To Tempt a Rake

by Cara Elliott

  Lighting a pair of hanging lanterns, Kate watched their reflections flicker off the surrounding glass. In England, she so often felt that she was trapped in a gilded cage. She missed the sense of adventure in her life. Everyone around her was so predictable—save, of course, for the ‘Sinners,’ who shared her curiosity and desire to explore the unknown.

  Their friendship was the one bright spot in her life. And yet…

  She started down the mossy brick walkway, touching her hand to the swaying leaves. Marriage was subtly changing the Circle. The friendships weren’t any less strong, they were simply… not quite the same.

  Ciara, Alessandra, Ariel—they all now had a soulmate with whom to share their most intimate hopes and fears. A shoulder to lean on. A love to hold doubt at bay.

  Kate rubbed at her arms, feeling an inner chill raise a pebbling of gooseflesh despite the enveloping warmth. The chances of her meeting a kindred spirit in civilized England were virtually nil. She was too different. Too dark. London ladies were all sweetness and light. While she was the opposite. The vagabond travels, the pressures of poverty had demanded a toughness in order to survive.

  A palm frond brushed against her cheek, the points sharp against her skin. And survive she had, despite all the hardships. Hell, she didn’t need anyone’s help. She had learned to be smart, savvy, and ferociously independent. If at times she felt a little lonely, it was easy enough to shrug off. After all, what man would be attracted to a female who had committed the cardinal sin of…

  Don’t dwell on mistakes of the past, Kate told herself. As for men, what did it matter what they thought of her?

  In the hazy glow of the lantern flames and the moonlight, Kate tried to distract her maudlin musings by studying the surrounding specimen plants. The collection offered a tantalizing array of textures and hues.

  So why was the wild tangle suddenly taking the form of Conte Ghiradelli’s sin-dark hair and sensuous face?

  It must be the wine. Kate pressed her palms to her heated brow. It had nothing to do with the memory of his fleeting kiss or the strong, solid muscles of his arms lifting her into the saddle.

  Her insides clenched as she recalled the subtle scent of his skin, a masculine mixture of leather, smoke, and midnight revelries.

  Dear God, was she really attracted to the devil?

  Much as she hated to admit it, the answer was yes. She couldn’t help responding to his animal allure. He was beautiful—in body, if not in spirit. The very image of masculine grace and power.

  Pushing past the silvery blades of an olive branch, Kate plunged deeper into the shadows. In some ways, they certainly shared some similarities. The man made no effort to follow the strictures of Polite Society. He was a rogue, a rakehell who lived by his own rules.

  But a dislike of conformity was all they had in common. She cared about serious things, like science and intellectual ideas, while he was a sybarite who lived only for selfish pleasure.

  Her steps quickened. She had no idea what had brought him here to her grandfather’s staid house party. But one thing was for sure—for her own peace of mind, she must try to stay far, far away from him.

  In no real hurry to reach his empty bed, Marco wandered along the graveled pathways, choosing to meander around the back of the manor house to the side entrance near his rooms. From the grove of pear trees came the song of a nightingale. Crickets chirped in the freshly cut grass.

  When was the last time he had listened to crickets, or lifted his eyes to gaze at the glittering stars overhead?

  He slowed his steps, listening to the long-forgotten night music, so very different from the drunken laughter, the shuffling cards, the sultry murmurs that usually serenaded his nights. A breeze blew through the high boxwood hedge, and its scent, redolent with the clean, fresh tang of earth and leaves, suddenly stirred old memories of the past. Of boyish larks through wild meadows, of moonlit swims in forbidden lakes, of shared adventures with his brother.

  Bloody hell. What maudlin mood had come over him? Marco forced a sardonic laugh through his clenched teeth. Thank God he was no longer a callow, naïve youth, besotted with childish dreams. He had made his own life, his own rules. The road to perdition was far more fun than trudging along the beaten path.

  As he rounded the corner, he stopped short and felt his jaw drop.

  Dappled in starlight, a soaring glass pavilion rose up like some black magic apparition. Its graceful form—unearthly planes of shimmering silver silhouetted against the dark trees—seemed to be floating on swirls of mist.

  Marco blinked, unsure whether his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then he recalled hearing mention of the duke’s famous conservatory and its exotic array of plants.

  Curious, he stepped off the graveled path and approached the structure. It was as if a window had suddenly opened onto some enchanted world. Several brass lamps were lit, their softly flickering flames casting a mellow glow over a lush jungle of greenery. Potted palms swayed gently, their delicate fronds misted with beads of moisture. A profusion of colorful blooms that he couldn’t identify spilled from the terra-cotta planters that lined a narrow brick walkway. The faint splash of an unseen fountain drifted through the blurred shadows. Marco inhaled deeply, almost sure he could smell the perfume of the plants.

  On a whim, he pressed his cheek to the glass and closed his eyes. Its surface was both hot and cold, and the strange sensation sent a shiver skating down his spine. He stood as still as a statue, held by some inexplicable force.

  “Diavolo,” he murmured, the sound of his own voice finally breaking the spell. He raised his gaze—only to find himself eyeball to eyeball with another human form.

  A wood spirit from the forest, or djinn from the smoky lamp?

  Momentarily disoriented, he had to stare at the ghostly reflection for an instant longer before the face of Kate Woodbridge came into focus.

  Her stance mirrored his—they stood facing each other, legs slightly spread, palm pressed to palm, with only a thin slice of glass between them. He could see the throb of pulse at her throat, the rise and fall of her chest as her breath slowly misted the window. His skin began to tingle. Somehow the effect was intensely erotic.

  “What the devil are you doing out there?” Her muffled voice slapped down the thought. “Stand back. You are welcome to break your neck during your drunken stumblings, but I’d rather you didn’t crack the glass.”

  He jerked upright.

  “You had better come in, before you do yourself any harm.” She motioned to an iron-framed door near the corner.

  Marco did as she bade. The latch clicked open, and as he crossed the threshold, he was immediately aware of warm, humid air kissing against his cheeks. Its earthy sweetness filled at his nostrils, making him momentarily light-headed.

  “Have a care,” she warned. “These orchids just arrived from Madras, and my grandfather will have your head on a pikestaff if you knock them over.”

  “There is no need to shout,” he replied. “Neither my wits nor my hearing are impaired. In fact, I’ve had very little to drink this evening.”

  “Ha! Sir Beesley was complaining that you couldn’t seem to count to ten when you partnered with him at the card table.”

  “It was not the brandy; it was the company. I was bored playing whist with a bunch of stiff-rumped bureaucrats.”

  “Then why did you leave London?” demanded Kate.

  “I was bored playing vingt-et-un with a bunch of debauched scoundrels.”

  “What does it take to excite your interest—” she began, then stopped with a snap. “No, on second thought, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

  Marco laughed. “I thought scientists were supposed to be inquisitive by nature.”

  She sucked in a breath, but didn’t reply.

  He deliberately moved a little closer to her. “Afraid that you might learn something you don’t know?”

  In the low, flickering play of the lantern’s flame, her face seemed to take on a
slight burn.

  “There’s precious little I haven’t…”

  “Haven’t what?” he demanded when she stopped abruptly.

  Kate looked away from the light.

  “Seen? Or done?” Marco curled a sarcastic smirk. “Somehow, I rather doubt you have any real idea of how depraved life can be.”

  Her eyes flared wide for an instant. But the look of vulnerability vanished just as quickly, leaving him to wonder whether he had merely imagined it.

  “Think what you like,” said Kate in a tight whisper. Picking up her skirts, she started to turn. “Since you claim to be sober, you should have no trouble finding the way out on your own.”

  “Wait.” Marco seized her wrist. “Not so fast.”

  Hemmed in by the overhanging trees and potting benches stacked high with fragile seedlings, the narrow walkway allowed little room to maneuver. She tried to back away but bumped into a slab of solid oak.

  A hiss of air escaped her lungs.

  “Still a trifle sore, bella?” asked Marco, unable to keep from taunting her. Her face looked so lovely when it was on fire. “Let that be a lesson to keep a tighter rein on your impulses.”

  Her hand curled in a fist. “Has anyone ever told you what an obnoxious, arrogant ass you are?”

  “More times than I can count.”

  “But you don’t care to listen?”

  “I don’t care to change. There is a difference.”

  “Not a meaningful one,” she countered. “Now, let me go, sir. Before I force you to do so.”

  “Oh, that sounds intriguing.” With a casual flick of his fingers, he drew her close, so close that her breasts were pressed up against the front of his coat. Dropping his hands, he slid them lightly over her hips.

  Heat thrummed through him as their thighs brushed. She gave a little gasp at the intimacy.

  “There. I’m ready.”

  “You won’t be grinning quite so smugly when my knee smashes into your testicolos.”

  She had a point. “A lady is not supposed to know such nasty little secrets.”

  “And who said I was a lady?”

  Her chin rose a fraction, revealing a hairline scar on its tip. For one mad moment, Marco felt the urge to touch it with his tongue. A proper young lady didn’t have the nick of a knife blade on her skin. A proper young lady didn’t have a weathered weariness shading her expression. A proper young lady didn’t have a hardened yet haunted look to her gaze.

  Most females were simple to figure out, but Kate Woodbridge was different. An enigma. A puzzle whose pieces he could not quite fit together. She intrigued him.

  Perhaps that was part of the challenge.

  “What are you staring at, sir?” She turned her face to the trees, obscuring her features in the leafy shadows.

  “You—you have a dusting of freckles across your nose, and a crinkling from the sun at the corners of your eyes.” And a spicy scent to her skin that was bedeviling his memory.

  “As you see, I am hardly a pattern card for the perfect young London miss.” Kate tried to twist free. “Kindly release me. Or do I have to make good on my threat?”

  “No, I should prefer to keep my manhood in full working order.” And yet he was strangely loath to let her go. “Tell me something, though. Your perfume—it reminds me of southern Italy, with its orange blossoms, wild thyme—”

  She shoved at his chest, knocking him back a step.

  “Dio Madre, sheath your claws, you little hellcat.” In catching her arm to steady himself, he pulled them both off-balance.

  His hip hit the bench, rattling the terra-cotta pots. Mindful of destroying the duke’s precious plants, he spun clear, using his body to shield Kate from a blow. They teetered along the brick path, falling deep into the jagged shadows before he found his footing.

  “That was close,” he said, exhaling softly. Her cheek was just a hairsbreadth from his, and the puff of air stirred the tendrils of hair around her ear. Despite the half light, its contour was distinctive—a perfectly proportioned curve, shaped like a seashell.

  Bloody hell. That shape. That scent. No wonder they struck a familiar chord. He had encountered this lady before. Suddenly the details came flooding back.

  Drawing back a touch, Marco bared his teeth in a smile. “Well, well, well, so we meet again, Bella…” He paused a fraction. “Donna.”

  Fear flared in Kate’s eyes, along with some other emotion. “I—I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Oh, but I think you do. The city of Napoli. A harbor brothel.”

  “A brothel?” Her voice was brittle as the surrounding glass. “You must be drunk. Or mad.”

  Yes, it was completely insane. For a moment he wavered, wondering whether his wits had finally cracked. And yet, he knew instinctively that he was right.

  But in that heartbeat of hesitation, Kate had slipped free of his hold. The shadows swayed as she disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the swoosh of silk to echo the wildly waving palm fronds.

  Chapter Twelve

  The morning sunlight slanted through the glass panes, filling the corner of the conservatory with a tropical warmth. Rolling up her smudged sleeves, Charlotte took up a magnifying glass and spread the petals of a Cymbidium rubrigemmum. She and Kate had been working for over an hour, and they were both beginning to look a little bedraggled.

  Worried that the heat and humidity might be a bit much for her friend, Kate rang for a pitcher of lemonade.

  “Have a look at this—the pistils are quite unusual!” exclaimed Charlotte. “And would you kindly pass me my notebook? I would like to make a quick sketch.”

  Kate handed it over, along with a pencil. “Interesting,” she agreed. “Let’s make a note to ask Mr. Hopkins about it when we return to London. I wonder if he’s seen a similar arrangement in the specimens from Ceylon.”

  Engrossed in her drawing, Charlotte gave a vague nod.

  Kate returned to her own study of an orchid from jungles of southern India. The color was a delicate shade of purple… or maybe puce…

  “Ouch!” Sitting back on her heels drew an involuntary grunt of pain. As if she needed the constant reminder of her egregiously awful lapse in judgment.

  How had she been so bloody, bloody stupid? Common sense had warned her to stay away from Marco. He might be a dissolute womanizer, but he was not a fool. In fact his wits were sharper than most.

  Which begged the question of why she hadn’t been smart enough to keep her face and her fragrance from dredging up a memory from the past.

  “Really, my dear.” Charlotte clucked in sympathy. “I insist that you go upstairs and lie down for a few hours of rest. Squatting in such a position cannot be… comfortable, given the nature of your injury.”

  “I’ve put up with far worse aboard a ship,” muttered Kate. “Trust me, when there is a storm at sea, one suffers a good many hard knocks.”

  “Undoubtedly. But you are not at sea.”

  And yet a wave of uncertainty washed over her. As if she needed any further complications in her life. If Marco were to speak of a certain incident in public, the consequences would be terrible. A few whispered words and her reputation would be ruined, her grandfather humiliated.

  He wouldn’t. Would he?

  Kate squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think of Naples.

  Normally, her family’s ship would never have put into port there. The city was a notorious cesspool of crime and corruption. But both her parents were dangerously ill, so she had been left with little choice. They needed a skilled physician and medicines. Unfortunately, both cost money, and the Woodbridge purse had been suffering through one of its frequent dry spells.

  But over the years Kate had honed her ingenuity and cleverness to a fine edge. She had learned how to improvise. A chance meeting with a harbor whore had allowed her to offer some business advice to the woman and her friends. Using her skills in arithmetic and accounting, Kate had drafted several charts showing profits in comparison t
o expenditures, resulting in an increase in pay from the brothel owner.

  As a token of gratitude, the whores had invited Kate to use her other less savory skills—which included picking pockets and cutting purses with a quick slice of her knife—to rob the drunken patrons of the brothel. She was good at it. Good enough to earn the name of ‘Belladonna,’ the beautiful but deadly efficient thief who easily eluded the authorities.

  Marco had staggered in one night, a vision of drunken but divine masculine beauty. She had almost been tempted to tumble into his bed before robbing him blind. Almost. Thank God that reason had overruled lust on that occasion.

  She made a wry face. No doubt her body was now exacting a measure of revenge.

  “What was that, my dear?” asked Charlotte, looking up from her pots.

  “Nothing. I was just having a little trouble dislodging the roots of this bougainvillea from its pot.” Kate worked her trowel deeper into the soil. She was not proud of what she had done. But with the lives of her parents at stake, she felt no remorse over her decision.

  Her only regret was that the money had not purchased any respite from the raging fever. Her mother and father had died within hours of each other, leaving her no family but the distant, disapproving Duke of Cluyne.

  “Your lemonade, Miss Woodbridge.” The footman set the silver tray down on a potting bench. “May I bring you anything else?”

  Blotting her brow with her sleeve, Kate blew out her breath. “No, thank you, Jennings.” Life was full of little ironies, like being waited on as if she were to the manor born.

  “Put aside your sketchbook and come have a cool drink,” she said to her friend.

  Charlotte looked up with an owlish squint. “What? Oh, er, yes, I suppose it is a trifle warm.”

  “I think we ought to stop work in here for the day,” said Kate, giving herself a mental kick for not noticing the ruddy flush coloring her friend’s face. “I insist that you spend the afternoon after luncheon in the library.”

  Casting a wistful look at the row of still unsketched flowers from Jamaica, Charlotte bit her lip.