by Cara Elliott
Kate heard it, too, and shook off her daze to straighten her bodice and smooth her skirts. Her hands were shaking. But when she looked up, her composure suddenly turned hard as cold steel.
“Satisfied, Lord Ghiradelli?” she asked. “I trust you will consider the debt paid in full.”
Taken by surprise, Marco matched her sardonic edge. “The contents may have been paltry, but the purse itself was made of very expensive Florentine leather. By my reckoning, Kate, you still owe me something.”
Her eyes widened. “And who is to decide the final tally?”
He tugged at his cuff. “Oh, I am sure we can come to a mutual agreement.”
As the gardener’s cheerful whistlings grew louder, Kate darted a look over her shoulder. “Don’t count your pennies just yet,” she muttered, pushing past him and ducking under the low-hanging leaves.
A moment later, she was lost in a sea of green.
Pails rattled. Water sloshed.
Stepping over the broken pot, Marco picked up the basket of herbs Kate had dropped and placed it on one of the potting benches before clicking open the side door and letting himself out.
Chapter Fourteen
Fool, fool, fool!
The angry tattoo of her heels on the polished parquet seemed to echo her self-loathing thoughts. Taking the stairs in an unladylike rush, Kate flung open her bedchamber door, and then kicked it shut behind her.
The thump, a noise loud enough to wake the dead, finally brought her back to her senses. Tentatively touching her lips, she smoothed her fingertips over the kiss-roughened flesh. She dared not venture a peek at the looking glass, sure she would see that a total stranger had stolen into her skin.
The real Kate Woodbridge would never dream of allowing a rapscallion rogue like Giovanni Marco Musto della Ghiradelli to make her whole body boneless with longing.
Would she?
Kate drifted to the bank of windows and stared out at the distant hills. She wasn’t sure how to answer the question. For the longest time, she had felt lost in London. Adrift without a compass. In the past, she had guided her family’s ship through thunder and lightning, through hurricanes and typhoons with unerring confidence. She had navigated through the waters of poverty and creditors without running onto the rocks. But now she felt rudderless.
And it made her angry. Afraid.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Kate took a seat on the counterpane of her carved tester bed. This bastion of opulent wealth and ducal privilege ought to be a safe harbor, and yet the crosscurrents and hidden shoals of Polite Society seemed far more dangerous than the open sea. In truth, she would much rather sail through a raging monsoon than the mansions of Mayfair.
It was confusing, and at times she wished for…
Kate blinked the beads of salt from her lashes. Hell’s bells. She never cried. The ever practical, ever pragmatic Katharine Kylie Woodbridge was tough as a marlinspike, strong as a steel-straight mainmast, resilient as a coil of whipcord rope.
Only a silly schoolgirl would yearn for a shoulder to lean on.
Sniff.
Only a hopeless romantic would delude herself into thinking that a rake’s lovemaking offered any comfort.
Sniff.
“Are you coming down with a head cold?” Alice entered the room with a freshly pressed gown looped over her arm. “Shall I send to the kitchens for a tisane?”
“No, no, I’m perfectly fine.” Kate rubbed at her nose. “The pollen from the Adenium obesum must have irritated my eyes.”
Her maid squinted. “If ye asked me, missy,” she said after closing the door, “I’d say that the irritation comes from an entirely different species. One that ain’t a plant.”
“How—” began Kate before biting back her words.
“You had best dab a bit of beeswax balm on your lip,” suggested Alice. “That ought to soothe the swelling by dinnertime.”
“Oh, Lud, is it that obvious?” She couldn’t help scrambling up and taking a peek in the glass.
“Not to most people,” answered her maid. “However, I’ve seen enough of… that to recognize the telltale signs.”
Kate quickly looked away. “That won’t happen again.”
A skeptical snort answered the assertion. “I wouldn’t wager a ha’penny on it. There seems to be some force at work between the two of you.” Alice carefully shook out the emerald-colored skirts and hung the gown in the armoire. “Ye know, like that scientific experiment ye showed me with a magnet, and all the little shavings of steel.”
“You are saying that Lord Ghiradelli and I are attracted to each other?”
Alice nodded.
Sniff.
“I fear you are right.” Returning to the bed, she lay back against the pillows and laced her hands behind her head. However, the loosened hairpins and tangled tendrils were an uncomfortable reminder of her less than laudable behavior, and so she assumed a more ladylike pose.
Stop sniveling, she scolded herself. It wasn’t as if she had just surrendered her virginity. That had happened several years ago. She had been curious, and the young American naval officer in Antigua had been charming. The affair hadn’t lasted long, and there had been only one other time. Still, she considered herself a woman of the world, not a dewy-eyed schoolgirl.
Expelling a sigh, she rubbed at her nose. “Oh, would that I could sprout wings and soar away.”
“To where?” asked Alice gently.
Kate didn’t know how to answer. There wasn’t really any place that she thought of as home. “Perhaps the moon,” she joked halfheartedly. “I’m very fond of cheese, and I would imagine that the green variety is similar in taste to English Stilton.”
Alice eyed her in silence for several moments. “Men can make you miserable,” she observed. “I often wonder whether they are worth it.”
“I’m not miserable,” protested Kate. “And if I were, it would not be on account of an arrogant rakehell rogue.” Who had just made wild, passionate love to her.
“Right,” murmured her maid.
A clever retort came to mind, but somehow, when Kate opened her mouth, all that came out was a choked sob. “On second thought, I must be falling ill,” she managed to say a moment later. “I never turn into a watering pot.”
A handkerchief fluttered in front of her nose. “Here, blow your nose, Missy, and I’ll order up a nice, hot bath. There’s nothing like a long soak to soothe yer spirits. If ye want, I can send word to your grandfather that you are feeling under the weather and wish to cry off from the evening.”
Behave like a craven coward? After a small sniff, Kate crumpled the linen in her fist, kneading it into a tight little wad. Katharine Kylie Woodbridge did not back away from a confrontation, no matter how daunting. She had fended off irate creditors, she had outmaneuvered Chinese pirates, she had stood firm against a knife-wielding Neapolitan brute.
She wasn’t about to crawl under her coverlet and let Marco think she was too afraid to be in his company.
“No, I’ll be just fine.” Putting on a brave face was a trick that Kate had mastered long ago. By now it was like slipping into a second skin.
The gilt-edged card on his dressing table announced that the guests were expected in the drawing room for drinks promptly at seven. Marco gave a last little tweak to his cravat and dismissed his valet. No wonder he avoided these country gatherings like the plague, he thought. The duke had planned the daily routine with military precision, and while most of the guests enjoyed the regimented activities, he chafed at having to march in line with someone else’s expectations.
But orders were orders.
Having accepted the assignment, he must discipline himself to perform it well.
The key was to keep his mind on the gentlemen. Entering the drawing room, Marco kept his gaze from seeking the gleam of wheat-gold hair. Teasing Kate Woodbridge had begun as a tantalizing distraction, but it was threatening to get out of control.
“Did you enjoy the ride around the lake, Lo
rd Ghiradelli?” After murmuring something to one of the liveried footman, the duke turned and joined Marco by the one of the Elizabethan display cabinets flanking the entrance doors. A massive silver candelabra crowned its top, the candles gently flickering with the arrival of each guest. Light and shadows rippled over the polished patterns of the tiger’s eye maple.
“I decided to take a stroll in your gardens instead,” answered Marco. “I rode in the morning and have already had the pleasure of seeing the views across the water.”
“Have you an interest in plants, sir?” asked Cluyne.
“No, Your Grace. But even for one who cannot discern beggarweed from Spanish lavender, it is hard not to admire the color and symmetry of the design.”
The duke sipped his sherry. “Yet you recognized the shrubs bordering the orchard walk,” he said dryly.
“My mother was an avid gardener. She enjoyed digging in the dirt,” said Marco, surprised at the pinch of pain that the memory stirred. He suddenly thought of languid summer days, playing hide-and-seek with his brother among the ornamental grasses and flowering shrubs, the contessa laughingly warning them not to trample her precious blooms. Daniello had inherited her passion for coaxing life from the earth…
“But me, I find my pleasures elsewhere,” he added with a hard smile.
Cluyne gave a grunt that made Marco wonder whether one of the workmen had seen him and Kate together in the conservatory.
“Of course,” he hastened to add, “I am not seeking anything here at Cluyne Close but an interlude of restful relaxation and convivial conversation while enjoying the pastoral beauty of your lands.”
“Hmmph.” The grunt was more pronounced this time. “Apparently, Tappan had some reason for requesting that your name be added to the guest list.”
Marco deflected the oblique question with a casual shrug. “I am acquainted with several of the Continental guests, so I assume that he thought a familiar face would make them feel more at home.”
Cluyne’s silvery brows rose a notch. Up close, Marco could see the subtle similarities between Kate and her grandfather. The line of the jaw, the angle of the cheekbones, the imperious tilt of the nose—and, most of all, the watchfulness of the aquamarine eyes.
He would have to be on guard. The duke was no doddering fool. There was a sharp intelligence lurking beneath the scowl.
“Then allow me to let you go mingle with your friends.” With a discreet gesture, the duke summoned the butler from his station just outside the oak-paneled doors. “While I have a look at the arrangement of flowers for the dining room.”
Why, wondered Marco, would a man of such obvious intelligence allow his family to be torn asunder by pride? He looked up at a pair of unsmiling ducal ancestors peering down their painted noses at him from the gilded confines of their ornate frames.
But then, he was hardly one to comment on familial relationships. His own past was not a pretty picture.
Marco looked around to see Kate enter the drawing room just as her grandfather was going out. Her color was a touch flushed, and she appeared to be a little breathless.
“Sir.” She stepped aside in a whisper of silk to let him pass.
Cluyne hesitated, and then fixed her companion with a gimlet gaze.
“What a marvelous collection of Liliaceae you have in the conservatory,” said Von Seilig enthusiastically. “Forgive us if we are a little late, Your Grace, but Miss Woodbridge was kind enough to give me a short tour of the new arrivals just now.”
“We met on the stairs,” said Kate. “And the colonel expressed such an interest that…” Her words trailed off, but a mutinous expression remained on her face. The colonel might not be aware of the nuances governing the rules of an English lady’s behavior, but she clearly comprehended her transgression.
And didn’t give a damn, observed Marco. He felt his lips thin to a wry grimace. Had she been enjoying another heated interlude among the tropical greenery? Perhaps Kate Woodbridge—the infamous Belladonna—was a harder female than she let on.
“Katharine,” began Cluyne.
“Of course, I, too, was anxious to see them. So we all decided to have a look,” announced Charlotte, who quickly appeared from the depths of the corridor. “I trust you don’t mind, sir.”
That the elderly scholar had come from the opposite direction of the conservatory did not escape Marco’s notice. Nor did he think that the duke was fooled.
Cluyne’s eyes narrowed, but Charlotte did not look the least bit intimidated by the ducal daggers.
Flicking open her fan, she gave a languid wave. “My, my, it was quite warm in there. I should very much like a glass of champagne.”
Von Seilig, who to his credit sensed that some misstep had been made, kept his mouth shut and offered one arm to her and the other to Kate. “Allow me to be of service, ladies.”
The trio moved away, leaving Cluyne standing in the doorway. The duke watched Kate’s rigid retreat for a fraction of a moment before turning to the corridor, an inscrutable expression on his face.
Personal battles were none of his business, Marco reminded himself. Lynsley had sent him here as part of a far bigger war. Time to sharpen his sword—and his wits—and prove his mettle.
Spotting Lady Duxbury and her brother, Marco strolled over to join them. Allenham’s greeting was friendly enough, but he seemed a little distracted, and his eyes kept darting around the room. “You missed a capital gallop this afternoon, Ghiradelli. The duke has some prime mounts in his stables.”
“I decided to exercise my own legs instead,” said Marco.
The countess ran her gaze up and then down the length of his trousers. “Ah, yes, I have heard that you have a great fondness for vigorous physical activity.” Regarding him through her lashes, she murmured, “What a pity you didn’t mention your intentions. The carriage ride into that dreary little town was a bore. I should have much preferred a walk in the woods.”
Or a roll in the hay.
Marco grimly reminded himself to avoid the darkened corridors of the manor late at night. Lady Duxbury seemed intent on stalking her chosen prey with the ruthlessness of a hungry lioness.
“I took a tour of the gardens,” he replied lightly. “They are magnificent. The duke has quite a passion for botany.”
She made a face. “Eccentricity seems to run in the family. His granddaughter also seems to enjoy mucking in the mud. I saw her come out of the conservatory yesterday covered in filth.”
He felt himself bristle. “She is a noted scholar of plant life, and her work demands careful observation of actual specimens.”
“Work,” repeated Lady Duxbury with a toss of her auburn curls. “Another oddity. If you ask me, Miss Woodbridge is aloof and arrogant. And abominably rude. Why, I tried to engage her in friendly conversation the other evening and was coldly rebuffed.”
“Keep your voice down, Jocelyn,” warned Allenham.
“Oh, pish.” Crooking a finger, she signaled a footman to refill her glass. “Everyone knows that she is considered a frightful bluestocking by Polite Society.”
“I think you have had enough champagne,” growled her brother.
“I don’t think you can ever have enough of a good thing.” Lady Duxbury gave a provocative pout. “Don’t you agree, Lord Ghiradelli?”
“Far be it from me to contradict a lady,” said Marco.
“There, you see.” She jabbed a triumphant finger into the starched folds of Allenham’s cravat.
As the footman approached, her brother took the empty glass from her hand and ordered rattafia punch instead.
She made a moue of distaste. “I think I shall go speak with Ludlowe and Tappan. They are far more agreeable company than you are.” Her words seemed to hang in the air, a challenge—or perhaps a taunt—to Marco. “Ciao.”
Allenham expelled a sharp breath as she crossed the carpet. “Have you any siblings, Ghiradelli?”
“No.” Not since a fateful day long ago in the past.
“
Count yourself a lucky fellow.” A tiny muscle twitched along the heavy line of the baron’s jaw. “Between the bacon-brained escapades of my younger brother and the overt indiscretions of my sister, it is a wonder that I have any time to deal with my own affairs.”
Seizing the opening, Marco casually asked, “I would imagine that the conference in Vienna could have great repercussions for trade through Europe, especially in the northern lands along the sea where your consortium does business.”
The baron nodded. “The maps will be redrawn—it’s simply a question of who will get what.”
“Are you not afraid of being left out in the cold?” probed Marco.
“No. I am not.”
An interesting response. He waited, but the baron did not elaborate.
Vronskov detached himself from a group of gentlemen by the hearth and drifted over to join them. “Rochambert may be a problem for us,” he muttered through his teeth. “He is saying that the French will press hard to have a say in the Polish question—”
Allenham signaled him to silence with a quick frown.
Marco pretended not to notice. Flicking his gaze to the dowager’s daughter, he made a show of flirting with smiles and winks.
The Russian hesitated a fraction and then Marco heard him continue in a low voice. “Bah, Ghiradelli isn’t the least interested in our business. I think I’ve convinced the Austrian attaché to accept our offer, but we must bring Von Seilig around in order to be sure of our position.”
“Ssshh.” Allenham let out his breath in a sharp hiss. Angling his back to Marco, he added, “Let us discuss this after supper.”
Fingering the heavy gold fobs on his watch chain, Marco uttered a soft oath. “Damn. I think these cursed things have snagged a thread on my new waistcoat.” He fussed with the silk, smoothing a hand over the expensive embroidery. “I say, does it look to you as if it is ruined?”
Vronskov shook his head. “I don’t see any damage.”
The baron didn’t bother with a glance. “It appears perfectly fine.”
“Thank God.” Marco exaggerated a sigh of relief. “The color and cut are quite special. I know the English tend to favor Weston and Stutz, but I have an excellent Italian tailor to recommend in London. In his backroom, he has an assortment of printed fabrics from India that feature some very interesting designs of naked ladies engaged in…” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “Let us just say, you won’t be wearing them in Polite Society. But they certainly enliven the conversation at any establishment where gentlemen gather to enjoy themselves.”
