Duchess of Sin (10 page)

But she was certainly going to find out.

K
atherine paused in front of the mirror in the corridor before she went to attend to her duty in the library. The fading light
from the windows fell over her disordered hair and pale face, and she feared it revealed the strain of the day. Once, she
could recover from any crisis full of energy and eager to take on the many tasks of a lady with a large estate. Being the
chatelaine of Killinan Castle and the mother of her lively girls had been her whole life, and she would do anything for her
family and home. She still would.

But how tired she felt! How aged. She knew she was not so old, only in her forties, and she looked younger. Like most girls
from good Anglo-Irish families, she married young and had her children quickly. Six of them, though only three lived. But
she
felt
as if she was a hundred years old. Seeing Anna crumpled on the ground was terrifying. It brought back so vividly those days
when she could do nothing to protect her children, when she had come so close to losing them to war and rebellion.

“Oh, Anna,” she whispered. Her beautiful, sweet, wild,
vulnerable girl. She was safe now, but how long would that last?

Katherine’s own mother told her that the hardest thing in life was letting one’s children fly free. Letting them make their
own mistakes. But she had not said just how very many mistakes children could make!

Katherine smoothed her blond curls, mercifully only lightly streaked with silver. She pinched her white, still-smooth cheeks
to add a hint of color and straightened the fur-trimmed bodice of her blue gown.

“I am not quite ready to give up and sit knitting by the fireside just yet,” she said resolutely. Widow’s caps could wait
until Anna and Caroline were settled. And Caroline would never be settled without a bit of polish, including drawing skills.
She spun around and marched toward the library, swinging open the door.

The lamps in the large room had not yet been lit. Only the pink-gold setting sun lit the dark paneled walls and towering shelves
of books and the brown velvet chairs and settees. Though the house actually belonged to Eliza, Katherine had hung her own
husband’s portrait over the fireplace. Lord Killinan smiled down at her, happily ensconced forever with his beloved hunting
dogs at his feet and Killinan Castle in the background.

He
could not feel the chill in the air. The fire had died in the grate, and a tea tray sat cooling on one of the marble-topped
tables. Katherine rubbed at her arms in the silk sleeves, glancing around for the drawing teacher.

He was half-hidden in the shadows as he stood before one of the shelves, his head tilted to examine the volumes. He seemed
quite unaware of her presence, which gave her a stunned moment to study him.

Monsieur Nicolas Courtois was not exactly what she had expected. All Caroline’s other teachers were fussy older men in black
coats and old-fashioned wigs. Katherine’s own art teacher when she was a girl had also been older, a temperamental Italian
who had megrims over her paltry watercolor efforts.

Monsieur Courtois had come very highly recommended. Her friends had raved over him, and their daughters had gone into raptures
when his name was mentioned. Now she suspected his skills with charcoal pencils, paint, and canvas had little to do with that
enthusiasm. Monsieur Courtois was, not to put too fine a point on it, sublimely handsome. A chalky beam of sunlight fell over
him, turning his pale hair to shimmering gold. He was tall and elegantly lean in a stylish but not ostentatious dark green
coat and ivory cravat. His profile looked like a classical cameo, perfect and pure.

He reached out his hand and slowly, caressingly traced the spine of a book. A smudge of paint on his fingers was the only
flaw in his handsome persona. He touched the leather cover with an intense concentration that made Katherine imagine how he
might touch a woman’s skin.…

She caught at the back of a chair, suddenly so dizzy she was sure she would fall. The man seemed like a dream, a vision, caught
there in the light of that perfect moment. He was not a real man at all. He could not be, for no real man had ever made her
feel like that. She was always impervious to such nonsense, even when she was a girl. She had never giggled over men like
her friends.

You are just overly tired,
she told herself sternly. Yet she could not look away from him.

She clutched tighter to the chair, and as she swayed, her
skirt rustled. He spun around at the sound, his shoulders tensing and his beautiful hands tightening into fists. No, he was
not a dream. He was quite real, and facing her directly, he was even more handsome. His face could have been taken directly
from a Hellenistic statue, its proportions and angles were so perfect, yet his skin was a light, sun-kissed gold.

A statue brought to heated, glowing life.
Young
life, she saw with a pang. He had none of the lines and scars of age.

“I am sorry I startled you, monsieur,” she said, trying to regain her usual serene calm.
She
was the lady of the house; she was in control of the situation. No matter how good-looking he might be.

“Ah, no, madame,
I
am sorry,” he answered, and of course he would have a delicious voice to match his face. His English was perfect, but touched
with a French accent like soft velvet. “I became much too distracted by your fine library.”

“Not at all. The books deserve to be admired. I fear only Lady Caroline reads them lately. Please, monsieur, do be seated.
I should ring for some fresh tea.”

“No, my lady, please do not trouble yourself on my account. I did not even notice when they brought the tray in earlier.”
He gave a rueful laugh.

Katherine wondered why the maids were not still hanging about in here, gawking at him. She certainly would, if she were fifteen
years younger and not a countess who was supposed to be dignified. “Well, I could certainly use some myself. It has been a
rather trying day.”

A concerned frown knit his brow, and he took a step toward her. “My lady, you do look pale. Please, sit. Allow me to ring
the bell.”

He held out his hand, and automatically Katherine slid her fingers into his grasp. It was entirely strange and untoward, of
course, yet it felt entirely natural. His paint-stained fingers closed lightly over hers. She stared down at the contrast
of his golden skin with her pale complexion, and warmth shot all the way to her toes. It was utterly enchanting, like a summer’s
day of clover and sun, and slow, warm laziness.

Her throat tightened, and she feared she would burst into tears. Why these feelings now, with this gorgeous young man she
had just met? Now, when it was all too late?

Monsieur Courtois also stared down at their hands, his face as smooth and unreadable as one of those cameos. They both stood
perfectly still, as if stunned and frozen in the moment. Finally, he glanced up at her, and she saw that his eyes were brown.
Such a dark brown they were nearly black, even deeper and more fathomless against his silvery blond hair.

Slowly, his fingers slipped away from hers, and he offered her his arm. Katherine took it and let him lead her to the settee
nearest the empty fireplace. She was not a short woman, yet she barely came to his shoulder.

Once she was seated, he went back to tug on the tasseled bell pull by the window. Away from his warm nearness, she could take
in a breath again. She stared hard at the carpet under her feet.
Don’t be a fool,
she told herself sternly. Would she be as foolish as Lady Kingsley, who last year found herself banished to a desolate estate
in the north over an affair with her children’s dancing teacher? It had been the talk of Dublin, the folly of a lady over
a handsome young face. It had cost her everything.

But you are not married, as she was,
another devilish little voice whispered. She was free, or as much as a titled lady could be. The Duchess of Leinster had
married
her
children’s tutor. If she, Katherine, were discreet…

She shook her head. That was utter foolishness. Ireland was a small place; everyone always knew everything. She had spent
her whole life upholding the reputation of the Angel of Kildare, of her family. It
was
her life. She would not throw it away because of a sudden weakness over a handsome face and a strong pair of shoulders. Besides,
a young man like Nicolas Courtois would never look twice at a woman such as her.

Yet he
was
looking at her. He smiled at her as he sat down in the chair across from her, and there was a tiny dimple set in his cheek.

Katherine folded her hands tightly on her lap. “I am Lady Killinan, of course, Monsieur Courtois, and your pupil here would
be my youngest daughter, Caroline. She is sixteen and requires a bit of… polish before she makes her formal debut.” That dimple
deepened, and Katherine twisted her hands tighter together.

“Most sixteen-year-olds are in need of polish, my lady,” he said. “But I am sure if she is
your
daughter she needs very little help at all. She is sure to have as many suitors as she likes, quite without the advantage
of proficiency at art.”

Katherine laughed at his light flattery, and his smile grew as if he took pleasure at making her laugh. “My daughter is pretty,
if I do say so myself, monsieur. Yet she is also quite scholarly, and I know she will much enjoy learning more of art. Drawing
and painting can make us see the world in new ways, yes?”

Ways that one could never have fathomed, she thought bemusedly as she looked into his dark eyes.

Monsieur Courtois leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as he looked back at her. “It can indeed. To be honest,
my lady, I would relish a pupil who was actually interested in my lessons.”

“Really? Is that such a rarity then? You came highly recommended. Mrs. McGann told me that you worked wonders with her daughter.”

He laughed and said in a soft, confiding voice, “Miss McGann, I fear, could not so much as draw a straight line when I took
on her instruction. If, after many long hours of hard work, she could execute a recognizable tree—well, that is more a tribute
to my stubbornness than any pedagogical skill I may possess.”

Katherine laughed, too. She felt quite sure Miss McGann had been much too distracted by her tutor’s good looks, and too happy
to have hours of his attention, to be much concerned with the proper perspective of trees.

“However it came about, Mrs. McGann was very happy with your progress,” Katherine said. “As were your other past employers.
A certain stubbornness will be most useful in working with my Caroline.”

“Perhaps you would care to look at some of my work, my lady? Then you can judge my skills for yourself.”

Oh, yes,
that little devil whispered. That would mean spending more moments in his company, which was too tempting.

She batted the devil away, trying not to blush like a schoolgirl. “Certainly, monsieur.”

As he went to fetch his portfolio from the desk, two maidservants brought in the tea tray. Katherine noticed
they took far longer than required to set up the cups and pots, sneaking glances at the Frenchman and simpering.

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.”