To Tempt a Rake

by Cara Elliott

  Choking back a chuckle, her friend waggled a finger. “I fear I have set a bad example for you. I’m allowed to be a sharp-tongued shrew at my age. But you—you ought not let yourself be so cynical.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Charlotte. I’ve seen enough of the world to make my own judgments.”

  “Still, you must guard against being overly harsh on Polite Society. As you well know, both Ciara and Alessandra were a trifle too quick in forming an opinion.”

  “In this case, three is not a charm.” On that emphatic note, they entered the drawing room.

  “Ah, there you are, Katharine.” The duke stepped away from a group of gentlemen and came over to offer his arm. “Allow me to introduce you to my guests.” A brief, belated nod acknowledged Charlotte. “And Lady Fenimore, of course.”

  Charlotte waved him off. “You two go on. I am sure that you would like to present your granddaughter to the others without my company, Your Grace. I shall make their acquaintance during the course of the evening.”

  Cluyne murmured a gruff thanks.

  Stifling a sigh, Kate placed her gloved hand on her grandfather’s sleeve. Going through the motions of such formalities seemed so stilted, and yet that was the way of the Polite World.

  Lud, she might well have been in Kurdistan instead of Kent, for all that English manners still felt foreign to her.

  “… our neighbor, Lord Tappan.”

  Realizing that the duke was speaking, Kate shook off her musings and tried to pay attention.

  “As you know, Katharine, His Lordship is a minister with the Foreign Office.”

  “A very junior one,” said Tappan with a self-deprecating quirk of his mouth.

  His face did not seem at all familiar. But then again, thought Kate wryly, most of the fancy balls and soirees had passed by in a boring blur. Deciding the best response was none at all, she just smiled.

  “Allow me to introduce several of my fellow diplomats from the Continent,” continued Tappan. “Count Vronskov and Colonel Von Seilig.”

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” said Vronskov in a heavy Russian accent as he lifted her hand to his lips with a flourish. “Had I known that the crème de la crème of English womanhood was so beautiful, I would have made the journey from St. Petersburg long ago.”

  “Merci,” she murmured, echoing his use of French, the court language of the Russian nobility. There was no point in upsetting her grandfather by making mention of her American blood, she decided. They would soon enough have something to lock horns over.

  The colonel clicked his heels and bowed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Woodbridge.”

  Kate appreciated the simple gesture, along with the fact that his chest was not clanking with row upon row of gaudy medals. “And you, sir. From your accent, I would guess that you are from the north of Prussia—perhaps near Danzig?”

  “Jawohl, Miss Woodbridge.” His face was not handsome, but with a flash of pleasure lighting his pale blue eyes, he was rather attractive. “I am indeed from that port city. You have an excellent ear for languages.”

  “A very pretty ear it is, too,” said Vronskov with an effusive laugh.

  She ignored him. “Have you been in London long, Colonel?”

  “Just a few months. I have been assigned to serve as military attaché to our embassy here, though I will soon be joining our delegation for the peace conference in Vienna for several weeks.”

  “I should very much like to see that city,” said Kate. “As well as the Danube and the Rhine.”

  “Have you traveled abroad?” asked Von Seilig.

  “Yes, I…” Seeing her grandfather’s mouth compress, she caught herself. “I visited some foreign places when my parents were alive.”

  Von Seilig seemed to sense her hesitation and tactfully let the subject drop.

  “Gentlemen, if you will excuse us now, we must greet the others,” said the duke.

  The three men stepped aside, Vronskov adding another elaborate bow.

  Kate and her grandfather proceeded to circle the room, repeating the polite formalities. There were, counted Kate, twenty guests, not including herself, the duke, and Charlotte. That meant that only one had not yet arrived, seeing as the duke’s butler had informed her that the party would be an even two dozen people.

  Yet another prosy diplomat, she thought to herself.

  Several of the English gentlemen were accompanied by their wives, but most of the foreigners had come alone. However, Cluyne and Tappan had made an effort to ensure a feminine presence. Kate recognized an influential matron of the ton and her two unmarried daughters, along with the widowed Countess of Duxbury.

  “Ah, here is the last member of our party. Conte Ghiradelli just arrived an hour ago, Katharine,” intoned the duke. “Allow me to introduce you—”

  “We’ve met,” she said curtly.

  “Indeed, I have had the pleasure of making your granddaughter’s acquaintance in London,” elaborated Marco.

  She narrowed her gaze in warning. Surely the rogue wouldn’t be so rag-mannered as to tell the story of their first encounter outside Angelo’s fencing salon. Her grandfather would not be amused.

  “My cousin is a member of Miss Woodbridge’s scientific circle,” he continued smoothly. “And recently married the Duke of Ledyard’s youngest son. Your granddaughter and I attended the wedding in Oxfordshire.”

  “Ah yes, Lord James Pierson,” replied Cluyne. “He is said to be an excellent fellow.”

  To Kate’s ears, the statement carried a note of reproach. No lordly suitors or military heroes were currently seeking her hand.

  “Quite,” she replied evenly.

  “A most excellent fellow,” agreed Marco. He slanted her a wink glittering with suppressed mirth. “His upstanding character puts most of us mere mortals to blush.”

  She pretended not to see it. Whatever might bring a tinge of red to the conte’s face, it would not be contrition over his moral shortcomings. “Are you, like many of our other guests, heading on to the Continent after this gathering?” she inquired as her grandfather stepped away to speak with Tappan.

  “Should I be?” he asked with feigned innocence.

  Refusing to be provoked, Kate answered sweetly, “La, I wouldn’t know, sir. Your affairs are none of my concern.”

  “Perhaps that will change,” he murmured sotto voce.

  The silky sound stirred a strange flutter inside her chest. Had she known Marco was to be one of the guests, she might have reconsidered her decision to come here. Dealing with Cluyne was going to be difficult enough without a darkly sensuous devil-in-the-flesh to torment her thoughts.

  She wouldn’t. Think about Marco, that is. With all the other guests around, it should be easy enough to avoid his company.

  She was saved from having to make further conversation with Marco by the arrival of Andreas Vincenzi, who greeted his fellow Italian with effusive delight and drew him off to the far corner of the room.

  The ordeal of introductions over, Kate was about to return to Charlotte when Jeremiah Ludlowe, an American from Philadelphia, requested that she join the group gathered by the hearth.

  “Miss Woodbridge, might I ask you to help us settle a debate. Lady Gervin and I disagree on how many specimens your grandfather’s conservatory is said to hold…”

  “A glass of sherry would be lovely,” said Charlotte to the liveried footman. After accepting the drink, she moved back into the shadows of the corner alcove and returned to her study of the botanical prints on the wall.

  The delicate colored engravings looked to be from a medieval herbal. From southern Switzerland, she decided, judging by the spidery German script. Magnified by the lens of her quizzing glass, the alpine specimen of St. John’s Wort looked to have somewhat longer leaves than the common English variety.

  Lost in scholarly thought, she moved on to the next one.

  “Fetch up another three bottles of champagne from the cellars. And be sure that Higgins has decanted the claret
to serve with the roast beef.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Charlotte was suddenly aware of having company within the secluded alcove.

  “Add the ’78 Madeira to the selection of ports,” continued Cluyne to his butler. “Better include a malt from Scotland—”

  She didn’t move quite quickly enough to dodge a collision with the ducal backside.

  A grunt—or rather a growl—rumbled in his throat as Cluyne turned around. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, sounding more irritated than apologetic. “I did not realize anyone was lurking in here.”

  Her opinion of him already colored by Kate’s resentment, Charlotte found herself piqued by the duke’s abrasive manner. To hell with pandering to his imperious pride, she decided. If he wanted to toss her out on her arse, he was welcome to do so.

  Her bum was already bruised.

  “Feel free to have your servants check under my garments,” she replied, lifting the edge of her shawl. “To make sure I am not purloining any of your valuable art.”

  He had the grace to flush.

  “They are also welcome to poke through my reticule after supper, to ensure that I haven’t slipped in any of the heirloom silver.”

  “Perhaps ‘lurking’ was a poor choice of words,” he said through gritted teeth. “I meant no offense.”

  Apologies did not come naturally to him, thought Charlotte. And why would they? A duke was never expected to express contrition for anything. Raising her quizzing glass, she regarded him with a cold stare.

  As anticipated, his scowl grew more pronounced.

  Repressing a smile, she turned back to the prints. “I was looking, not lurking. Have you any objection to my studying this display of prints? Which are, by the by, quite magnificent. They are Swiss, are they not?”

  “Yes,” he muttered.

  “From Basle, I imagine,” said Charlotte, noticing the printer’s mark at the bottom of the page. Forgetting her initial ire, she subjected the image of the Pastinaca sativa to a more thorough scrutiny.

  “Indeed.” Cluyne joined her by the print. “From the workshop of Johann Froben, whose skill in printing was unrivaled.”

  “I would say that the Parisian atelier of Simon De Colines was equally adept at capturing the nuance of line,” she replied. “Though I daresay you are right about the coloring. The artists employed by Froben achieved more subtlety in their shades.”

  “Hmmm.” The duke cleared his throat and shuffled a step to his left. “This one of a Monarda fistulosa shows the brush technique more clearly.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” said Charlotte after examining the print for a long moment. “Speaking of which, are you familiar with the work of Pietro Andrea Mattioli?”

  “I have several examples hanging in my study.” Another cough. “Not many people know of his work.”

  “No, but he is a great favorite of mine.”

  “You are welcome to view them,” he said gruffly. “There are a number of illustrated volumes in the library that you might also find of interest. I shall have one of the servants put them out for you.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Hmmph.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Cluyne blew out his cheeks. “The last two prints of this series are hung on the other side of the curio cabinet. You ought not miss them.” Moving back to rejoin his butler, Cluyne paused and then added, “Simpson, be sure to check under Lady Fenimore’s shawl when she leaves.”

  Charlotte wondered whether the wink was merely a flicker of the candelabra. Or did the duke actually possess a sense of humor to go along with his hauteur?

  “Yes, Your Grace,” replied the butler without batting an eye.

  Cluyne consulted his pocketwatch. “Have Frampton ring the dinner bell in twenty minutes.”

  Chapter Eight

  Marco reined his stallion to a walk as the graveled drive crested the hill. In the pale half light of early morning, the colonnaded entrance of Cluyne Close appeared an oddly ethereal vision, rising from a sea of pearly mist like a vision from some fanciful dream.

  “Hell,” he muttered, wincing slightly as he adjusted the brim of his hat. His mind was half asleep. He had stayed up all night with Vincenzi, talking and drinking far too much brandy from the duke’s excellent wine cellar. And while the ride had cleared most of the fogginess from his brain, the stale taste of spirits and tobacco still lingered in the back of his throat.

  Inhaling a lungful of the cool, clean air, Marco swiveled in his saddle and surveyed the deserted grounds. Despite his muzzy state, the decision to ride out at dawn had been a good one. It was always important to know the lay of the land when beginning a mission, and he had been able to spend the last hour exploring the fields and woods of the estate, making a mental map of the area.

  Despite the inauspicious start, Lynsley would have no reason to question his professionalism on this assignment.

  With a flick of his reins, Marco turned his stallion for the stables. He needed a shave and a bath before appearing at breakfast. Rubbing his hand over his bristled jaw, he imagined that he looked like…

  “Hell,” he repeated, watching a horse and rider materialize from the swirling mists.

  The flutter of dark-green skirts looked just like a bat winging out from the smoke and brimstone of the Underworld. Then, as the apparition came closer and closer, he could just make out a telltale curl of wheaten hair beneath the stylish shako.

  Swearing another oath, Marco swung his mount around and dug his heels into the big stallion’s muscular flanks. “Andiamo, Nero,” he urged, tightening his grip on the reins. In his current condition, he didn’t feel quite up to an encounter with Kate Woodbridge. “Let us fly!”

  The horse responded with a foam-flecked snort and a leaping burst of speed.

  Bending low, Marco galloped through a stone archway and angled for the open meadows, where silvery tendrils of fog floated up from the long grass. Wind whipping against his face, he headed for the far end of the field, where earlier he had spotted a bridle path that led down to the lake.

  As the stallion’s hooves cut through the swaying fescue, kicking up great clods of earth, he ventured a look behind him.

  Sure enough, the lady was trying to match his pace but he was leaving her in the dust.

  “Va bene, Nero.” Marco shifted his hands and the stallion lengthened its stride. “We have our masculine honor to defend—we can’t allow ourselves to be caught by Miss Woodbridge and her mare.”

  They thundered past a copse of beech trees, setting the leaves to dancing wildly in their wake. His blood was now heated, burning the last vestiges of haze from his head. A challenge always served as a spark.

  Perhaps in a rowing race she would have a chance. But in riding, he had no doubt that he would claim an easy victory. Smiling to himself, Marco shot another glance over his shoulder.

  Damn!

  The bay mare was still racing over the turf but its saddle was now empty, its rider nowhere to be seen.

  Marco pulled up in a flash and quickly reversed directions. Veering sharply, he cut off the other horse and snagged the dragging reins, aware that his heart was pounding hard enough to crack his ribs. He fisted his hand around the leather and tried to remain calm.

  If Kate Woodbridge didn’t know better than to gallop hell-for-leather over unfamiliar land, then she deserved to break her bloody neck, he told himself.

  But as he stood in his stirrups and looked desperately around for any sign of movement, he felt fear seize his chest. Dio Madre, a fall from a fast-moving horse was always dangerous. Flying hooves could crush a skull or trample a body. Bones could snap like twigs….

  A flutter of emerald wool suddenly stirred in the light greens and golds of the meadow grass.

  He spurred forward.

  “Ooof.” Kate grimaced as she tried to stand.

  “Don’t try to move!” cried Marco as he vaulted out of his saddle.

  She was already on her feet, though her legs
were a little wobbly. The ostrich feather of her hat was bent in half and a streak of mud covered one side of her face, but otherwise she looked unharmed.

  He released his pent-up breath in a roar. “A diavolo! You are bloody lucky to be alive!”

  Kate plucked several stalks of straw from her disheveled curls. “No thanks to you.”

  “Me? That’s just like a woman, to blame someone else for her own foolishness.” He stalked to her side. “What in the name of Lucifer were you thinking, to ride after me like a she-devil?”

  Her expression turned mulish. “Why did you run away?”

  Marco ignored the question. Taking her arm—none too gently—he led her over to the winded horses. “I give thanks to the Almighty that there are no broken bones!”

  Kate’s frown softened. “I’ve just a few bumps and bruises—”

  “I was speaking of your horse,” he snapped.

  She opened her mouth to retort but he cut her off with another harsh oath. “It would have been a great pity if an innocent animal had suffered for your recklessness. An inexperienced rider should never try to cross rough ground at a gallop.”

  “I…” Kate bit her lip. “I… didn’t think. You are right. It was wrong and egregiously selfish of me to put my mare at risk. I saw your action as a challenge, and…”

  “And you never back down from a challenge,” he said roughly. Fear still had him on edge. “Next time you wish to match your physical prowess against mine, use your brain as well as your body.”

  She hugged her arms to her chest, her kidskin gloves chafing at the sleeves of her riding habit. “I have admitted my error, Lord Ghiradelli. It is not necessary to subject me to further scorn.”

  Her frank admission caught him by surprise.

  “As you see, pride goeth before a fall,” he muttered, unsettled by his own sudden impulse to gather her in his arms and whisper a comforting word in her ear. With her hat askew and her face covered with lopsided smudges, she looked oddly vulnerable.

  A hot spark lit in her eyes, quickly dispelling the impression. “Well, if that is the case, you will no doubt be tumbling all the way to Hades.”

  “Not from a horse,” he retorted. His first rush of relief had turned to righteous anger that she had put herself in such danger. “I know how to keep my arse in the saddle. Which is more than can be said for you, Miss Woodbridge. You may be an experienced rower, but you are a bloody awful rider!”