by Candace Camp
“A huge sort of bear, quite fierce. And they had to defend their claim from men who would have taken it from them. He ‘rode shotgun,’ Stephen told me, when they transported their silver, to fight off any thieves.”
Kyria shrugged, feigning indifference. “I can well imagine that he has been where there is danger. I cannot see that that makes him a particularly attractive candidate as a husband.”
“Husband?” Olivia exchanged a significant look with Thisbe. “Then you have thought about it.”
Kyria flushed. “Well, isn’t that what you meant? I have not considered Mr. McIntyre as a husband. I have not considered him at all.”
“He is a terribly attractive man not to consider at all,” Thisbe mused. “‘Methinks she doth protest too much.’”
Kyria grimaced at her sisters and stepped back from Olivia, saying crossly, “Just because you two found husbands, that is no reason for you to be scheming to get me married, as well.”
“As if you were not always scheming to find me a mate,” Olivia protested as she sat down at the vanity and let her maid start to work on her hair.
“That was different,” Kyria told her. “I knew that you would be happy married to the right man, just as Thisbe is. But there are some of us who simply are not destined for marriage.”
“And you are saying that you are one of those?” Thisbe asked. “How did you arrive at that decision?”
“It is obvious, isn’t it?” Kyria retorted. “I have been out for nine years, meeting the most eligible bachelors, and I have not yet found a single one whom I would wish to marry.”
“That doesn’t mean you won’t,” Thisbe argued.
“It seems to me an indication of it,” Kyria replied.
“You’ve only met all the eligible bachelors in England,” Olivia reminded her. “That is why you should take a closer look at an American.”
“American, English, what difference does it make? Once you marry, your life is no longer your own. Marriage is a completely inequitable institution. You lose control of your money, you promise to ‘obey’ some man, and you even give up your name.”
“Well, yes, of course, and the laws should be changed,” Thisbe agreed. “But people can scarcely stop marrying until that happens.”
“It sounds like an excellent idea to me.”
“Besides, that isn’t what is keeping you from marriage,” Olivia said. “You just told me it is because you haven’t found the right man. And when you do, all the other things won’t matter.”
“Dear, sweet Olivia.” Kyria went to her sister and leaned down to kiss her lightly on the cheek. “You are happy, and rightfully so. You are marrying a wonderful man who loves you very much. And you have such a sweet, loving nature that I am sure nothing will make you as happy as marriage and children. But as you well know, I am not possessed of your sweet nature. I am willful and headstrong, completely used to having my own way. The prospect of sitting around a fire every evening while my husband snores in his chair and a baby bounces on my knee does not fill me with pleasure. I love to go to parties and flirt. My life is laid out exactly the way I like it. I do what I wish when I wish, and I have no one to answer to. It is the perfect situation for me.”
“But what about love?” Olivia asked, her eyes shadowed with concern as she looked at her sister in the mirror. “How can you be happy without love?”
“I have done well enough without a man’s love for several years. I suspect I shall be able to continue.” She smiled reassuringly at her sister. “Besides, it isn’t as if I have no love in my life. I have you and Thisbe and Reed and the twins and Mother and Papa. I have a busy life. And I am quite happy without a man.”
“So was I, until I met Stephen,” Olivia responded. “Then I realized that there was actually a huge hole in my life. I just didn’t know about it.”
“I will happily remain in ignorance,” Kyria said lightly.
“You are quite sure that you have no interest in Mr. McIntyre?” Olivia pressed her, frowning in concern.
“Quite sure. He is, I will admit, attractive and even charming in an obvious sort of way.”
Across the room, Thisbe made a choked noise, but when Kyria turned toward her inquiringly, she merely smiled and gave a little cough.
“However,” Kyria went on firmly, “I am not in need of rescuing by any man, and I have had enough experience with hardened flirts not to be taken in by one of them.”
“Hardened flirt?” Olivia objected. “Why, Kyria, you scarcely know the man. How can you—”
“I have seen enough of him,” Kyria said. “I have found that there are only a few types of men. One of them is the grave sort who spouts off his admiration of you and his love of your wit, your beauty, your spirit. That sort wants to marry you and spend the rest of his life smothering you with all his care and protection. Then there is the adventurer, who wants to marry you for your money and spend the rest of his life spending it. There is also the flirt who simply wants to have fun and dance and charm you and has no desire to ever marry at all. And lastly, there is the man who sees every woman as a challenge and a conquest, and his ambition is to win your heart—and your body—and when he has accomplished that, he is content and leaves. I am not sure which of the last two categories Mr. McIntyre fits into.”
“Kyria!” Olivia cried, shocked. “What a cynical view of life!”
“Not of life,” Kyria protested. “Only of men.” She smiled. “Don’t look so appalled, love. I have learned to steer clear of those who want to marry me and simply have fun with the flirts. Even one who wants a conquest can be entertaining to match wits with.”
“Then I would think that Mr. McIntyre is just your sort,” Thisbe interjected.
Kyria looked momentarily nonplussed. Then she shrugged and said lightly, “Well, there are some that are too dangerous.”
“What do you mean?” Olivia asked.
“She means,” Thisbe put in astutely, “that there are some men whom even a cynic cannot resist.”
“I knew it!” Olivia crowed. “You do feel an attraction for him.”
“Certainly not.” Kyria lifted her chin obstinately. “And why, may I ask, are we sitting here discussing that American when it is you, my dear, and your love that we should be talking about?”
Olivia smiled, quite willing to be led into a discussion of the manifest superiority of Stephen St. Leger to all other men, and for the next few minutes, she and her sisters indulged in discussing Olivia’s fiancé and the upcoming honeymoon.
Joan put the last pin in Olivia’s hair and stood back, and Kyria exclaimed in delight, “Oh! You look beautiful.”
Kyria and Joan pinned the veil into her hair, and Olivia stood up, letting the others smooth and shake her skirts and train until everything was exactly right. She gazed at herself in the mirror with some amazement. Even Olivia would have to agree that this afternoon, at least, she was beautiful, Kyria thought.
Tears welled up in Kyria’s eyes, and she felt a cold clutch of pain in her chest. She was filled with pride and happiness for her younger sister, as well as a fervent hope that her married life would be wonderful. Yet she could not help but realize that she was losing her sister, as well. Kyria had not felt the pain of parting when Thisbe had married, for Thisbe and her new husband had returned from their honeymoon to live in the massive Broughton House in London with the rest of the family. But Olivia would return from her honeymoon to Blackhope Hall, the St. Legers’ family seat, and from now on, Kyria would see her only on visits.
Kyria thought of the years of late-night sisterly gossip sessions, curled up on one or the other’s bed, of the countless times that they had turned to each other with a problem or a fear or a joy, and suddenly it was all she could do not to cry.
“Oh, Olivia!” Kyria threw her arms around her sister and hugged her hard. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you,” Olivia replied, her own voice raspy with tears. “I’m going to miss you so. Thisbe…” She turned,
and Thisbe joined them, putting an arm around each of her sisters.
“It will never be the same,” Olivia said.
“It will be better,” Thisbe told her stoutly.
“Yes. Don’t cry. Stephen will be most displeased with me if I send you down to the wedding all red-eyed,” Kyria teased.
“Promise me you will come to visit me when we return.”
“Of course,” Thisbe replied. “You will soon be sick of us, we shall visit so often.”
“Now,” Kyria said, smiling and firmly pushing all sad thoughts to the back of her mind, “it’s time we started for the church.”
* * *
Kyria’s hard work was rewarded by the fact that the wedding went off without a hitch. Standing beside her sister and watching Olivia’s lovely, glowing face beneath her wedding veil, Kyria knew that every minute of work had been worth it.
She watched Olivia, her face turned up to Stephen’s, her eyes shining with love, and for an instant, she felt a flash of envy. What, she wondered, would it be like to feel such love for a man? Kyria glanced out into the audience, her eyes seeking her own parents. Theirs had been a love match, too. Her mother, while genteel, was certainly not of a birth equal to the duke’s, but he had been smitten with love for her the instant she had burst into his office, demanding better conditions for the workers in one of his factories. They had married despite all his family’s protests and despite her mother’s disdain for the members of the nobility.
Thoroughly unalike, the gentle, vague, studious Broughton and his fiery, determined, social-reformer duchess had remained happily in love for almost thirty-three years now. Theirs had been the example of love with which Kyria had grown up, and she could not imagine marrying without that overwhelming emotion. And, Kyria reflected wryly, with all the blessings she had been given in life, love seemed to be the one thing that she lacked.
Her gaze went back to Stephen and Olivia, then beyond the couple to Rafe McIntyre. He smiled at her and winked, and Kyria quickly glanced away, a flush rising in her cheeks.
It was absurd, she thought, what Olivia had said about Mr. McIntyre. Utterly absurd. She had no interest in the man, and she was sure that he had no interest in her, other than as a mild flirtation, perhaps, to pass the time until his friend was married and he returned to the United States. It was only Olivia’s naiveté that interpreted McIntyre’s smooth, flirtatious manner of speaking as some sort of real interest in Kyria.
Besides, she added mentally, she had no interest in him, anyway. There was something a little too smug about the look in his eyes, which were, by the way, just too blue for a normal man, and the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled was, really, nothing that should have made her heart give a little lurch. Rafe McIntyre was all too aware of his effect on women, Kyria thought, and she was determined to show him that she was not the typical woman.
Even if she was attracted a little bit—nothing more than that, certainly!—she felt certain that he was not the sort of man she could possibly come to care about. There was a great deal more to a man than charm and good looks and being able to ride like a centaur, after all. She felt certain that his character was not such as she could admire. He was a Southerner, someone who had fought to keep the institution of slavery, someone who had owned other human beings. Kyria was not as given to political reforms as the duchess, but she held the same sort of humanitarian ideals as the others in her family. She could not imagine loving someone who had had so little regard for the lives of others.
No. Whatever little lurch her heart might give at the sight of him, Kyria was certain that Rafe McIntyre was not the man for her.
Stephen lifted Olivia’s veil and kissed her, and Kyria realized, with that same odd mixture of joy and loss, that the ceremony was over. The newlyweds led the way up the aisle, and Rafe gave his arm to Kyria to escort her out after them. She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, feeling suddenly as self-conscious as a schoolgirl. She did not look at him as they followed Stephen and Olivia, and when they reached the foyer of the church, she started to turn away, pulling her hand from his arm.
Rafe put his hand over hers, holding it there for a moment, and Kyria looked up at him, eyes flashing. “I beg your pardon, Mr. McIntyre, but you seem to have an annoying habit of not releasing a woman when she wishes it.”
White teeth flashed in his tanned face. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. My mama always said I was lamentably lacking in manners. I just wanted to say something to you, and every time I see you, you take off like a rabbit.”
Kyria’s back stiffened at his words, and she raised her eyebrows in her haughtiest manner. “I have had a great deal to do the past few days, Mr. McIntyre. I am sorry if I was unable to attend to you. However, I feel sure that you found other companions.”
He chuckled. “Others, true. But none who could compare to you.”
“You are adept at flattery.”
“Not flattery. The truth.”
“Mr. McIntyre—” Kyria pulled her hand from his arm and folded her hands together “—you said that you wished to say something to me.”
“Yes. I understand that there will be dancing this evening.”
“After the reception and wedding supper, there will be a ball.”
“I wanted to request the honor of a waltz with you,” Rafe went on, “that’s all. I just wanted to make sure I got my bid in before your dance card was all filled up.” He grinned. “I promise you, I do know how to waltz, despite my being an American.”
Kyria looked at him, a little puzzled, and he explained, “Lady Rochester asked me the other day if I had ever read Shakespeare. She seemed to think I grew up in a log cabin in the wilderness.”
“Oh, dear.” Kyria suppressed a smile. “My great-aunt has a secret fondness for the novels of your James Fenimore Cooper, I’m afraid. I apologize.”
He shrugged. “It’s all right. Actually, I did live in a log cabin in Colorado when I was mining for silver. But when I was younger, I lived in a place somewhat more civilized, and I had to learn all the social graces, including dancing. So I think I can promise not to step on your toes.” He paused, his eyes looking into hers, and again, Kyria felt the same strange little lurch of her heart. “Will you honor me with a dance?”
“Of course.” Kyria smiled, hoping that he had not seen anything in her face to betray the odd sensation she had felt, and turned away to join her parents.
* * *
The newly married couple received guests in one of the formal state rooms off the rotunda in Broughton Park, and afterward, the guests streamed into another of the large, elegant rooms, built almost two hundred years earlier for a family of high consequence and rarely used in the present by their easygoing descendants. There, an extensive wedding supper had been laid out, the result of hours of work and planning by Kyria and the Broughton House staff. The festivities were capped by an evening of dancing in the grand ballroom, sometime during which the newlyweds would leave for the beginning of their honeymoon.
Kyria, keeping an eye out for any problems and consuiting with the butler, as well as making sure that no guest was left untended or without conversation, had little time to enjoy the proceedings. Even after Olivia and Stephen led the party out onto the floor for the first waltz, Kyria spent most of her time starting conversations wherever silence or boredom lurked and making sure that there were no wallflowers left stranded. To that end, she enlisted the services of her brother Reed and Rafe McIntyre, for she soon saw that, as he had promised, Rafe was able to waltz, was indeed quite adept at it, and whenever he returned his partner from the dance floor, she was always smiling and rosy with pleasure.
“You obviously have the magic touch,” Kyria told Rafe when he returned to her after escorting a chattering Lady Malcross off the floor. “Lady Malcross is usually more given to tears than to smiles.”
He grinned, raising his eyebrows. “Jealous?”
“Hardly,” Kyria retorted. “I simply wish I had had you at s
ome other balls I have given.”
“No more than I wish it,” he retorted, and held out his hand to her. “Now…you owe me something for all the pleasantries I’ve had to dispense for the past hour.”
“I do?”
“Yes. That dance you promised me this afternoon?”
“Oh, but…” Kyria stopped, then smiled and gave in, reaching out to take his hand and let him lead her onto the floor. “All right. I suppose I should find out for myself what magic you work.”
“Hardly magic,” he told her, putting his hand to her waist. They stood, waiting for the music to begin. “You know what my secret is?”
Kyria shook her head.
“I listen to what a lady has to say.”
Kyria made a face. “It has to be more than that.”
“You’d be surprised. You are accustomed to attentive men. Look at you—of course your dance partner or any other man listens to you, looks at you, responds to you. But if you take Lady Malcross, whose husband probably falls asleep while she is talking, or her children, who are so accustomed to her tales of her ailments and woes that they nod and murmur ‘mmm’ without hearing a word…well, a woman like that blossoms when someone actually listens to her and answers.”
“I am sure that it has nothing to do with that face,” Kyria said dryly.
“What face?”
“Your face,” Kyria retorted. “Don’t be coy, Mr. McIntyre. I am sure that you are used to women swooning over you.”
He let out a chuckle. “Why, darlin’, what a bold thing to say.”
The music began at last, and Rafe swung Kyria out onto the dance floor. He moved easily and gracefully, his hand at her waist, guiding her with a gentle confidence. There was no awkward pushing or pulling, no uncertainty of step, only a wonderful sensation of floating, secure in his arms. He gazed into her face, his intense blue eyes locked with hers, and it seemed for the moment as if there was no one else on the floor but the two of them.
Kyria breathed in a little shakily, understanding now exactly what brought that flush of pleasure to his dance partners’ cheeks. She could feel the warmth spreading through her, too, an almost giddy excitement, and she wondered how even Lady Malcross could think of anything to say as she danced with this man. Kyria felt as if every thought had flown from her head.
