Duchess of Sin

by Laurel McKee

  He seemed not to notice them at all, and they scurried away at Katherine’s stern glance. Monsieur Courtois handed her the black leather portfolio, drinking his tea as she sorted through the sketches. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but the other drawing teachers she interviewed presented work of careful, correct proficiency. These were something else entirely.

  His images were portraits, many of his pupils and their families, as well as landscapes of Irish rolling hills and architectural sketches of buildings around Dublin such as Parliament, the Customs House, and the Crow Street Theatre. But they were more than reflected images. There was a movement and emotion, a life to them that was quite extraordinary. He saw the world around them so differently than other people, Katherine thought. He saw past their careful façades to the complex, confusing, beautiful core. To life itself.

  What would a drawing of her look like from his pencil?

  “These are quite wonderful, monsieur,” she said. “You have a great talent. Too great to be teaching distracted debutantes, I think.”

  “Ah, well, my lady, I do like to eat, and wages greatly help with that.” But he seemed pleased with her compliment. “Do you really like them?”

  “Very much.” Katherine turned to an image of an elegant chateau set near a rippling river, the pencil lines denoting the movement and sparkle. The doors were half-opened, a woman’s face was just barely glimpsed in the purplish shadows. Despite the black and gray colors, she had the feeling of warmth and belonging from the house, almost a fairy-tale shimmer. There was an old, settled elegance and comfort to the place. “Have you been to France recently? Surely this can only be in the Loire.”

  “You know France, my lady?”

  “Oh, no, not well. I was there on my wedding trip many years ago. But I thought it was the most beautiful place I had ever seen—except for Killinan, of course.”

  “It is beautiful, yes. It is heaven on earth. But I have not been there since I was a child.”

  “You left during the revolution?” Katherine looked up at him over the sketch. A darkness had descended over his countenance, and it was as if he had drawn away from her, though he still sat right there.

  “Yes, Lady Killinan. My mother, she was the daughter of a duc. That was her father’s house; she loved it above everything else. And my father was one of the hated so-called tax farmers of Paris. He was killed, and my mother fled with me to London.”

  “Oh.” She looked again to the house, which she saw now was a reflection of a life vanished, a lost sweetness remembered. How would she feel if she was run out of Killinan? Her heart ached for what he must have suffered. “I am so sorry, Monsieur Courtois.”

  “It was a long time ago, my lady,” he said, a finality in his voice. Was he sorry for his confidences? She hoped not, for she wanted to know more.

  She carefully placed the drawings back in the portfolio and handed it back to him. “Would you be able to begin next week, monsieur?”

  He smiled at her. “I believe I could, Lady Killinan.”

  “Excellent. I’m expecting wonders with Caroline.”

  He laughed, and the shadows of the past vanished like a wisp of smoke. “I shall certainly endeavor not to disappoint, my lady.”

  As Katherine looked at him, she was quite sure no lady was ever disappointed spending time with him. She found herself much too intrigued by him, wanting to know more and more. It would take an iron will on her part not to try and find out.

  Nicolas Courtois shut the door to his room firmly behind him, closing out the shrill arguments of his rowdy neighbors. He could still hear their incoherent shouts, but he knew they wouldn’t last long. The quarrels happened every night, and every night they moved into tearful reconciliations and loud lovemaking. His own Crow Street Theatre melodrama for the price of rent.

  He tossed his coat and portfolio onto his one table and went to open the window. A rush of cold air washed over him, damp and bracing, and he leaned his palms on the old wooden sill to lean into it. He felt restless tonight, unsettled, and he was afraid he knew the reason why.

  Lady Killinan.

  He closed his eyes and pictured her face, her soft, wondering smile as she looked at his drawings. She was so beautiful with her golden hair drawn loosely back from her heart-shaped face, pale as an ivory miniature. With her elegant hands and bright blue eyes. He longed to paint her, perhaps as a classical goddess on a summer hillside in Greece, her tall, slender figure draped in diaphanous white robes.

  But how could he capture the sadness in those eyes? The aching loneliness that hid there so deeply?

  They had only spoken for a brief time, yet he was so moved by her, by all that beauty and sadness. When he heard people speak of the Countess of Killinan, of the goodness and sense of duty that made them call her the Angel of Kildare, he had expected a matron of stolid practicality and kind charity. He had hoped she would be the sort of compassionate lady who would hire him despite the deep suspicions so many English held for the French, especially after the thwarted French invasion of Bantry Bay in ’97.

  But he had not expected her. She did seem to be an angel, an otherworldly creature too lovely for the chaotic world they lived in. Too gentle. She made him think of the noble ladies of France who came to his childhood home, so fine and elegant and delicate. And when she touched his hand—a bolt of burning desire shot through him, shocking and much too real. Her eyes widened, as if she sensed his sudden lust and was startled by it.

  “Connard,” he cursed, pounding his fist against the sill. A splinter drove into his skin, yet he welcomed the sting. It was better than the burn of a desire he had to suppress.

  Lady Killinan had hired him at a better wage than he had ever made in Dublin before. She admired his work. He needed the job; yet surely if he was wise he would refuse it and never see her again. She was a complication he did not need, not in his precarious position. She could never discover what he was doing in Dublin.

  He threw himself onto his narrow bed and covered his face with his hands. His neighbors were into their reconciliation phase, moaning and setting their cheap bedframe to creaking. He laughed ruefully at the lustful sounds, which only reminded him what he could never have with the beautiful Lady Killinan. But he couldn’t help imagining what she would feel like under his touch, what she would taste like. What her body looked like under the layers of fashionable silks and laces, and how she would moan against his mouth.

  He had long suspected Dublin was hell. Now he was sure of it.

  Chapter Eight

  Anna, dear, is there something amiss with your glove?”

  “Hmm?” Anna glanced at her mother, who stood beside her as they perched on the Fitzwalters’ grand marble staircase, waiting for their turn to enter the ballroom. Despite the cold winter night outside, the imposing house was steamy-warm due to the crowds packed onto the stairs and jammed into the foyer below. Their high-pitched chatter bounced off the marble floors and ornately plastered walls. Tulle ruffles, tall plumes, and overly starched cravats were everywhere.

  But Anna didn’t notice it at all. She hadn’t even realized she was plucking at the tiny pearl buttons of her silk glove.

  “No, nothing is wrong at all,” she said and tucked her hands in the satin folds of her white gown.

  “Are you sure about that?” Katherine sighed and smoothed her own silver-gray skirts. “I knew it was a mistake to come here. You should be at home resting.”

  “If I rested any longer I would scream! Caro insists on reading me tales of gruesome old Celtic battles at all hours. They give me nightmares. I had to escape from her, and where better than at a ball?”

  Katherine gave a strange little smile, her eyes suddenly the soft, warm blue of a summer stream. “Once she begins her drawing lessons next week, she will have no time to pester you.”

  “So she has given in to the inevitability of more lessons?”

  “Oh, yes. She even seems to be looking forward to them. I am sure she will be even more so
when she meets Monsieur Courtois.”

  “I’m looking forward to it myself. I asked Rose about him, and she started giggling madly. All the maids do that. He must be quite intriguing.”

  “He is that, for certain. I think he will be a very interesting addition to our household.” The smile on Katherine’s lips deepened, as if she had a secret.

  Anna felt suddenly suspicious. Her mother thought the new teacher “interesting”? What could that mean? And why were her cheeks so pink?

  “I can’t wait to meet him,” Anna said, and meant it. Maybe this small domestic drama would distract her from Adair. He kept popping into her head at the most inconvenient moments. She even dreamed of him at night, the most unsettling visions of him lying next to her in bed, whispering in her ear. His hand sliding slowly up her leg beneath her chemise, hot friction of skin against skin…

  She plucked at the glove button again, only to drop it at her mother’s glance. She wondered if he could possibly be at the ball tonight. Jane had said he would appear more in Society. But even if he was, if she saw him, what would she do about it?

  Just how bold was she feeling?

  They finally advanced a few steps, trying not to trod on the elaborate train of the lady ahead of them. “Remember, Anna,” her mother said, “the doctor said no dancing tonight.”

  “I remember,” Anna said with a sigh. “I will sit with the chaperones along the wall and behave myself with exemplary decorum.”

  “Ha! I should like to see that, my dear,” Katherine said. Anna was sure that if her mother were not Lady Killinan, paragon of all things proper, she would have given a most inelegant snort, as Caroline was prone to do.

  At last, they entered the ballroom to find it only marginally less crowded than the stairs. The Fitzwalters possessed one of the largest ballrooms in Dublin, no small feat in a city that prided itself on its hospitality and its capacity for a good time. It was an enormous space, made to feel even larger by the mirrors hung on the cream silk walls and the domed ceiling.

  Those mirrors reflected polished parquet floors lined with banks of white hothouse roses arrayed with holly. The gathered crowd glittered, their gowns and jewels sparkling under the lights of a dozen Waterford crystal chandeliers. The dancing had not yet begun, but an orchestra played on a dais surrounded by potted palms. Liveried footmen moved about with trays of wine and claret punch. Through a set of open doors was a well-stocked card room.

  Anna took a glass of the punch and sipped at it as she studied the room. It was all the height of splendor, very fashionable and elegant, sure to be talked of for days. Everyone who was anyone was there. And it was absurdly dull. She was sure she had been here before, and she had. Or at least places exactly like it, a hundred times before.

  Perhaps it would have been better to stay home with Caro and her ancient battles, Anna thought. That strange old plague of restlessness, which parties were supposed to distract her from, came back over her, stronger than ever.

  She followed her mother across the room, their progress glacially slow as they stopped to greet all their acquaintances. She was asked about her fall at the park, pressed to dance again and again, and for once she was glad of the excuse to refuse a reel or a minuet. She wasn’t in much of a dancing mood. And she did not see Adair anywhere.

  Not that she could see much of anything in the crush, except people’s backs. She reached for another glass of claret punch, but her mother shoved a glass of lemonade into her hand instead.

  “Just because there is no dancing for you tonight, Anna, doesn’t mean you should spend the whole evening in the card room,” Katherine said.

  Anna laughed. “No dancing, no cards, no champagne. What a merry evening.”

  “I doubt you will be entirely bereft, dear. It looks like your hordes of admirers are about to sweep you away.”

  And indeed a group of young men, led by Lord Melton, descended on her just as she reached the edge of the room. When she told them she could not dance, they declared their intention to stay by her side and keep her company all evening.

  “You cannot do that,” she said, laughing at them. “There would be too many disappointed young ladies who do want to dance.”

  And some of the suitors were soon carried off by their mamas to do their duty, but some stayed with Anna, bringing her refreshments and chattering on about new carriages, horse races, and of course, the Union. It seemed she had missed a fight in Parliament that very day.

  It all made her want to scream, to throw her glass against the wall and run. She closed her eyes, remembering the Olympian Club with its lush banks of black orchids and lilies and the wild, whirling strains of waltz music. The masked figures clinging together in the dance. No one there spent precious moments boring everyone with tales of their new curricle or their latest house party prank. There, it was all pure feeling and emotion, sinking deeper and deeper into velvety darkness until there was only sensation.

  A gloved hand lightly touched her arm, a warm caress on the bare skin just below her lace sleeve. Anna opened her eyes and turned to find Adair standing behind her. And the entire miserably dull evening suddenly brightened.

  He looked entirely correct for a fine ball, clad in perfectly tailored black-and-white evening dress. His gold-shot white silk waistcoat was very elegant, and his cravat, though simply tied, was fastened with a black pearl pin. He had shaved, the strong angle of his jaw and curve of his high cheekbones starkly revealed. His dark hair was brushed back from his brow. He could certainly pass for a gentleman of fashion.

  Except for his eyes. Those deep green eyes watched her with a gleam of roguish, mocking laughter. It was as if he saw right through her party façade to the real longing beneath.

  “Lady Anna,” he said with a bow. “How lovely you look tonight. I’m very glad to see you have recovered from your accident.”

  “Yes, I am quite recovered, thank you, Your Grace,” she said. She gave him a curtsy, noting how silent her flock of suitors suddenly became. They glared suspiciously at Adair, but they did not dare say anything to a duke. Especially a duke with a reputation for brawling and secret nefarious deeds.

  The silence was most refreshing.

  “Do you not dance tonight?” Adair asked.

  “Alas, no. The doctor forbade it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve been told you’re one of the finest dancers in Dublin.”

  She laughed. “I enjoy the exercise, certainly. But I have more enthusiasm than skill.”

  His brow arched. “More enthusiasm than skill, eh, Lady Anna? Well, that is easily remedied—with practice.” Somehow, she had the feeling he did not entirely speak of dancing.

  “We are keeping Lady Anna company this evening,” Melton suddenly said, rather pugnaciously.

  Adair merely gave him an amused look. “How fortunate for her. But it can’t be healthy for you to stay in one place, Lady Anna. Would you take a turn about the room with me?”

  He held out his arm, and Anna slid her fingers through the crook of his elbow. Through the silk of her glove, she felt the lean power of his muscles and the heat of his skin. She felt quite compelled to go with him, as if she could no more stay behind than she could cease breathing.

  She remembered Hades and Persephone again and wondered if this was how poor Persephone felt when she looked up into those hellish black eyes. He was dangerous, to be sure. But he was also terribly interesting. When she was with him, all that numbness went away, and she felt alive. He cast a spell over her, she knew that.

  She walked off with an apologetic smile to her suitors. Adair led her along the periphery of the ballroom where the crowds were thinner and the air cooler. She could almost hear herself think there, despite the curious glances and sudden whispers they were attracting.

  “Are you really all right?” he said quietly.

  “Oh, yes. Just a few bruises. But what of you, Your Grace?”

  “Me?”

  “I’m quite sure I was not the target there on St.
Stephen’s Green. I am rather envied for my gowns, but I doubt anyone takes a shot at a lady for such things. Except Lady Forest. I do have my suspicions about her.”

  His jaw tightened. “You needn’t worry about me. That will not happen again.”

  Anna froze. “You found the culprit then?”

  He didn’t answer. His gaze swept over the packed ballroom, the sparkling display of Ascendancy Society. He did not belong there any more than a jungle panther belonged among chattering monkeys.

  Anna wasn’t sure that she belonged there, either. There wasn’t anyplace that she really belonged.

  “Do you feel in need of some air, Lady Anna?” he said.

  “I do believe I am, Your Grace,” she answered. Never mind that it was threatening to snow outside. She would rather be anyplace than that ballroom with everyone watching. “But where is there to go?”

  He gave her an unreadable smile. “I know a place.”

  “Of course you do.”

  He led her out of the ballroom and back to the grand staircase. But rather than go down to the foyer, they went up. It was quiet there, almost silent.

  “Where are we going?” Anna asked. “To hide in the attics?”

  His hand slid down her arm, his fingers intertwining with hers as he led her onward. It got darker the higher they went. Only a few lamps burned from wall sconces, and it was blinding after the dazzle of the chandeliers. Anna held tight to his hand.

  “Or maybe there is a conservatory?” she whispered.

  He glanced back at her. He seemed made of shadows here, all mystery and puzzles. “Would you like that?”

  She wasn’t yet sure she could say she liked what happened between them in the Olympian Club conservatory. It had been so out of control. But it had awakened something inside of her, something she craved. If she felt it again, she almost feared she couldn’t live without it. Couldn’t live without him.