by Cara Elliott
Marco stood on the edge of a crumbling walkway, staring down at the dark, swirling water. The tide had just shifted, turning the currents treacherous along this stretch of the river. Clouds scudded overhead, and as the gusting wind shifted, a damp chill slapped against his face.
Turning up his collar, he felt his mood sinking, sucked into the murky depths by a potent vortex of brandy, boudoirs, and brooding.
Perhaps Lynsley was right—of late, he had been teetering on a razor’s edge, his thoughts and his actions threatening to spin out of control. One wild risk after another. That was dangerous—both for himself and for others. With a clench of self-loathing, he flexed his bruised shoulder and winced. On the recent mission to Scotland, he had nearly lost an arm, escaping the explosion of gunpowder by the skin of his teeth. He had set the fuse a hair too short. Next time…
“A diavolo,” muttered Marco. Perhaps next time—the next real assignment, not a damnable house party—he would lose his head. Few would mourn the passing of the arrogant, abrasive Conte of Como. Hell, he annoyed everyone.
Including himself.
Pressing his fingertips to his temples, he tried to massage away the dull ache in his head. He had spent the night at one of the seamier gaming haunts in the nearby slums, winning and then losing a great deal of blunt. Come morning… he winced, vaguely remembering a room draped in red silk and a lady draped in nothing at all. Save for a cloud of expensive French perfume.
The musky floral scent still clinging to his coat was making his stomach feel a little queasy. Its sweetness seemed even more cloying as he suddenly recalled the subtle fragrance that spiced Kate Woodbridge’s skin. Her essence teased and tantalized. It didn’t bludgeon a man in the gut.
Another lurch of his brandy-logged insides reminded him that he ought to be moving. His boots were already half-submerged in the vile-looking ooze. Squinting up at the sky, Marco judged that it must be midafternoon. A squall looked to be blowing in, so he started walking, hoping to spot a hansom among the cluster of warehouses up ahead.
Out in the middle of the river, several small wherries bobbed in the ebbing waters, their white sails silhouetted against the gray waves as they followed the flow down toward the Greenwich docks. Closer to shore, a lone lad was rowing a dory, his oars cutting in and out of the rippling eddies with a natural rhythm that seemed in perfect harmony with the river.
Marco found himself admiring the scene. It wasn’t muscle—the youth was slender as a reed—that propelled the dory, rather a supple, sinuous grace…
As the wind gusted, the brim of the lad’s floppy cap blew up, giving a glimpse of his profile.
Marco blinked, wondering if his bleary eyes and cupshot brain were playing tricks on him. Quickening his steps to keep pace with the dory, he watched for a few more moments before uttering a low oath.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
It had been a stroke of luck that her father’s old bosun had decided to settle in London, thought Kate as she gave another hard pull on the oars, reveling in the smooth feel of the blades cutting through the water. Eli Welch now worked along the Thames, overseeing a small flotilla of vessels that ferried cargo to and from the East India docks. He was always happy to lend her his little dory for an hour or two while Alice waited in a side alley with the hansom. And his quarters by the stone landing where his boats were moored provided a safe harbor in which to change from her gown to the set of boy’s clothing that she kept stowed in his cupboard.
Her secret was safe with Eli, she mused, which allowed her a short interlude of freedom, a chance to escape from the gilded formality of Mayfair and experience the old familiar touch of vanished wood against her palms and a salty breeze on her cheeks.
Ebb and flow. Life was so much simpler as a vagabond sailor. Wind, water, sky. The rough-hewn timbers of a merchant ship rather than the perfectly polished parquet of a ducal ballroom.
Expelling a long breath, Kate admitted to herself that she was having a hard time navigating the uncharted waters of Polite Society. There seemed to be hidden shoals at every turn and treacherous crosscurrents ready to sink an unwary vessel. She much preferred the open sea and a limitless horizon. Follow the sun. Glancing up, she made a face. Here in London the heavens seemed perpetually covered by clouds, shrouding the city in dull, depressing shades of gray.
The only bright spot was the Circle of Sin. Her friends were kindred souls who dared to be different. Kate gripped the oars a touch tighter and quickened her strokes. Unlike the perfectly polished young ladies of the ton, who would faint if a hair drifted out of place or a bead of sweat defiled their brows. Pattern cards of propriety. While she was… cut from a different cloth. Salt-stained sail canvas and sun-bleached cotton, fluttering wild and free. Which of course violated every rule of Polite Society.
Rules. There was only one person she knew who seemed to dislike rules as much as she did. The Conte of Como was unrepentantly arrogant, deliberately outrageous—and she rather liked that. As for his smoldering sensuality…
She felt her cheeks turn a trifle hot. His tawny eyes were lush with a liquid fire. Like fine brandy, they were potent with the promise of wild nights and forbidden pleasures. He reminded her of the jungle felines she had seen in her travels. Untamed. Unpredictable.
Dangerous.
Her mouth quirked. But then, she had always been attracted to danger. It set her pulse to pounding and made her feel alive.
A loud splash jerked her out of her reveries. Looking up, she saw a pair of ragged urchins running away from the riverbank. Mudlarks disposing of some detritus, she decided. The Thames was a graveyard of unwanted…
She suddenly spotted a small tiger-striped head swirling in the leaden currents—a cat, struggling to stay afloat.
Damn. A flurry of hard, quick strokes turned the dory and sent it skimming through the foam-flecked water. The eddies were tricky, and if she did not judge the drift just right, she wouldn’t get another chance.
“Hold on, tabby,” she muttered, maneuvering the oars to bring her in at just the right angle. The choppy water made the going hard work, and her hands were fast rubbing raw. Ignoring the pain, she fought against the racing current.
Steady, steady.
With a quick lunge, Kate grabbed the waterlogged feline just as it was about to be swept under by a cresting wave.
Plopping the bedraggled ball of fur into her lap, she let out a relieved laugh. “I daresay you’ve just used up eight of your nine lives.”
The cat arched and let out an angry meow.
“Aye, let’s get you back to dry land,” she murmured, regripping the oars and turning for shore.
As the dory nosed up against the barnacled pilings, Kate scrambled out onto the landing, awkwardly cradling the still-dripping animal.
“Do you always go out of your way to save mangy strays?”
Kate stumbled at the sound of the slurred voice, and then quickly ducked to hide her face. The sudden jerk spooked the cat, and with a spitting hiss, it clawed free of her arms and darted off into the nearby maze of darkened alleyways.
“As you see, the ungrateful beast didn’t bother to thank you for your efforts.”
Of all the cursed luck. But as the Conte of Como sounded cupshot, perhaps he would move on if she remained silent.
Hunching low, she merely shrugged in answer and made a show of knotting the dory’s hawser through the iron ring.
“Cat got your tongue, laddie?” continued Marco in a sardonic drawl. “Or should I say lady.” He stepped out from beneath the brink archway. “The baggy shirt and threadbare trousers don’t do your lovely body justice, Miss Woodbridge.”
For a man four sheets to the wind, his gaze was still awfully sharp.
Deciding to ignore his last comment, Kate set a hand on her hip and fixed him with a defiant look. “One doesn’t always require thanks for doing the right thing. Would you have just sat there and let the poor animal drown?”
Marco quirked a mirthless smile. “Perh
aps it would have preferred to sink and be put out of its misery.”
Kate was taken aback by the bleakness undercutting his sarcasm. “Life can seem awfully grim at times, but it’s still worth fighting for,” she replied slowly.
“Sometimes I wonder.”
It was said so softly that Kate wasn’t sure whether it was merely a whisper of wind rasping against the weathered stone. Uncertain of how to respond, she turned and grabbed up her jacket from the dory. “I have to be going,” she said, scrabbling up the slippery steps.
Marco remained firmly planted between her and the narrow archway. “Which begs the question of what you are doing here in the first place?” he said.
To refuse an answer might only raise other unsettling questions. “I am used to more vigorous exercise than a sedate walk along Rotten Row,” she replied grudgingly. “So I occasionally come here to visit an old crewman from my father’s ship, who allows me the use of his dory.” Seeking to distract him from further thoughts on her actions, Kate was quick to add, “I don’t need to inquire how you have been whiling away the day.”
His clothing was rumpled and his hair uncombed, the tangle of black locks accentuating the dark stubbling of whiskers on his unshaven jaw. Drawing in a breath, Kate caught the reek of cigar smoke and sex through the pungent smells of the river.
“Or night,” she finished.
“Si,” he answered with a laugh. “I’ve been engaged in all sorts of evil activities.” He paused. “As were you.”
“I was rowing,” she protested. “As opposed to pumping my limbs between the sheets.”
“There is also a simple verb for what I was doing,” he said softly. “Shall I tell you what it is?” His mouth slid into a silky smile. “Would you like to enlarge your vocabulary on physical… arousal, Miss Woodbridge?”
“No, keep your depraved thoughts to yourself,” she muttered. And yet his rumbled chuckle stirred a tingle of heat deep inside her. To her dismay, she felt it spreading…. In another instant her flesh would be afire.
“Both disciplines require a great deal of physical exertion,” went on Marco. “And both work up a sheen of sweat. Ladies, of course, aren’t supposed to sweat, but I daresay you are moist all over, aren’t you?”
Thank God the light was turning murky. The angled shadows and dancing dust motes would hopefully hide her unwilling response. He seemed to take an ungentlemanly pleasure in teasing her to anger. She wasn’t sure why.
But then, the Lord of Lechery seemed to take pleasure in a good many naughty things.
“You are welcome to enjoy a laugh at my expense, sir,” she replied. “As long as you do me the courtesy of staying quiet about what you’ve seen.”
His lashes gave a lazy flutter. “Well, now, if it were a more scandalous transgression, I might be tempted to turn it to my advantage.”
Fear squeezed at her throat. She was right to think him dangerous. Oh so dangerous.
“But there is nothing depraved about strenuous exercise, Miss Woodbridge, so you need not look so stricken.” A suggestive flex of his shoulders emphasized his words. “Indeed, the ancient Greek intellectuals considered it essential for both body and spirit.”
“Thank you for the history lesson,” she replied in a rush of relief, then couldn’t help adding, “Or was it biology?”
He laughed again, but a shadow seemed to darken his beautiful eyes. “Let me offer another fact of life. As you just witnessed, this is a dangerous area, where bad things can happen in the blink of an eye. It’s not safe for you to be here all alone.”
His wine-roughened voice teased a tingling down her spine. “As I told you the other evening, sir, I can take care of myself.”
Marco watched her lashes flutter, a wink of gold against the encroaching gray as she pulled the brim of her hat a little lower. “So you say. And yet it appears that you are hurt,” he replied. Capturing her hand, he held it up for inspection.
She flinched and tried to pull away. “It’s naught but a scratch.”
In answer, he lowered his lips and blotted a bead of blood from her wrist.
“Don’t.”
Ignoring her whispered protest, Marco ran his tongue along the line of claw marks and slowly drew the tip of her forefinger into his mouth. She tasted of salt and a sweetness he couldn’t describe.
Rain started to fall, spattering her skin with silvery droplets. Yet neither of them moved.
Strange, thought Marco, suddenly mesmerized by the moment. She was a beguiling mix of strength and softness—something he had never encountered in a woman before. He suckled her skin, savoring the rough and smooth textures.
“Don’t!” Her voice was louder, and a little ragged around the edges. Wrenching free of his grasp, she clenched her hands into fists and shoved him back a step.
“If you are trying to discourage a man from pawing over your body, allowing him a glimpse of it clad in a rain-soaked shirt is not a good idea.” He lowered his gaze. “White linen is nearly transparent when wet, especially when the fabric is clinging to every shapely curve of your breasts. The effect leaves little to the imagination.”
Uttering an oath, Kate quickly tugged on her jacket. “You’ve had your fun, sir, now kindly step aside. My grandfather is very strict about the supper hour and I must not be late.”
“And if I don’t, are you going to challenge me to a bout of fisticuffs?” Marco waggled a brow.
“Don’t be so sure that I couldn’t hold my own in a fight,” she countered.
“You seem to enjoy flaunting your physical prowess, but rather than throwing punches, I could suggest a far more delicious way of engaging our limbs.”
“Go to the devil,” she muttered.
“As a matter of fact, I am about to embark on a journey,” he replied. “So I, too, ought to be returning to my townhouse. I have a great deal of packing to do.” With a flourishing bow, he stepped aside to let her pass. “Have a safe trip back to Mayfair, Miss Woodbridge.”
“Enjoy your travels, Lord Ghiradelli,” replied Kate as she brushed by him. “I hear that Hades is quite hot at this time of year.”
Chapter Six
A country house party?” Alessandra lifted a brow in surprise. “That is not your usual choice of diversions.” She poured herself a cup of tea and gestured for Marco to help himself to the spirits on the sideboard. “I take it there will be some willing widow in attendance.”
He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Though it would, of course, make the affair a good deal more pleasurable.”
“Do you never think of aught but pleasure?”
“Very rarely.”
Alessandra rolled her eyes. “Dio Madre, do try to be serious.”
“Why?” he shot back.
Her heavy sigh stirred the sheaf of watercolor sketches lying on the library table. The deckled edges fluttered against the polished wood. “No wonder Jack is so often tempted to flatten that aristocratic nose of yours.”
“Va bene—very well, I shall cease teasing.” Swirling his brandy, Marco lifted the glass to his lips. Sunlight refracted off the faceted crystal, casting a wink of dancing amber patterns across the wainscoting. “In fact, I do have a serious question or two to ask you.”
“Si?” She cocked her head, waiting for him to go on.
“What do you know of the Duke of Cluyne?”
“To begin with, he is Kate’s grandfather. But somehow I think you are already aware of that.”
Marco took a sip before nodding. “Which is why I thought you might be able to tell me something about him.” Keeping his tone deliberately nonchalant, he went on. “What sort of man is he?”
Her lips compressed ever so slightly. “Why the interest in Cluyne? It is not as if the two of you move in the same circles.”
“And yet our paths will soon be crossing. It is to his estate in Kent that I am invited.”
“Why, Kate will be there as well,” exclaimed his cousin. A tiny frown furrowed her brow. “Though she is not very happy about
it. She only agreed to go when the duke consented to invite Charlotte.”
He ran a finger along the edges of the watercolors, careful to avoid meeting her gaze.
“What is your reason?” she asked slowly.
“Perhaps I’m tired of Town life and wish to partake in a little country rest and relaxation.”
Her reply was a very unladylike expression in Italian. “Since when have you ever tired of drinking and wenching?” she added.
“I can, on occasion, contrive to appear in civilized society without causing a scandal, cara.” Marco moved away to refill his glass. “The guests include a number of European diplomats and noblemen, so it’s not such a shock that my name was put on the list. In case you have forgotten, I do have a rather impressive pedigree.”
“I am well aware of your lineage, Marco. It’s you who I sometimes fear have forgotten your heritage.”
Her words touched a raw nerve, but he brushed them aside with a sardonic laugh. “Oh, come now, it’s a new century, and time to leave old-fashioned notions behind us. You possess a rational mind, so don’t you agree that the idea of hereditary titles is absurd? They are naught but a string of fancy gilt letters strung together.”
Conte of Como. Marco tried not to picture the name of his older brother, penned in as the heir apparent in the Libro d’Oro della Nobiltà Italiana, the large, handwritten registers maintained at the offices of the Consulta Araldica. His own, which now appeared in flowing script on the line just below the carefully crossed-out lettering, seemed liked a blot on the ancient parchment. If not for his own rash, reckless plan to save a neighbor’s old horse from the slaughterhouse, Daniello would not be dead, his neck broken in a fall from the mountain trail.
“Democratic ideals make far more sense,” he went on, after a long swallow of the amber spirits. “A man should be judged just on his merits, not some accident of birth.”
“Ideas and philosophies may alter over the centuries, but some things never change,” replied Alessandra softly. “A family name is more than a fancy gold crest. It’s in the blood, an elemental bond flowing from one generation to the next.”
