Sweeter Than Sin

by Andrea Pickens

  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..." 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. It is the most delicate, and difficult to grow, but the beans yield the most flavorful chocolate."

  "Ah." She seemed to be studying the 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 murmured when he had finished.

  "Even more fascinating is all the lore and legends that surround chocolate. My grandmother had 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 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, señorita, Rafael thought to himself. We shall see. He had long ago learned never to underestimate Dona Maria's extraordinary powers.

  Chapter 5

  "I should allow you to go back to your sketching." Giving an apologetic shrug, Rafael stepped back. "I fear I prosed on too long about the making of cacao when you would have much rather been engaged in your art."

  "I enjoyed hearing it," said Kyra. "Having a better understanding about a plant helps me see it more clearly." She ducked her head. "Though I daresay that likely strikes you as silly."

  "Not at all," he answered earnestly. "I think I know exactly what you mean."

  Strangely enough, she believed he did. A soldier with a sensitive soul? It seemed a contradiction. Which made him a conundrum.

  Puzzles, puzzles. But piecing together the all the nuanced facets that made up Rafael de Villafranca Greeley was not a task that ought to occupy her imagination. He might as well be the Man in the Moon, a far-far away orb made of Stilton cheese, for how out of reach he was. To dream any differently was madness.

  Keeping her gaze averted, Kyra began putting away her paints. "I ought to going as well. I promised my maid I would not be strat far, and I fear I have lingered far longer than I intended to."

  "Please allow me to escort you to where she is waiting."

  Telling herself it would be churlish to refuse, she let him take her satchel. But deep down inside, she knew the real reason. His company made her forget for a moment her flaws and her fears.

  "Are there other exotic plants you are looking forward to seeing here?" asked Rafael as he clicked open the glass door and led her back to the graveled walkway.

  "Bougainvillea," she answered without hesitation. "The papery flower petals sound so intriguing."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "I think you will like them. They create very interesting shapes and textures. And the colors, especially the deep pinks, can be very vivid. We had several specimens at our hacienda in Spain that were brought back from Mexico by a friend of my father."

  "Was your father interested in botany?"

  "No, but he knew it would please my grandmother, so he made a habit of asking anyone he knew was traveling to the New World to bring back some tropical treasure for her collection."

  "How very thoughtful. I—" A swirl of silk suddenly rounded the yew hedge up ahead, and as it materialized into three ladies, she felt her breath catch in her throat.

  Oh, Lord, she should have known it was a mistake to leave the sanctuary of her father's estate.

  For an instant, she was tempted to turn and flee, but it was already too late. The trio—a marchioness expensively dressed in the first crack of fashion and her two equally elegant daughters—was fast approaching.

  Oh, if only the earth would open up beneath her feet and let her fall all the way to Cathay.

  The all-too-familiar haughty stare of Lady Leverett swept right over her without a flicker of acknowledgment as she fixed Rafael with a brilliant smile. "Why, Lord Leete, how lovely to see you again."

  Kyra saw him flinch at the marchioness's use of his late cousin's title. It must have been a painful remainder of his loss. Nevertheless, he bowed politely.

  "His Lordship and I met very briefly in Southampton, at the military reception your father hosted for Lord Stratton's returning regiment," she said to her companions. Turning back to him, she smoothed at the stylish ribbons trimming her bonnet. "My husband, the Marquess of Leverett, has told us all about your heroics on the Peninsula, and my daughters are simply in alt to meet you. Please allow me to introduce you to Lady Caroline and Lady Margaret."

  Still not a word or look was directed at her, noted Kyra. She might as well have been one of the ancient stone statues grouped by the yew hedge for all the attention the trio paid her.

  Try as she might, she couldn't help but feel a flush begin to creep to her face. Caroline and Margaret had been part of her circle of friends. They had shared laughter and girlish confidences, which made the snub that much more hurtful.

  Rafael hesitated, then pointedly said, "And allow me to introduce Lady Kyra—"

  "We are acquainted," sniffed Lady Leverett. A frosty glance barely acknowledged Kyra.

  His expression tightened.

/>   "Since you are in London, sir, I do hope you will attend our soiree tonight," went on Lady Leverett. "I know all of Society is very eager to meet the new heir to the Hendrie earldom."

  "Actually, I am simply visiting the city for the day. After my visit here, I will be returning to Hendrie Hall," he replied.

  "What a pity. When might you be returning? I would love to hold a ball in your honor."

  "At present, I have no plans to return to Town anytime soon. I am quite content to spend my time at my uncle's estate."

  The marchioness looked a little taken aback. "Naturally you will wish to acquaint yourself with its running, as you are now the heir."

  Kyra watched another shadow of emotion ripple through his eyes. Was Lady Leverett oblivious to her tactless words? But of course she was. He was a handsome, eligible bachelor—a rich and titled bachelor—and the marchioness had two daughters to marry off.

  "But the quiet of the country will no doubt become rather boring, so you must come enjoy the gaiety of Town life, too," continued Lady Leverett as she shot a coy look at her daughters. "All young men take pleasure in the festive swirl of Society—and the company of the young ladies."

  Out of the corner of her eye, Kyra saw that Rafael did not crack a smile. Indeed, his expression had lost any hint of humor, and his blue eyes had darkened to a stormy hue.

  "Actually, the quiet of the country suits me very well." He touched a hand to the brim of his curly beaver hat. "And now, if you will excuse us, I must escort Lady Kyra back to her maid."

  The marchioness exhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring in irritation.

  "Good day, ladies," added Rafael, inclining a small nod to her daughters. He then curled his gloved hand around Kyra's elbow and guided her forward.

  She kept her spine straight, even though she heard the huffing and whispers behind her back.

  "Are all English aristocrats so unconscionably rude?" he muttered once they were out of earshot.

  She clenched her teeth, too embarrassed to answer. Spotting Anna and William at the crest of the hill, she tried to quicken her steps, anxious to escape... though no matter how fast she might run, she could never outpace her shame. It would always be there, clinging to her skirts like a shadow for the rest of her days.

  However his grip tightened, holding her back.

  "Lady Kyra—"

  The sting of tears prickled against the back of her lids. "Please, I am late and I must hurry," she said in a rush.

  "Another few minutes will make no difference," he said gently. "I don't understand—"

  "Milord..." It hadn't occurred to her to call him by Jack's title and she couldn't quite bring herself to do so now. "You have no need to trouble yourself about it. Truly, it is no concern to you. And I—I would prefer not to talk about it."

  "But it does concern me," he replied. "Those ladies were unkind to you."

  As they rounded the tall hedge, Kyra came to a halt. Her throat felt too tight for words, yet she forced herself to speak. "Surely my uncle has explained why."

  Rafael's mouth pinched in at the corners. "He has mentioned your accident."

  "You are being tactful, sir. But I am sure he has also mentioned my ruined reputation." She hugged her arms to her chest, and tried to keep her voice from sounding too brittle. "The truth is, I am considered an outcast, a blot on the family's honor. As you saw, I am shunned by Polite Society."

  She blinked, refusing to seem even more pitiable by letting the tears pearled on her lashes spill down her cheeks. "I should have known better than to come here. To venture out in public is to invite scenes like you just witnessed."

  He stood silent, his gaze downcast so it was impossible to see his eyes through the thick fringe of his dark lashes.

  "It would be best if you avoid me from now on," she went on. "I should not wish for my own black deeds to somehow rub off on you and sully your introduction to the ton."

  "If Lady Leverett and her daughters are any example of the cruel and callous people who call themselves the flower of English nobility, then I have absolutely no interest in becoming part of their world."

  "You don't understand, sir," she exclaimed, unconsciously echoing his words. "To be cut off from Society is to be isolated, to be..."

  How to describe the feeling of utter loneliness? She deserved it, but he most certainly didn't.

  "To be alone?" He crooked a smile. "I don't need a ballroom full of pompous popinjays flapping around me to feel comfortable. I am very happy with just myself for company, or better yet, a circle of people whose hearts and minds I can respect."

  Respect?

  She swallowed hard, but before she could respond, her maid cut across the lawn, a bit breathless from hurrying down the hill. "I beg your pardon, milady, but your father's carriage is approaching." She bobbed an apologetic curtsey to Rafael. "Please come have a quick bit of sustenance before George packs up the picnic—you haven't eaten since breakfast."

  "Thank you, Anna, but I would rather not delay our return home." Kyra glanced up at the dark clouds scudding in from the west. "Besides, I'm not really hungry."

  Her maid clucked in concern as Rafael pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and unwrapped it to reveal several glossy nut-brown disks. "Take these for the journey."

  Seeing her look of puzzlement, he broke off a small piece. "I shall explain. But first, open your mouth."

  "Wha—"

  He placed the morsel on her tongue.

  A meltingly sweet essence tickled at her senses. Sugar, spice, the crunch of nutmeats, the smooth richness of vanilla...

  Kyra chewed slowly, savoring all the flavors. "Oh, that's divine." She swallowed. "It tastes like chocolate, but how can that be? Chocolate is a beverage, not a food."

  "Edible chocolate has been in existence for centuries," he corrected. "The Ancient Aztecs made it into wafers for their warriors, who consumed it for strength and endurance during their long marches and battles."

  "It tastes too good to be medicinal," she quipped.

  "Medicine can come in many guises." Rafael handed her the rest of the confections. "The art of edible chocolate was more recently perfected by a Frenchman named Sulpice Debauve. He was pharmacist to King Louis WI and Marie Antoinette. When the queen complained about the taste of her medicines, he concocted chocolate pistoles such as these to disguise it. Her favorite flavor was said to be almond milk."

  She broke off another bite. "You know such fascinating stories."

  "Chocolate is an endlessly fascinating subject."

  "Lady Kyra," murmured her maid.

  "Yes, yes, I am coming." She polished off the rest of the pistole and put the others in the pocket of her pelisse. "I feel well fortified for the journey, though I am glad not to be tackling tropical jungles or towering mountains."

  "We shall soon have you ready to conquer any obstacle, Lady Kyra," said Rafael softly.

  "Let us not go that far. But thank you." She took back her satchel. "For everything, sir."

  "That's a nice gentleman, if you don't mind me saying so," murmured Anna, as they made their way up to where George was waiting with the hamper and blankets. "He seems ever so kind and considerate."

  "Yes," mused Kyra. "He is very nice."

  The trouble was, she didn't know whether that made her want to smile or sob.

  * * *

  Rafael slowed his stallion to a leisurely trot. Despite the drizzling rain and chill mists teasing at the upturned collar of his riding coat, he was in no hurry to return to the manor house. Instead, he chose the bridle path leading up to the high meadow overlooking the lake. On the other side of the water, the valley stretched off to the faraway hills, their fuzzed shapes deepening to shades of purple and indigo in the fading light. The Duke of Pierpont's lands lay to the left of the thick stand of ancient oaks. Over the lofty treetops he could just make out the boundary walls of mossy stone edging the wheat fields.

  Was Kyra home by now? Was she eating more than a sparrow-like peck of nourishment
?

  Damn the cowardly cur who had brought such a look of sadness to her luminous green eyes. Not for the first time, he found himself reflecting on the unfairness of the rules governing men and women.

  "Lord knows, I have no claims to being a saint," he muttered. During the years he had spent fighting in Portugal and Spain, there had been several señoras who had shared his bed, but for a man, such dalliances only earned the respect of his peers, not their revulsion.

  "I am lauded for my seduction skills..." His partners were never innocents, of course, but worldly widows or women whose marriages were naught but matches of convenience. They were experienced enough to know how to play the game without suffering any consequences. "But seduction," he whispered, "is a two-edged sword for females."

  Rafael blew out a gusty sigh. When an innocent young lady succumbed to the charms of a gentleman, Society considered her ruined for life.

  One mistake.

  His hands tightened on the reins as he thought about her erstwhile fiancé, who had callously abandoned her when rumors began to fly. He knew little about their courtship, or the events that led to the terrible tragedy of that fateful night's horse race. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something havey-cavey about the matter.

  He shifted in his saddle as the shadows lengthened over the landscape, long-fingered shapes that seemed to squeeze the light from the surroundings.

  But why, he wondered, was he taking the matter so much to heart? There was an old English adage that his father had often repeated to him when he was a child—Whatever bed you make, you must sleep in it. He barely knew Lady Kyra Pinnell.

  But Jack had.

  The memories had come back slowly, perhaps because a shroud of pain still clouded his mind when he tried to think about his cousin. Yet he had forced himself to recall the good times, the laughter and the bonds of friendship, as well as those last awful moments in the heat of battle. And that was when the realization had struck him.