Chapter 4 #3
Milord. The fact that, as heir to the earldom, he now bore Jack’s courtesy title made him wince inwardly. However, he hid his reaction and replied, “My words are not flummeries, Lady Kyra, they are naught but the plain truth.”
Her color deepened.
Seeing that he was embarrassing her, Rafael quickly shifted the conversation back to a more general discussion of art. Having some knowledge in the subject, he said, “What is your opinion of the botanical illustrations of Pierre-Joseph Redouté?”
“They are quite lovely,” replied Kyra. “But for true genius I prefer the art of Maria Sibylla Merian.”
“A lady artist?” he mused.
“Yes.”
“I am not familiar with her work.”
Kyra’s chin rose a fraction. “That’s hardly surprising. Females have a deucedly difficult time getting any recognition for their talents.”
“They do,” he agreed. “Which is most unfair.”
His sentiments seemed to shock her. “You truly think so?” she asked warily.
“My grandmother was passionate about healing and had more knowledge in the field than any man I ever met. But her desire to study medicine at a university was met with derision in Spain. A lady, she was told, had not the intellect or the emotional stability to understand such advanced lessons.” He let out a low snort.
“As if men, by virtue of their plumbing, have been gifted with some great cerebral advantage.”
Her eyes widened, and then a burble of laughter welled up in her throat. “Plain speaking indeed, sir!”
He gave a rueful lift of his shoulders. “I fear that I have offended you.”
“Not at all,” she assured him. “It’s just that you are different.”
Different. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. But the fact that he had brought a laugh to her lips was gratifying. “I have a feeling that I have been, how do your English say it, damned with faint praise.”
Kyra lowered her gaze. “If anyone is damned, it is me.” She turned suddenly, the poke of her bonnet hiding her eyes. The movement set off a slight ruffling of the leaves, the play of shadows created by the sunlight slanting in through the mullioned glass further obscuring her expression.
“The colors of the pods are truly lovely, aren’t they?” she said with what sounded like forced brightness. “Have you ever seen a live tree before?”
Much as he wished to reassure her that a mistake, however terrible the consequences, did not damn anyone to perdition, Rafael was uncertain whether his words would be welcome. He was, after all, a stranger, and a foreign one at that. So instead, he followed her lead in returning to a safer subject.
“Yes, my grandmother had a number of specimen plantings in her hacienda conservatory. She favored the criolla variety because it is the king of cacao—the most delicate, and difficult to grow, but the beans yield the most flavorful chocolate.”
“Ah.” She seemed to be studying every detail of the small criolla tree, as if committing them to memory. “I take it the beans are inside the pod?”
“They are. And it is a long and laborious process to turn them into the flavorful essence we call chocolate.”
Kyra slanted him a sidelong look, and he gave an inward smile, glad to see he had piqued her curiosity. “Indeed? I confess, I have no idea how it is done.”
“When the pod is ripe, it’s cut open and the beans can be found nestled in a milky substance.” Rafael proceeded to explain the drying and grinding required to turn cacao into what the ancient Aztecs called ‘the nectar of the Gods.’
As he spoke, Kyra listened intently, occasionally leaning closer to the specimen planting to examine a detail of the plants. “Fascinating,” she said when he had finished.
“Even more fascinating is all the lore and legends that surround chocolate. My grandmother collected a host of historical facts and stories.” He pursed his lips. “Though I am having a devil of a struggle trying to turn them into proper English.”
Would she bite?
“If it would help, I could read over your pages from time to time. I have no knowledge of Spanish, but?—”
“But that is not important at all,” he assured her. “What matters is that it makes sense in English.”
“Well, I do have a modicum of skill in that language.”
Rafael couldn’t help but notice that a smile, even a very faint one, transformed her whole face. The knife-edged cheekbones and the shadows beneath her eyes softened, and the paleness of her skin seemed to warm with a sun-kissed glow.
“Bueno! Then it is decided.”
She opened her mouth to speak.
“I can’t express how very grateful I am for your offer,” he went on quickly. “It is a labor of love for me to see my grandmother’s work published, so that others may share in her knowledge and wisdom. She believed very deeply in the potent healing powers of chocolate.”
Kyra exhaled a long breath. “Well then, I shall be happy to help you. The idea is a noble one, but to be truthful, I don’t believe in magical elixirs.”
“What say you to both of us keeping an open mind on the subject?”
“Very well.” She reached out and plucked her sketchbook from his grasp. “Just as long as you won’t be disappointed when my thinking doesn’t change.”
We shall see, se?orita, Rafael thought to himself. We shall see. He had long ago learned never to underestimate Dona Maria’s extraordinary powers.