Chapter 2 #3
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. Afterward, we may take our brandy in the library where I can explain the quirks of how the collection is cataloged. 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 the 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 peach 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 fa?ade of sculpted perfection had shown its flaws.
Apparently a lengthy postponement of the nuptials, not to speak of a limping bride, 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 mentioning 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 worktable.
“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 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 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 waited 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 be happier for it.”