggesting that platitudes can cure what ails her?"

The doctor smiled. "Sometimes love is the best medicine of all."

* * *

"Rafael." The wrinkled hands were warm and welcoming as they framed his face. Lips, dry as parchment, kissed his cheeks. "Welcome, welcome. Your mother always insisted that I greet you in the Spanish way. But it has been a long time—I trust I am not making a hash of it."

"Not at all, Uncle Aubrey. You make me feel very much at home."

"Hendrie Hall is your home now, Rafael. For as long as you like."

"Thank you, sir." He followed the earl into the entrance hall, his steps slow and deliberate to the hide the stiffness of his leg.

"I am delighted you accepted my invitation." Hendrie looked back, a sad smile on his face. "I hope you will not find yourself growing too bored. We have none of the glitter or the gaiety of Town entertainments here in the country. And the only company I can offer you is that of two spoiled hounds and a rather dull old man."

And ghosts.
Rafael stared up at the two portraits hanging above the sidetable. He had never met his English grandparents, but he saw much of his father in the late earl and countess. The curve of the lips, the shape of a chin, than angle of a brow... and yet, no artist, however skilled, could capture the sound of laughter, the wink of an eye.

No wonder his uncle looked so pale and drawn. Living with only paint and canvas for company was no substitute for flesh and blood family. Despite his own pain, he was glad he had come.

"Peace and quiet is just what I desire, sir. The moors and meadows of Hendrie Hall offer ample opportunity to partake of the fresh air and exercise prescribed by the doctors. And I recall that you have a splendid library."

"Ah, yes, that is right—you are a scholar as well as a soldier." The earl drew in a long breath. "Jack did not care much for books. I am so pleased that the Hendrie collection will afford some measure of enjoyment to a member of the family."

"I look forward to spending many hours exploring its treasures."

"It gives me some measure of solace to know that it will go to you, who appreciates it." The earl's expression brightened. "First, I ought to reacquaint you with the labyrinth layout of the Hall. I have put you in the rooms overlooking the Orangerie..." As the footmen passed by with the luggage from the traveling coach, his smile stretched a touch wider. "I recognize that distinctive design of scrolled silver and polished ebony. Dona Maria was a remarkable lady. No one could match her sense of style."

"Or flair for the fantastical," said Rafael dryly. "At times it drove Father to distraction."

"A unique character, to be sure," chuckled Hendrie. "You must remind me to tell you of the time she insisted on cooking a Christmas dinner here at the Hall, a feast that included goose sauced with all manner of exotic ingredients—including chocolate."

"Her famous Mexican mole," murmured Rafael.

"Whatever its name, it caused the French cook to quit in huff. No great loss, I must add, as we were all growing tired of overcooked roast beef." His uncle watched the last wink of silver disappear around a bend in the stairway. "If Dona Maria had been English, she would have been called an Original."

"In any language, she was always described a lady of bold imagination."

"I am glad to see you have some tangible reminder of her to carry with you."

"Her papers survived," explained Rafael. "It may be only a fanciful notion, but I have been thinking about editing her research and recipes on chocolate into a book."

"What a splendid idea!" exclaimed his uncle. "There are a number of volumes on botany in the library that may prove useful, as well as some histories on the early explorations of New World." Warming to the subject, he added, "And Lord Silliman, head of the Royal Botanical Society, is an old friend. I am sure he could offer excellent advice on a publisher."

"I have only begun to sort through her notes, but the possibilities seem intriguing."

"Indeed, indeed. Is there anything else you might need for the project?"

Rafael thought for a moment. "Perhaps a place outdoors where I might sit for several hours when the weather is favorable. I have spent too much time confined in places where the sun could not shine and..." He let his voice trail off.

"I know just the spot." Like a breeze rustling through autumn leaves, Hendrie's reply had a faint crackle to it.

Rafael worried that perhaps he had stirred up painful memories, but the earl went on with unmistakable enthusiasm.

"There is a folly by the lake—a rather overwrought interpretation of Greek architecture, but its marble roof and fluted columns afford excellent protection from the elements. When he was a child, Jack used it as a boathouse for his pond yachts, and there are still several comfortable benches and a large stone slab at one end of the terrace that serves as a table."

"It sounds ideal."

"The views out over the moors are lovely, especially at sunset. And if you wish to walk, you will find a number of trails through the surrounding forests and fields. Other than the occasional hare or hawk, you are not likely to encounter any intrusion on your solitude."

"That suits me just fine, sir. I assure you, I am not looking for amusements." As for a more meaningful search? Rafael was not even sure he could put into words what he was after.

His uncle seemed to sense his hesitation and did not press for further explanation. "Come then, let me see you settled in your quarters. I shall show you through the rest of the Hall before supper. Afterwards, we may take our brandy in the library where I can explain the quirks of how the collection is catalogued. The third earl was a noted eccentric."

"I am used to eccentrics in the family."

They shared a quick smile before the earl turned and started up the stairs under the watchful gaze of a gallery of illustrious ancestors.

Old and young.

How quickly time marched by, thought Rafael as he followed his uncle. A lifetime passing in the blink of an eye. For an instant he envied the paintings. Pigment and canvas felt no grief, no heartache, no regrets. But then he looked away, reminding himself that neither had they ever experienced Dona Maria's laughter, or the sublime sweetness of her chocolate at midnight.

Steadying his steps on the sweeping banister, he passed by a youthful Jack perched on a pony and hurried through the paneled portals that led to family wing of the manor house.

* * *

Adding a drop of ochre to the pool of alizarin crimson, Kyra dipped her brush in the swirl of pigment and drew in a shadow. Another stroke deepened the petal's hue, and another sketched in a line of shading beneath a furled bud.

Satisfied, she leaned back from her easel and set about mixing a range of reds—from a pale pink to a deep flame. The freshly picked rose was lush with nuanced color and velvety textures. She would have to work quickly before the bloom faded—

"It's lovely."

Kyra turned slowly.

Her father stood in the doorway, looking awkward, unsure.

The duke in doubt?
If only she might keep all the pain to herself.

He peered at the watercolor then cleared his throat. "Grimsell says your work is good enough to hang in the Royal Botanical Society's annual exhibit."

She rinsed her brush and carefully twisted the sable hairs to a fine point. "He is being kind, but I don't think I am anywhere near ready for such a step."

"No need to rush your fences—" He paled as the riding term slipped from his lips. "What I meant was... "

"I know what you meant, Papa. It's just that, I have no desire to be a part of Society."

"But you will," he whispered. "In due time."

Kyra did not answer right away. Her maid, ever loyal, had taken it upon herself to eavesdrop on Lord Matherton's recent visit to the duke's study. Oh, how quickly her fiancé's façade of sculpted perfection had shown its flaws.

Apparently a lengthy postponement of the nuptials—not to speak of a limping bride and—did not quite suit the viscount's plans. He had cried off from the engagement. And to cover his own ungentlemanly behavior—Society was very strict on rules governing a man's going back on his word—he had excused himself by mentioned rumors concerning her virtue. He had been clever in manipulating the facts—the incidents, with witnesses to corroborate them, had just enough truth in them to stand up to scrutiny—and they pointed to the harsh reality that she was indeed a broken vessel.

So her reputation, like the rest of her life, lay in ruins, while Matherton, who was equally guilty, had escaped with a nary a scratch.

Love.
To think she had ever believed in its magic.

"I fear not, Papa. I know Lord Matherton has broken off our engagement. Just as I know of the whispers that are swirling through Town."

His jaw tightened. "I'll have his guts for garters—"

"But they have a grain of truth to them, Father." Kyra forced herself to meet his eyes. "Yet another burden you must bear on my account."

The duke sat heavily upon the edge of her work table.

"I was a fool," she whispered. "Too vain and too selfish to see aught but my own desires. I am so very sorry for... everything."

"Who?" rasped the duke.

Kyra gave a small shake of her head. "It is not important. The real fault is mine. If only..."

If only
. She could fill of ream of foolscap with a litany of regrets.

"Mistakes can be forgiven, Kyra."

"Not when it comes to a lady's honor." Her hand closed around the stem of the rose, the thorns pricking deep into her flesh. "I have sown the seeds of my own disgrace by earning a reputation for wildness. People are more than willing to think of the worst."

"True friends will stand by you." The duke reached out and gently uncurled her fingers from the flower. He held her for a moment and then brushed a caress to her cheek. His callused palm was surprisingly warm.

"I—I am not sure I deserve their loyalty. Or yours."

"Nonsense," he said gruffly. "You will see that Dr. McTavish is right—time heals all."

It would take a far more potent balm than time to heal her wounds but she did not have the heart to say so aloud.

Brushing a few of the fallen petals from his breeches, the duke stood and gave a wry smile. "I am afraid I have destroyed the subject of your study."

"No matter. I shall fetch a fresh rose and a blank sheet of paper and start over." Would that it was so easy to correct life's mishaps.

Kyra waiting until her father's steps faded away before allowing a stifled sob. Tears pearled on her lashes." I wish I had died instead of Lexy," she whispered. "Everyone would happier for it."

Chapter 3