Chapter 12 #2
Overwhelmed by her new friend’s enthusiasm, Kyra found herself swept into another round of introductions.
Lady Theodora Bingham was rather stout and plain, but she made up for her unremarkable features with a radiant smile that kindled a glint of gold in her brown eyes.
“I have heard so much about your lovely paintings from my cousin, who is a member of the Royal Academy,” she remarked, once the formalities were over.
“Might Harriet and I be permitted to call on you soon, in hope that we might be permitted to see some of your work?”
Harriet grinned. “As you see, we are bold as brass, so we wouldn’t fit very well within the strictures of Polite Society even if we wanted to.”
A bemused laugh slipped from Kyra’s lips. “Well, it seems we are three peas in a pod. Or four,” she quickly amended as Hero came bounding back from his exploration of empty barrels by the butcher’s back door.
“Oh, what a delightful dog!” said Theo as the hound, wagging his plumed tail, tugged at the knotted cords of her reticule.
“Behave yourself, Hero,” scolded Kyra, then lifted her shoulders in apology. “Please forgive his manners. He grew up in the stews of Seven Dials so we are still working on polishing off the rough edges.”
“Sir Hero of Seven Dials?” Harriet tickled her fingers through the shaggy fur beneath his muzzle, eliciting a happy little woof. “I daresay there is a very interesting story to the name.”
Thinking of Rafael and their wild chase through the seedy alleys near Covent Garden brought a rueful smile to her face. “It was definitely quite an adventure.”
“Which we look forward to hearing when we come for a visit to Pierpont Manor,” said Theo. “Would tomorrow suit you?”
“I . . . well, er . . .” Before she quite knew how it had happened, plans were quickly arranged for a tour through the estate rose and herb gardens, followed by tea.
“How lovely to have made your acquaintance, Lady Kyra,” finished Theo. “Alas, I see my uncle’s carriage approaching to fetch us, so we must be taking our leave.”
Harriet added her farewells and the two of them hurried off.
As she watched her new friends go, Kyra blew out her breath and tried to sort out the pelter of emotions bubbling through her brain.
“Lud, what a day,” she said to Hero. The last few hours had turned her carefully constructed little world helter-pelter. Inside its make-believe walls she had felt a modicum of safety.
And though Matherton had shown that was merely an illusion, it had still felt like her only place of refuge. But now, Rafael and Jack were both urging her to embrace life instead of hiding from it, despite the risk of pain.
Her gaze shifted back to the side lane, where the elderly apothecary was just stepping out to lock up his shop.
Perhaps this short trek to town was the start of a whole new journey.
“This is going to be a difficult battle,” muttered Rafael to himself as he passed through the entrance hall of his uncle’s manor house and sought refuge in one of the quiet study rooms adjoining the library.
Stripping off his coat, he went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of Spanish brandy.
“They usually are when the stakes are high.” Jack’s voice floated up from behind the tufted back of the sofa set by the hearth. “And what could be more important than love?”
“Kindly stubble your sarcasm,” he growled. At the moment he wasn’t in the mood for his cousin’s needling humor.
Straightening from his slouch, Jack ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Sarcasm?” He contrived to sound wounded. “Not at all. In fact, I rather envy you . . . even though I’m told that a tender heart is a cursed nuisance.”
“Have you never been pierced by Cupid’s arrow?”
A hint of hesitation, then Jack laughed. “My hide is far too thick, thank God.”
“Ah, ‘Methinks the man protests too much’—isn’t that how your English Bard puts it?”
“Don’t misquote Shakespeare,” retorted his cousin.
Interesting. Despite Jack’s show of bravado, it seemed that his so-called thick hide was proving surprising sensitive on the subject. However, he decided not to probe any deeper. At least for the moment.
After a quick swallow of spirits, he took a seat next to his cousin and stretched out his legs toward the brass fender. “Remember, I did attend Oxford for a term, and as I actually applied myself to my lessons, my knowledge of his plays is probably far better than yours.”
“Probably.” Jack raised his own glass and stared moodily at the dregs. “All that flummery and histrionics about love made my head ache.”
Rafael sipped in silence for an interlude. “Who is the lucky lady?”
A grunt was the only reply.
“I take it that was a request to refill your glass.”
That drew a bark of laughter. “Why not simply bring me the bottle.”
“That bad, eh?”
“It’s your romance we’re concerned with at present, not mine.” He drained off the last of his brandy. “Assuming I have one.”
“I shall refrain from further barbs,” said Rafael, after rising and pouring them each a fresh measure of the amber spirits. “Though given the merciless teasing you’ve given our friends over the years, I’m not sure you deserve it.”
“Actually I do. I had an encounter with Lady Kyra this afternoon, and along with giving her some brotherly advice on life, I put in a good word for you, though I’m not sure you deserve it.”
“Touché.”
Jack was in a strange mood, for after his usual sardonic chuckle, he turned pensive. “The truth is, you more than deserve it. You are kind, principled, generous, strong, and a source of steady support for your family and friends. You’ll make an exemplary husband.”
Rafael raised a brow. “Implying you won’t?”
“You know my temperament. I’m the opposite. Headstrong. Rash. Impulsive.” A pause. “Selfish.” Jack made a face. “Always have been.”
“On the contrary, on the battlefield I saw a calm commander of his men, a brave, resourceful leader who had the courage to make the most difficult decisions under fire.”