To Tempt a Rake

by Cara Elliott

  “You are very adept at handling that blade,” observed Tappan. “Most ladies wouldn’t know one end of a dagger from the other.”

  Kate gave herself a mental kick. Such skills would only stir up more gossip about her eccentricities. “I often sailed with my father, and on board a ship one learns to be handy with a number of tools.”

  “I commend you for your cleverness, Miss Woodbridge,” said Tappan. “That is an unusual design. May I see it?”

  “My father had it made for me in Spain,” she murmured, reluctantly handing it over.

  “It’s quite lovely.” Von Seilig came over to admire the workmanship. “The hilt is very distinctive. It is silver, is it not? And the stones look to be a very fine grade of turquoise.”

  “They are from Persia. Father found them in a bazaar in Barcelona and had a silversmith craft it from a sketch he made.”

  “Was your father an artist, Miss Woodbridge?” inquired the colonel.

  Actually, he was more of a pirate, thought Kate with an inward grimace. But that wasn’t something she was about to admit in polite company. “My father possessed a great many talents.”

  “So it would seem.” Tappan hefted its weight, admiring the perfect balance before handing it back. “Do have a care. The blade is razor-sharp, and I’d hate to see any blood spilled.”

  Kate slipped the dagger into its leather sheath. “I know how to handle a weapon, and as you can see, I am very careful with it.”

  Inclining a gentlemanly bow of thanks, the baron tested the bowstring and then took his shot. The arrow nicked the outer circle, drawing a round of light applause from the ladies.

  Marco’s hoot of laughter rose above the patter. “Hardly a show of Anglo-Saxon superiority,” he called. “Perhaps you had better ask the lady to make another adjustment to the bow.”

  “We have yet to see you step up to the mark, Lord Ghiradelli,” called Vronskov. “Come and show us if your aim is anywhere near as sharp as your tongue.”

  Waving off the request with a flourish of a champagne bottle, Marco pointedly refilled his glass. “Thank you, but I think I shall pass.” He winked at the ladies. “It’s too hard to concentrate on martial arts when surrounded by so much pastoral beauty.”

  The dowager’s daughter giggled while Lady Duxbury responded with a sultry smile.

  The last few contestants took their turn, and then the party began to split up for the other afternoon activities. A carriage had been arranged to take the ladies into the nearby town, and the gentlemen had been invited to take a ride around the lake and inspect the grouse moor.

  Kate withdrew from the shopping expedition, grateful for the chance to steal a bit of solitude. Charlotte had already retired to her room, announcing that she needed a nap to refresh her strength for the evening.

  Arthritic knees had slowed her friend’s step, but Kate suspected that what she really wanted was to spend some time with her newly restored books.

  Ouch. As she escaped around the corner of the privet hedge, her own aching body protested the hurried pace. Pausing to massage her bruised bum, she realized she was cutting a very unladylike figure in the middle of the gardens.

  Thank God the guests were all off enjoying the duke’s hospitality.

  As for her plans, they certainly didn’t include getting anywhere near a dratted horse. Not with Marco, who raced like a centaur, waiting to enjoy another laugh at her expense.

  Unfortunately there were precious few places at Cluyne Close where she could hide from his amused eyes.

  Looking around, Kate squinted into the light reflecting off the conservatory glass. A sun-warmed breeze stirred and through one of the open doors wafted the pungent scent of the interior knot garden, with its heady assortment of medicinal, culinary, and ornamental herbs.

  Her muscles twinged. Perhaps Charlotte was right and a long, hot soak would sooth the niggling pain. If only it might help assuage her mental distress. All throughout the midday meal she had surreptitiously tried to read in Marco’s face some hint of his intentions.

  But all she saw was a mask of merriment. A man who lived for the present moment. He laughed, he flirted, he drank. If at times a fleeting shadow seemed to shade his eyes, it was likely an illusion. Marco did not appear much given to introspection.

  While she would sit in a steaming tub and stew over the consequences of their midnight encounter.

  Heaving a sigh, Kate cut some rosemary and arnica flowers for the bath water with her knife, then wandered over to a potted arrangement of clove trees. The gardeners had left a small sack of the dried spice buds on the potting table and she added a handful to her basket. Fragrance was a balm for the spirit, and the exotic sweetness of the cloves reminded her of the lush, languid islands half a world away.

  Lud, how her life had changed. The journey from vagabond sea merchant to a lady of privilege could not be measured in mere miles. The distance was far more profound. In the past, she had been free to shape her own self, while now she was expected to conform to a rigid set of rules.

  To the devil with rules. Kate chose the pebbled pathway leading through the orangerie. There were times when she just wanted to pick up her skirts and run barefoot on a sandy beach.

  A profusion of potted specimen trees lined the way, their lush greenery creating a canopy of swaying shadows overhead. The gardeners had just misted the leaves, and the humid air hung heavy with the sweet aroma of ripe fruit and wet earth. It reminded her of the jungles along the coast of Java…

  A tingling suddenly snaked along her spine, causing her to stumble. Strange, but all at once she felt as if watchful eyes were on her. As if a hidden predator was stalking her every move.

  Don’t be foolish, she chided herself. She wasn’t in the Molluccan Islands. She was in England, and there wasn’t a more civilized place on earth—

  “Need a hand to steady your step?”

  Il Serpenti. Ah, no wonder she had the sensation of something slithering over her skin.

  Before she could answer, Marco took hold of her arm.

  Kate shook free of his grip. “Why aren’t you out riding with the others?”

  “I decided that I would rather enjoy the rare beauty of the flora… and fauna.”

  She swore under her breath. “I don’t know what game you have in mind, Lord Ghiradelli. But be assured that I don’t intend to play it with you.”

  “No?” A blade of sunlight cut across his face, accentuating the supremely sensuous shape of his mocking smile. “And here I was under the impression that you quite enjoyed the challenge of going mano a mano against a male opponent.”

  Fear seized her throat.

  “Come, don’t tell me the infamous, insolent Belladonna is at a loss for words. As I recall, you had quite an active mouth in Napoli.”

  For an instant, she debated whether to deny the accusation, then dismissed the idea as pointless. Marco might be a wanton wastrel, but he was not stupid.

  “I’m amazed you remember what country you were in that night, never mind what city,” she shot back.

  His long, lithe fingers wrapped around her wrist. “You are very hard to forget, bella.” He leaned in closer, his long, dark hair dancing over his snowy white shirtpoints. A few drips of water spilled from the overhanging leaves, and as Kate watched them slide down the line of his freshly shaven jaw, she felt an insane urge to flick out her tongue and lick them away.

  “Your eyes are remarkable. A man could drown in those ocean-blue depths,” he said in a sotto voce growl.

  “Y-you were already submerged in a sea of brandy,” replied Kate, surprised that her voice sounded so unsteady.

  “True. I was well in my cups, but certain details remain imprinted on my memory. Like the color of your gaze, the feel of your skin here…” He touched the hollow of her throat. “And here.” His hand slid over the ridge of her shoulder.

  She shivered in spite of herself.

  “But it’s your scent that truly marks you.” His nostrils flared as he inhal
ed slowly, filling his lungs with the humid air. He held it for a long moment, savoring it like a fine wine, then let it out with a whisper-soft whoosh.

  Kate felt her toes curl as the breath caressed her face.

  “I would know it—and you—anywhere.”

  “Clearly, you have a knack for sniffing out trouble,” she said. “Yes, I was another person in another life. But if you dare make mention of it to anyone, I vow, I shall… I shall…”

  “Shall what? Cut off my tongue with that dainty little dagger of yours?”

  She clutched at her basket to keep her hands from trembling. “For once in your life, try to behave like a proper gentleman.”

  “Why should I? You most certainly didn’t act like a proper lady.”

  Jerking back, Kate tried to twist away, but Marco tightened his hold. The slap of the wet leaves was cold against her burning cheeks.

  “You are a beast.”

  “And you are the infamous Belladonna, the bold-as-brass cutpurse thief who eluded Naples harbor authorities for a month before disappearing into thin air.”

  “You men make it laughably easy to avoid capture. With your brains pickled in wine and your trousers tangled around your ankles, you don’t react very quickly.” And yet, Kate was intimately aware of how easily his lean, muscled body moved to cut off her retreat. The stretch of his shoulders blocked the light, trapping her in a swirl of shadows.

  “Si, you caught me off guard. Don’t count on it happening again, bella. I very rarely make the same mistake twice.”

  She knew it was dangerous to taunt him, yet she couldn’t help herself. “And that fact pricks your pride?”

  Despite the shade, his tawny eyes seemed to blaze with a molten fire. “You fucked me, Kate.”

  “Actually I didn’t. I merely stole your purse.”

  “And I intend to make you pay for it.”

  Her mouth opened and shut several times in silent outrage before Kate could manage to speak. “It was a paltry amount,” she whispered. “But go ahead and name the price for your silence.”

  “Oh, it’s not money I want from you.” Marco inched closer. His thighs were now touching hers.

  “Th-then w-what?” To her chagrin, her voice broke. The air around them seemed to crackle with tension, and she could sense the power coiled in his hard, masculine body. “If you think I have jewels or South Sea pearls, you are sadly mistaken.”

  “No? Then we’ll have to think of some other forfeit.”

  “I cannot believe my ears. You would stoop to blackmail, sir?”

  “A man like me is capable of anything.”

  Marco felt her recoil. Oh, she was right. It was evil to tease her. His cousin would ring a peal over his head. However, at this moment, the only sound he could hear was the heated thrum of his pulse.

  Ta-tum. Ta-tum. Ta-tum.

  As her lips parted in outrage, the pounding grew louder, and Lynsley’s stern warnings to keep his mind on the mission fell on deaf ears.

  “You owe me something, Kate.”

  Her eyes widened at the intimacy. Only a close friend or a lover was allowed the liberty of stripping away the formalities of Polite Society and using her pet name. He was neither, but he liked the feel of it—a rough-edged growl that started deep in his throat and then slid from his tongue in a short, sweet rasp of air.

  “Kate,” he repeated, savoring the sound.

  “How dare you call me that!” Anger had ridged the sharp slant of her cheekbones with a slash of crimson. Like her flesh was on fire.

  “Because I am a wicked, wanton wastrel.” He traced the back of his hand along her jaw.

  The tiny muscles twitched beneath his touch. “What do you want from me?” she demanded.

  “Just a kiss.” Planting himself in her path of escape, Marco slowly framed her face. “And don’t tell me you haven’t been kissed by another man before.”

  “Then take it, and be done with it, you cad,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Va bene. Then with your permission…”

  He had no intention of rushing the experience. His lips hovered for a moment, a whisper from hers. Heat radiated from her every pore, prickling sharp as her Spanish dagger against his skin. The scent of oranges and Mediterranean thyme teased at his senses. Closing his eyes, he could almost taste it—sweetness, spice, and the foam-flecked salt of the sea.

  “W-what the devil are you waiting for?” she whispered.

  Damn him for a fool. He ought to rein in this reckless need to crush his mouth to hers. But restraint was not part of his nature. Not anymore.

  And so he gave way to desire. To lust. To something he couldn’t begin to put a name to.

  In answer to her tremulous question, Marco nipped the swell of her lower lip.

  “Beast,” she repeated, and then bit him back.

  He gave a rough laugh. “Spitfire.” He kissed her cheek, which seemed to surprise her. She stopped struggling and went very still. He kissed the shell of her ear, tracing its shape with his tongue.

  She let out a little moan as the basket slipped from her grip.

  A surge of fire shot through his blood. He might be doomed to burn in the eternal flames of Hell for his sins, but at this moment he didn’t care.

  “Bella,” he murmured, teasing a trail of tiny caresses to the corner of her mouth.

  Her hands came up, and all at once her slim fingers were tangling, twisting, twining in his hair. Kicking aside a terra-cotta pot, Marco braced her up against one of the fluted iron columns and possessed her with a hard, hungry kiss. The shards crunched under his boots as he hitched his hips, pinned her between the cold metal and his hot steel.

  “Oh.” She sucked in a breath as he slowly released her lips. His arousal was thrust up against her belly, an unyielding shaft of throbbing, engorged flesh. “You are a very wicked man.”

  Her body arched—not to seek escape but to meet his advances with a slow, sinuous slide of silk over the taut leather of his buckskins.

  “And you,” said Marco, trying to control the urge to fist her skirts and yank them up over her thighs, “are a very bad girl.”

  Her expression tightened, and for a fleeting instant she looked as vulnerable as a child. Unsure, and perhaps a little afraid. Then the sardonic mask was back in place.

  “That shouldn’t come as any surprise, Lord Ghiradelli…”

  In contrast to the polished tones of a proper young lady, her voice was a little rough around the edges. Low and husky, the sound seemed weathered by wind and salt. Marco found it incredibly sexy.

  “… now that you know my dirty little secret,” finished Kate.

  Secrets. He was about to ask what had made the granddaughter of an English duke turn to thieving in a seamy Italian brothel. But the trembling jut of her kiss-swollen lower lip was too great a distraction. Coherent thought gave way to desire. And then, against all reason, to a desperate need to taste her lush, lovely mouth.

  With a primal groan, he coaxed her lips apart and delved inside her warmth, deepening the kiss until their tongues touched and twined together. Their movement set the slender trees to swaying. The leaves danced overhead, showering them with a fine mizzle of orange-scented mist. The sensation was intensely erotic.

  Mindless of the glass walls, Marco slowly circled his palms over the swell of her breasts.

  She shuddered. Her knees buckled and she clutched at the slope of his shoulders, her fingers digging into his knotted muscles.

  Pushing away from the iron support, she found a path through a circle of unplanted palm trees and drew him into the shaded center.

  Dark slivered shadows played over their bodies as Kate stumbled back against an ancient marble column, one of the many antique sculptures decorating the conservatory. The long fronds were thick, the interlacing leaves weaving an emerald screen to hide them from prying eyes. Still, there was always a danger that someone might stumble upon the shocking scene.

  Ah, but danger was all that made him feel truly a
live, thought Marco as he slid her skirts up over her thighs.

  Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. He paused for a fraction, giving her a chance to say no.

  “Si,” she whispered, nipping at his neck.

  The temptation was too great to resist. Finding the slit in her drawers, he thrust his fingers between the feminine folds of her flesh. She was warm and wickedly wet to his touch.

  “Dio mi aiut,” groaned Marco, the sensuous shiverings of the leaves nearly drowning out his words.

  God help me, he repeated to himself. But it was the devil himself who guided his hands to the flap of his breeches and wrenched the fastenings open. His shaft sprung free.

  With a heated moan, Kate clasped her arms around his neck.

  His hands found the taut curves of her bottom and lifted her up. Bracing her back against the stone, he thrust his body hard against her heat.

  “Wrap your legs around me, cara,” he urged. The earthy scent of damp soil and aroused sex swirled around them. This would have to be swift and savage. A rush of pure, animal passion amidst the jungle greenery.

  Kate responded with equal abandon. Her knees clenched his hips as he drove himself deep inside her. She gave a soft cry as he withdrew and thrust in again. And again.

  Her hips rocked to his rhythm, and he felt her body tighten with tension.

  “Cara,” he rasped, feeling fire surge through his limbs. Hot with need, he pressed his mouth over hers, muffling her cry of climax as she came undone in his arms.

  Somehow, he had the presence of mind to pull out just in time. High overhead, the sun glinted wildly off the glass as his seed spilled over the dark earth.

  Dragging in a lungful of air, he eased her down until her feet touched the ground, and then he drew her into his arms. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, and he held her until her hitching breaths grew calmer.

  Marco had kissed countless women over the years, but his response to Kate Woodbridge left him a little shaken. Conflicting impulses stirred strange sensations. Dangerous sensations.

  He found himself feeling a little uncertain. A little confused.

  The clatter of a water cart being wheeled over the brick walkway cut short any further reflections.