by Cara Elliott
Rather than dignify his taunt with a reply, she turned away and grabbed up her crop from the ground.
“A moment,” he growled. Taking a firm grasp of her shoulder, he slapped his hand back and forth across her backside. “Let me help you pat the dust from your bottom.”
“Ass.” Wrenching free, Kate swung around.
This time Marco was ready for her. He caught her wrist. “My strike is even quicker than yours.”
“Yes—I’ve heard you are called Il Serpenti.”
“It’s not because of my hand, cara.” He curled a mocking smile. “Care to guess what part of me gave rise to the moniker?”
A flush stole to her cheeks.
“My soul, sweetheart.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “I have the morals of a snake.”
Kate fixed him with a furious glare. “That is likely the least of your faults.”
His smile slipped just a bit. How much about his background had Alessandra told her close friends? Surely she would not betray his painful, private past. “I would not have thought that the Circle of Sin engaged in girlish gossip. What tales has my cousin told you?”
“Of course Alessandra does not pass on any of the lurid details of your life. As if we would give a fig to hear them.” Lifting her nose in the air, she moved to her horse. However, the air of imperious disdain was marred by a pronounced limp. He guessed that there were several large bruises on her bum.
“Who knows…” He came up close behind her and placed his hands on her waist. “You might find them intriguing.”
Kate tried to pull away.
“Stop squirming. Unless you wish to walk all the way back to the stables, you are going to need my help to get back in the saddle.” Marco couldn’t resist adding, “But then, if your delicate parts are too sore to sit upon hard leather, I could carry you in my lap—”
“Lift me up,” she said. “And do make it quick.”
He was about to do as ordered when a loose strand of her hair brushed against his cheek. Neroli and wild thyme—the scent tickled his nostrils for an instant before wafting away in the breeze.
Damn. Whatever memory it stirred was equally elusive.
He felt her stiffen and realized his hands had stilled on the swell of her hips. The curves fit quite comfortably against his palms, and he let them linger, savoring her shape.
“Well?” Kate demanded. “What are you waiting for?”
The mare gave a whicker as Marco tossed her up and helped hook her leg on the sidesaddle’s pommel. “Walk your mount back. It’s still early enough that you shouldn’t encounter anyone on the way up to your rooms,” he advised. “I shall follow along later, unless you truly can’t make it by yourself. You know how evil minds like to speculate, so it would be best if we are not spotted together without a chaperone.”
“I’ll manage,” she said curtly.
He stepped back. “Next time, take a groom. They are usually expert riders and can offer helpful pointers on the basics of horsemanship.”
As she rode off, Marco heard a few parting words slip from her lips. Including ones that sounded suspiciously like ‘insufferable’ and ‘prick.’
“These books are indeed magnificent.” Charlotte sighed as she closed the tooled leather covers. “I once owned a copy of the medieval herbal by Matthaeus Platearius. Until my late husband sold it to cover his gambling debts.”
“Men,” muttered Kate through gritted teeth. She shifted her position on the library’s window seat and bit back a wince. Lud, her bum must be turning a vile shade of bruised purple.
But the worst blow had been to her pride. She was usually dispassionate about judging her own capabilities—or lack of them. Which made the decision to go galloping in pursuit of Marco even more incomprehensible. Her brain knew it was imperative to stay as far away from the conte as possible.
But her body… She shifted slightly, uncomfortably aware that the sharp prickling of her flesh had nothing to do with her recent bruises. Damn her body for responding to the rogue. She wasn’t a pirate any longer, a free spirit allowed to make her own rules. She must learn to behave like a gently reared lady, even though she was anything but.
Prim and proper, she reminded herself. But rebellion must run in her blood, for she couldn’t seem to make her spirit give any heed to her conscious commands.
“Men,” repeated Kate, a little more loudly. “To the devil with the lot of them.” Setting aside the volume of floral engravings she had been perusing, she rose from the tufted cushions. “Ouch.”
Charlotte looked up. “Are you all right, my dear? I noticed that you seem to be walking rather gingerly.”
“It’s nothing to speak of—I had just a slight accident on the bridle path this morning.”
“Perhaps you ought to lie down for the rest of the day,” said her friend in some concern. “A fall from a horse is nothing to be trifled with. Are you sure that you’ve suffered no broken bones?”
Kate rubbed at her rear. “For better or for worse, I landed on a spot that has ample padding.”
“You haven’t an ounce of protection, despite all the pastries you consume,” replied Charlotte with a sympathetic grimace.
“A long soak in a hot tub after we have a look at the bromeliads in the conservatory and I will be fine.”
“If you are sure…” Rising from the reading table, Charlotte carefully placed the rare books in a neat row. “I am looking forward to examining the specimens, of course, but I would be just as happy to spend the afternoon here with these marvelous works of art. I so rarely have a chance to study such valuable engravings.” She gave a longing look at the cavernous room and the ornately carved floor-to-ceiling shelves of sherry-colored oak. “I can only imagine what other intellectual treasures are here.”
“Feel free to explore. You are welcome to use the library whenever you wish,” said Kate.
“I would imagine that the duke does not allow just anyone into his bailiwick—”
“You are correct, Lady Fenimore,” said a gruff voice from behind the half-open paneled door. “My ancestors spent a great deal of time and blunt assembling this collection. It is my duty to preserve it and pass it on, undiminished, to future generations.”
Kate watched Cluyne enter the room, his movements as stiff and precise as the starched folds of his cravat. His name ought to be the Duke of Duty, she thought rather sardonically. Did he never unbend? Like the Prince Regent, he always seemed to be wearing a corset—with stays made of steel instead of whalebone.
“As I said before, Your Grace, I am perfectly willing to submit to a search of my person, should you fear I am purloining your property,” Charlotte didn’t hesitate to answer with a tart retort. “That is, assuming I am granted the privilege of looking at your books.”
The duke’s nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply and then let out the air in an audible hmmph. “You are, as my guest, welcome to enjoy any of the amenities that Cluyne Close has to offer. Unlike many people who come here, you at least appear to appreciate books.”
Kate caught her friend’s eye and lifted a brow in apology. She wasn’t quite sure why the duke seemed to be in an ill temper. But then, she didn’t pretend to understand his moods or his motivations.
“The same cannot be said for your late husband,” added Cluyne abruptly, “who sold several lovely volumes of rare French engravings to a print shop in the Pantheon Bazaar, so they could be cut up and sold as single pages. If you ask me, the fellow was a deuced loose screw.”
“Yes, he was,” said Charlotte, her voice remaining calm, though a flush of color ridged her cheekbones. “But if you are implying that I had any choice in the matter, that is grossly unfair. I didn’t. As you know, well-bred females have no say in picking a husband. Fenimore was willing to accept my dowry, and as my family was anxious to fire me off, they didn’t bother to ask themselves why.”
Charlotte paused and lifted her chin. Despite her height, the duke’s imposing bulk seemed to dwarf her presence. Unintimidated,
she met his gaze. Kate could almost hear the clash of steel striking steel. “I should have told them to go to hell, but that is from an older, wiser perspective. As a green girl, with no experience, no idea of the harsh realities of what life would be like with a drunkard and gambler, I was too naïve to know any better.”
The duke opened his mouth as if to reply and then shut it.
Kate blinked in surprise. She had never seen her grandfather rendered speechless.
“Live and learn,” finished Charlotte. “And by the by, the books were mine, and I was devastated to lose them. But Fenimore needed money to pay a gambling debt, so artistic integrity wasn’t overly important to him. He was, however, extremely stricken when I explained how much more he could have gotten from an antiquarian book dealer.”
Cluyne coughed, and then, for a long moment, there was only an uneasy silence.
“Oh, look, the sun has broken through the clouds,” said Kate brightly. “The light should be perfect for looking at the newly arrived Heliconia rostrada from the Antipodes. If you will excuse us, sir, we’ve plans to spend the rest of the afternoon in the conservatory.”
Inclining a curt nod, the duke turned and walked off toward the far end of the room, his gleaming boots clicking loudly on the polished parquet.
“Men.” Kate fixed her friend with a baleful glance. “Sorry. That was unspeakably rude of Cluyne. For all his faults, he is usually scrupulously polite. Good manners is yet another ducal duty.”
“Don’t fret about me, my dear,” said Charlotte, the color still high on her face. “I can take care of myself.”
“Ghiradelli.”
Marco crossed through the open French doors and joined the trio of men out on the terrace.
“So, you finally got here. I was beginning to think you had found more convivial company in Town,” went on Lord Tappan with a grin. Turning to the two others, he explained, “The conte has no lack of invitations for intimate entertainment.”
“So I have heard,” said Von Seilig. “It seems you haven’t changed much since your time in Berlin. Still the same ramshackle rake.”
Marco perched a hip on the stone railing and lit a cheroot. “It seems you haven’t changed much from those days either. Still the same stick-in-the-mud.”
The Prussian responded with a tight-lipped smile. “From you, I take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t,” drawled Marco, though actually he rather liked the colonel. He was sober and serious, to be sure, but could converse intelligently on a number of diverse subjects. Which was more than could be said for the majority of the foreign diplomatic corps currently in England.
“Ha, ha, ha.” Vronskov gave a loud guffaw. “The conte is right, Von Seilig. You work far too hard.”
“Yes, Prussia has much to do in order to prepare for the upcoming peace conference in Vienna.” The colonel paused a fraction. “You know what they say—the King of Prussia will think for everyone, the King of Bavaria will drink for everyone, the Emperor of Russia will make love for everyone, and the Emperor of Austria will pay for everyone.”
Marco and Tappan chuckled at the witticism, while Vronskov looked somewhat miffed. “Tsar Alexander is a great and good ruler. Indeed, given that he has been blessed with divine intelligence and good looks, it is no wonder that the people of Russia call him The Angel.”
“And the ladies of Europe call him the opposite,” quipped Von Seilig. Like his grandmother, Catherine the Great, Tsar Alexander was known for his sexual appetite. “Now that he’s helped conquer Napoleon, he is moving on to new, virgin territory.”
“We Russians cannot help it if we have a way with women.” The Russian turned and waggled a leer at Marco. “Speaking of which, I have heard that your knowledge of London’s nocturnal haunts is unrivaled, Lord Ghiradelli. I’d like to get your recommendations for the best brothels in London.”
“That depends on what you are interested in,” replied Marco with a slow smile.
Vronskov wet his lips.
“I’ll write down a few suggestions, and make a note of each establishment’s specialties.”
“Splendid, splendid!” The Russian clapped him on the back. “I knew I could count on you for an intimate description of London’s pleasure spots!”
Tappan flicked a bit of ash from the tip of his cheroot. “I noticed last night that you are acquainted with Lord Vincenzi.”
“Si, we went to school together,” answered Marco. “And Rochambert and I know each other from Milano.”
“They are out riding right now. The duke has some very fine-blooded hunters in his stables and has kindly made them available to us for the duration of our stay.”
The duke was a generous host, thought Marco. Having already observed the selection of prime horseflesh in the stables, he knew that a small fortune was riding on the iron-shod hooves.
“I shall enjoy putting them through their paces,” he murmured.
“As will I,” announced Vronskov. “My equestrian skills are much admired in St. Petersburg.”
The Russian nobleman was not only a braggart but a buffoon, decided Marco. Only a sapskull would make such an announcement to other men.
“I am sure that you look quite splendid mounted on a great black bear,” he said with exaggerated innocence. “But here in England, we ride horses.”
Tappan and Von Seilig laughed.
Smoothing a hand over the drooping ends of his mustache, Vronskov tried to hide his irritation. “Ha, ha, ha. I see you have a quick wit, sir. I shall have to be careful around you.”
“Me?” Marco gave a careless shrug as he lit up a cheroot. “Don’t give it a thought if I annoy you. I annoy everyone.”
“Save for the ladies, of course,” said Tappan with a knowing wink.
With some exceptions. Marco exhaled a ring of smoke, recalling his recent encounters with Kate. She certainly showed no interest in encouraging his attentions. Not that he could blame her. His teasings had been deliberately flagrant.
“It doesn’t appear as if Ghiradelli will have much chance to exercise his prowess with the opposite sex. The females here are all respectable ladies,” said Von Seilig. “Isn’t your English code of honor very precise about that sort of thing?”
“Come, come, as a diplomat you know that rules are never black and white. There are always a nuanced range of grays in between. And there is always room for negotiation,” pointed out Tappan. “The Countess of Duxbury, who has accompanied her brother here, is a prime example. She is a widow, and so is allowed some latitude in her personal behavior, as long as she is discreet about it.”
Stroking his whiskers, Vronskov narrowed his gaze to a speculative squint. “Ah, I am liking England more and more.”
“But as for unmarried young ladies of genteel birth, you are right, Colonel. They are not considered fair game for a gentleman,” went on Tappan. “I wouldn’t advise anyone to trifle with the duke’s granddaughter. To do so would be asking for grave trouble.”
Trouble. As Marco took another puff on his cheroot, the tip flared to a red-hot glow. That was putting it mildly. Seeking any further contact with Kate Woodbridge would be playing with fire. Lynsley had been very clear—his mission here was one of simple observation.
But then again, he seemed to be inexorably drawn to fire. Like a moth to a flame.
“A pity,” remarked Vronskov with a lascivious leer. “I wouldn’t mind bedding the beauty.”
Von Seilig frowned. “Keep a respectful tone when talking of Miss Woodbridge.”
The Russian rolled his eyes. “Don’t you Prussians ever unbend,” he muttered.
“We don’t behave like barbarians.”
“Shall we have a game of billiards before it is time to dress for dinner?” suggested Tappan.
Marco waved them on. “You go ahead. I think I shall stroll to the stables and see if the riding party has returned.” Tossing down the butt of tobacco, he ground it out beneath his boot, taking care to stamp out a sudden flare of irritation a
long with it. The Russian’s comments about Kate might be crude, but they were none of his concern. He wasn’t here to play the noble knight in shining armor—a role, he reminded himself, for which he was singularly ill-suited. Only the mission mattered.
Besides, she seemed perfectly confident of looking out for herself.
Chapter Nine
Candlelight flickered over the mahogany paneling and gilt-framed paintings. The click of crystal and the sounds of conversation were muted by the rich damask draperies and plush carpets. Kate drew a deep breath as she entered the main drawing room, feeling a little overpowered by its opulent elegance. Perhaps it sensed that she was an impostor, she thought wryly. Someone who didn’t quite belong.
“Sherry, Miss Woodbridge?” offered one of the passing footmen.
“Champagne,” she decided, hoping that the wine’s effervescence might add a little sparkle to her spirits. They were a little flat tonight… no doubt because her self-esteem had been thoroughly squashed by the morning’s debacle. Lud, she still couldn’t believe what a fool she had made of herself. From now on, she would stick to walking.
“Katharine.” Her grandfather’s voice rose above the hushed tones of the guests. “Do come join me.”
She crossed the room, trying not to limp.
A tiny frown pinched at the corners of his mouth. “Is something ailing you?”
“I’m just a bit sore from riding,” she replied—and then instantly regretted the admission on seeing who was standing by Cluyne’s side.
“One must be careful not to overdo a strenuous physical activity,” said Marco. “Especially if one is unaccustomed to it.”
He need not look so smug, thought Kate.
Marco seemed to read her mind, for his smile turned even more sardonic. “If you like, Miss Woodbridge, I would be happy to ride out with you and give you a few lessons.”
