Sweeter Than Sin

by Andrea Pickens

  Kyra quietly rose and went to join Rafael in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on the intimacy of the moment.

  "I seem to have turned into a watering pot this afternoon," sniffed the earl when at last he broke off his embrace and began to search his pockets for a handkerchief.

  Jack's eyes were none too dry either, she noted. "Would you care to join us for some tea, sir? I will ring—"

  "To the devil with tea," said Rafael. "I think the occasion calls for a bottle of champagne."

  * * *

  A loud pop, a cheerful fizz. Rafael watched the sparkling wine bubble up in the crystal glasses, the effervescence swirling with the soft laughter to create a simple symphony of joy.

  As Hendrie poured the libations, Jack was recounting the details of his ordeal—the slow recovery of his consciousness, the difficult retreat through Spain to French territory, the kind French officer and wife who had befriended him and helped arrange his freedom and, finally, passage back to England. Rafael knew from his own experience that there was a darker side to the story that his cousin was holding back.

  The fetid field hospitals, the screams of the dying, the agony of bouncing over rutted roads

  Those nightmares would linger, but he and Jack were among the lucky ones. They were alive.

  Alive.

  "A toast," he said, raising his glass. "To life."

  "Amen to that," seconded his uncle with unabashed enthusiasm.

  Kyra's reaction was harder to discern. She hesitated and seemed to be contemplating the tempest of tiny bubbles exploding in her wine.

  Which must mirror her own conflicting feelings, he mused. Her heartfelt joy at the return from the dead of her old childhood friend had to be tempered by the painful reminder of her sister's tragic accident.

  There would be no miraculous resurrection.

  As for her own spirit...

  "Yes, to life," she said softly, echoing of his own sentiment. "It is precious beyond words, is it not?"

  "Indeed," he agreed. Their eyes met. "Without question."

  Hendrie uncorked another bottle, the happy flush on his face no doubt accentuated by a surfeit of spirits. Rafael swallowed a grin, along with another taste of the wine. They would all likely end up well foxed this afternoon, but if ever a day deserved excess celebration—

  "Good Lord, Hendrie, I just heard the news from Mr. Wogdon, who says he just delivered your son to your door..." Kyra's father rushed into the drawing and paused to catch his breath. "Good Lord," he repeated, catching sight of Jack. "It is you, you young scamp!"

  "In the flesh, Your Grace," replied Jack.

  "Well, I'll be damned..." The duke blinked and pursed his lips. "I—I am delighted to see you... But be forewarned that if you think you can return to your habit of galloping your stallion through my south orchard and trampling the young saplings, you had best think again." A sniff. "I am still capable of taking a switch to your bottom."

  "I would expect no less, sir," drawled Jack.

  "Have some champagne, Pierpont." Hendrie thrust a glass into his neighbor's hand. "You may breathe fire and brimstone later, but for now let us have naught but jovial sentiments to celebrate the moment."

  "Right-ho." The duke drained his glass in one long swallow. "Speaking of celebrations, I think your son's return calls for a rather large one, don't you think? There are a number of neighbors and friends who will want to offer their felicitations."

  "A party," mused Hendrie. "Yes, of course. That's a splendid idea. Perhaps an outdoor supper in the gardens, now that the weather is warming, with tables of punch, and fiddlers from the village to add a note of jolliness to the evening."

  Rafael saw the duke slant a quick look at his daughter.

  "Actually, I was thinking of more than a supper party. It seemed to me that all of Jack's friends both here and in London would love to welcome him home with something grand—like a festive ball."

  "But Father..." whispered Kyra.

  "A splendid idea," exclaimed Hendrie before she could say more. "Though the ballroom here is in the older part of the house and may be a bit cramped for a large gathering."

  "Then let us hold it at Pierpont Manor! There is more than enough room for dancing, and I can easily accommodate a number of people in the east wing, so we need not worry about limiting the guest list."

  "Father," murmured Jack, but Hendrie appeared not to hear him.

  "Ah, an evening aswirl with silks and satins, and everyone dancing until dawn!" The earl was smiling from ear to ear. "It's been quiet as a crypt here for far too long. It's about time to have some laughter and revelries."

  Kyra was looking pale as a ghost.

  "What say you, Jack?" added the earl.

  Jack drew in a measured breath. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps a bit of laughter and revelry will do us all good."

  Chapter 10

  Laughter and revelry. Try as she might, Kyra couldn't seem to shake the unsettling words from her head. Edging around the elderberry hedge, she crouched down and cut a handful of yellow-flowered sprigs from the clump of Hypericum perforatum growing alongside the weathered stones of the garden wall. The herb, commonly known as St John's wort, was said to lift the spirits, so perhaps she would tipple a taste of the herbal tonic she was making for elderly Mrs. Bailey, a widow who lived in a cottage bordering the estate.

  After all, it was also known "chase-devil," and if ever she need a blue-deviled mood to be banished...

  Blowing out a sigh, she gathered another bunch of the flowering plant, then moved onto a patch of calendula. Bees flitted through the twisting vines of climbing roses that wreathed the stones, their droning buzz surprisingly soothing as she worked. A breeze ruffled through an overhanging apple tree, stirring the sweet fragrance of the pink-tinged blossoms and the flicker of diamond-bright sunbeams through the dancing leaves.

  It was, mused Kyra, hard to stay dispirited amidst all the splendors of nature. The floral scents, the vibrant colors, the chirping serenade of the crickets and the cooing turtledoves in the nearby wooded glade all seemed in such harmony.

  "It is selfish to brood," she chided herself, stifling a laugh as she watched Hero gambol along the wall in chase of a butterfly. Especially in light of the happiness surrounding Hendrie Hall. She had seen little of Rafael and Jack during the last week, feeling that the cousins would wish some private time together to sort through all the fierce emotions of the unexpected reunion. Both had suffered greatly during the last six months, and there were wounds both in body and spirit that needed each other's help to heal.

  She had sensed that guilt over his own survival on the battlefield had left far greater scars on Rafael than the saber slash to his leg. Now, with his cousin's miraculous return, the lingering damage to his peace of mind would soon be gone. A smile played on her lips. And part of the credit would belong to Rafael's grandmother and her notes on the magical properties of cacao. His growing expertise with chocolate would be good medicine, not only for Jack, who was in need of nourishment, but also for himself.

  To her eyes, the handsome Spaniard was still too thin.

  Though perhaps, Kyra concededly wryly, that was the pot calling the kettle black. However, she was no longer merely skin and bones. Strangely enough, her appetite—for more than just food—had slowly returned. She watched the patterns of pale sun-warmed hues from the overhead leaves dapple the sleeves of her calico work dress. Yes, she owed some of her returning strength to the healthful qualities of Rafael's chocolate.

  But the real tonic had been his friendship. He had made her feel that that there had developed a bond between them—that their shared interests, their shared laughter, and their shared exploration of ideas had helped brighten his own bleak spirits.

  He seemed to enjoy her company.

  As I do his.

  Her basket now brimming with herbs, Kyra rose made her way to the path leading back to the manor house. Of course, if he had any inkling about the true depths of her depravity, he would be too
shocked to continue the acquaintance, much less keep up the closeness that developed between them.

  What he knew about her transgressions was bad enough. But he must never, ever guess at the fundamental flaw in her nature.

  "I am unfit company for an honorable gentleman," she whispered. So no matter how much she yearned for his touch, she must keep her distance.

  Hero's happy bark drew her thought back from the precipice of brooding. He bounded up with a stick in his mouth and dropped it at her feet.

  "You have taken to country life as if you were to the manor born," she murmured dryly.

  Woof.

  "Yes, yes, Your Lordship. I see I am expected to cater to your whims." Picking up the length of beechwood, she hurled it over a low hedge bordering the sloping lawns that ran down to the lakeside folly. The dog took off like a pistol shot, oversized paws and plumed tail a blur of iron-gray as he vaulted over the greenery.

  Shoving her black thoughts aside, Kyra decided it was wrong to dwell in self-pity with so much exuberance all around her. Life, she reminded herself, was a celebration in itself. She would try to be mindful of embracing the light instead of the dark.

  The sweet, grass-scented breeze tickled her nostrils, and after a few steps she found herself simply enjoying the moment. The path turned and wound through a pergola covered with thick twines of glossy ivy. The sudden coolness of the shade sent a shiver down her spine, but in a moment she was back out into the welcome warmth of the sunlight—

  "Ah, I've found you at last."

  The voice caused her to freeze in her tracks.

  "Still fussing with your precious herbs and flowers, I see."

  Willing her heart to stop hammering against her ribs, Kyra turned slowly to meet the all-too-familiar smile.

  "Lord Matherton," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

  His brows winged up in question as he stepped out of the jagged shadows and flicked a leaf from the sleeve of his elegant coat. "What? So formal?" The smile stretched a tad wider. "In the past, you were happy to call me Chas."

  "Why are you here?" demanded Kyra tightly.

  "Do I not get a more tender greeting than that? After all, we are... close friends." Somehow Matherton made the words sound slightly sordid.

  She was tempted to reply that close friends do not abandon close friends. But instead she merely shifted her basket from hand to hand and repeated her question.

  "You are angry with me." Her former fiancé looked up at her through his gold-tipped lashes. "I cannot say that I blame you, sweeting. And I am sorry for what happened—truly I am. But please try to understand what a precarious position I was in."

  Kyra could not quite decipher the half-hidden glimmer of emotion in his eyes, however she was quite certain it was neither regret nor recrimination.

  "Given the rumors, I... well, you have to admit that I had reasons to wonder..."

  "Wonder if I had shared my favors with another because I had shared them with you?" she finished for him. The rumors that had sprung up after the accident had been horribly nasty, and a part of her hadn't blamed him for crying off. And yet...

  Matherton lifted his well-tailored shoulders. "No gentleman wishes for there to be a whiff of scandal tainting his bride."

  How had she ever found him seductive? At the present moment, his self-serving smugness slithered across her skin like a serpent, stirring naught but an unpleasant sensation.

  "So I ask again, why are you here?"

  "Because I've realized how much I adore you." Another smile. "And how wrong I was to let you go."

  It might have been a sentiment to make a lady's heart melt had it not sounded so rehearsed.

  "We both made mistakes, Lord Matherton. Let us leave them in the past." Kyra turned to walk away.

  "Wait." He caught hold of her arm. "You—you can't mean that. Not after what we had between us."

  "Oh, but I do," she replied calmly. Had it only been six months ago when she had been besotted with his handsome face, his intimate smiles? Strange how it felt like a century. She was such a different person now. Older, wiser, her youthful hubris tempered by adversity.

  "I see now that we never would have suited," she went on. "What we had was... not as meaningful as it should have been. Had the bond been truly strong, it would have survived the challenge."

  Matherton stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. "Ah, I understand, sweeting. You wish for me to woo you again, to make up for my regrettable absence." The heat of him was now making her flesh prickle. "I shall be happy to do so."

  "You misinterpret my meaning, sir." Kyra eased back, trying to free herself from his grasp. "So let me be blunt—I have no interest in renewing any courtship with you. There is no real love between us."

  His smile thinned to a petulant scowl. "Don't play the innocent, Kyra. You know as well as I do that love has nothing to do with aristocratic matches. It's all about practical things like power and prestige." His hand tightened around her arm. "You wish to be blunt—so be it. I'm willing to restore you to respectability and in return I become the Duke of Pierpont's son-in-law, a position that will be of great benefit to me."

  "And of course there is my very generous dowry, which will also be of great benefit to you."

  "It seems to me to be a fair exchange," answered Matherton.

  "Perhaps it is. But I am not interested."

  His face darkened, anger casting a shadow over the handsome features. "Still the same spoiled, willful chit as before, I see. But I think you will change your mind soon enough once you've heard the rest of what I have to say."

  Kyra had no intention of listening to another ugly word. "Please unhand me, sir. There's nothing you could say that would convince me to accept your offer."

  "You would walk away and let your beloved sister's name be dragged through the mud? And ruin your father's hope of being invited to join the Royal Historical Society?"

  Kyra froze, her blood suddenly turning to ice in her veins. "W-What do you mean?" she demanded. "Lexy was a paragon of propriety. There is nothing anyone can say that would sully her name."

  "Rumors have the power to sully a saint." His mouth curled up at the corners. "Think of it, sweeting. Yet another daughter besmirched. Do you think the Duke of Pierpont would live that down? So, much as he desires to join their august group, I doubt the members of the Society would ever offer him an invitation."

  "Who would do such an evil thing..." she began, but on catching the malicious gleam in his eye, the rest of her question died on her tongue as the awful truth suddenly dawned on her.

  "You." Her voice was barely a whisper. "It was you who started the other rumors."

  "Yes, it was me," answered Matherton.

  "But... why?"

  "Because your injuries made in uncertain when a wedding could take place," he answered. "And then, I was introduced to the daughter of a nabob recently returned from India. Granted, there was no prestigious title attached to the family name, but the chit had a far bigger dowry than you did. I needed a reason to cry off from the engagement that didn't cast me in a bad light."

  His lips pursed. "But the damnable girl proved surprisingly stubborn. And then her Father hared off with the family to visit relatives in Scotland, which left me in deucedly difficult position. You see, I am dire need of funds. But then, as luck would have it, I heard from Lady Leverett that she had seen you at Kew Gardens, looking much like your old self."

  "And you call yourself a gentleman," Kyra whispered.

  He laughed, and the sound seemed to leach all the life from the colors of the gardens. "Only brainless fribbles feel bound by such antiquated notions as honor."

  A wave of revulsion shuddered through her. But however loathsome she found his proposal, did she have the heart to subject her father to more pain and disappointment? It wasn't as if she could dream of a future filled with love and happiness.

  "So let us not blather on about morality. I am offering
you a bargain—"

  "No, you are offering me blackmail," corrected Kyra.

  "Call what you will," snapped Matherton. "We both will benefit." His patience seemed to be slipping away for he gave her a nasty little shake as he spoke. "What's your answer?"

  "I..." Her throat tightened. Yes or no?

  A sudden growl sounded. Hero bounded through the pergola, dropped his stick and bared his teeth.

  Matherton let go of her and backed up a step. Though the dog was still hardly more than a pup, he had put on enough bulk to appear formidable, especially with his ears laid back and his hackles raised.

  The growl sounded again as Hero came closer. Kyra had never seen her sweet-tempered dog look so fierce.

  "Get away, you flea-benighted cur."

  Matherton lashed out a kick, but Hero was too quick. Dodging the boot, the dog twisted and snapped his jaws, catching the cuff of his attacker's trousers.

  Rip.

  An oath rent the air, as Matherton shook free and stared down at the tear in the expensive fabric. "Bloody Hellhound," he added, as Hero danced out of reach and snarled back at him.

  "I'm warning you, Kyra. Don't trifle with me. I need—"

  "Ah, are we having a bit of sporting play with the dog?"

  Kyra felt a rush of relief as Jack walked out from the shadows of the ivy-twined pergola, followed by Rafael.

  Jack paused to lean down and pick up the stick Hero had dropped. "Might we be allowed to join in?"

  * * *

  Some sort of game was afoot, noted Rafael as he moved with deliberate slowness across the lawn. But it was not a light-hearted one. Kyra's face was ashen and she nearly stumbled in her haste to turn away from the handsome stranger and rush to greet her childhood friend.

  "Halloo, amigo," he murmured, as Hero bounded up, tail wagging, and licked his hand. After ruffling his fingers through the dog's coarse, curling gray fur, Rafael added, "You are a very excellent companion to your mistress, and shall have a special beefsteak treat when next you visit the Hall."

  While he spoke, his gaze remained locked on Kyra. Whatever private conversation had been taking place between her and the stranger, it had left her shaken.