by Cara Elliott
A wolfish grin flashed through the Russian’s luxurious mustache. “Be so good as to add that establishment to the list you are making for me.”
Marco chuckled. “With pleasure.”
Deciding it was time to move on, he excused himself and sidled over to where the Frenchman was holding court with several of the Southern Europeans. His old friend from Italy was among them—and if ever a fellow could be pumped for information, it was Vincenzi.
He drew his countryman aside and after a quarter hour had no reason to revise his assessment. Vincenzi was still a garrulous gossip, but along with the lurid details of a prominent Milanese nobleman’s sexual peccadilloes, he had also passed on some useful political tidbits. Lynsley would no doubt be interested to learn that Austrian officials in Milan were holding secret talks with an envoy from Saxony.
Satisfied with his progress so far, Marco allowed himself a moment to sip his wine. The seating chart for this evening’s supper showed that he was placed between the two Spanish attachés. So perhaps he would be able to coax a few more bits of information out of the conversation.
Had he missed anyone important? Raising his glass, he surveyed the room through the cut crystal. The faces all looked a little blurred by the faceted glass and refracted light. Only one seemed to stand out in sharp relief.
Look away.
The inner voice of Reason resonated loud and clear. However, he had been turning a deaf ear to the sound for longer than he cared to remember. Why change now?
Marco watched as Kate edged into the shadows of an arched alcove. A gentleman ought to respect her wish for a moment of privacy.
But he was no gentleman.
Hearing Von Seilig laugh set his teeth on edge. Had Kate allowed the colonel to make free with her favors? Any lady who had dallied with not one but possibly two men in one day deserved to be tormented just a little.
Chapter Fifteen
Kate slid around the corner of the ornate carved bookcases, grateful that the dark wood provided a sliver of sanctuary from the party. Perhaps she ought to have taken her maid’s suggestion and claimed to be feeling poorly.
She rubbed at her bare arms, feeling her flesh pebble beneath her touch. Hot. Cold. She couldn’t quite decide.
“Maybe I am ill,” she whispered, pressing her palms to her cheeks.
Encountering Von Seilig on the way down to the drawing room had only exacerbated her odd mood. The colonel was proving to be a very pleasant companion, and when he had asked if he might have a quick look at the newly arrived Liliaceae, she had not wished to put him off with platitudes about propriety.
The decision had been purely… intellectual. She admired his interest in botany, as well as his forthright demeanor. Unlike most military men she had met, he was not a strutting popinjay in love with his own glittering reflection of braid and brass.
As for any other interest…
Kate drew her brows together, wondering why she felt nothing but a warm friendship for the Prussian. Unlike the sparks of liquid fire that shot through her whenever Marco came near. Von Seilig was solid, steady. Marco was wild, wicked.
It made absolutely no sense. As a scientist, that bothered her. She set her teeth, slowly tightening the muscles of her jaw. She and her fellow ‘Sinners’ were used to solving complex conundrums. All one had to do was apply reason.
Yet when she was around Marco, reason seemed to go up in smoke.
Kate fanned her cheeks and listened to the clink of crystal and muted sounds of laughter. Much as she wished to linger in her refuge, she knew that she ought to return to the guests.
Gathering her skirts, she was about to step around the bookcase when a shadow fell across her path.
She hesitated, hearing the rasp of a ducal cough. “Ah, there you are. Why are you skulking in the shadows?”
For an instant, Kate thought Cluyne was talking to her, but then Charlotte answered.
“I am not skulking, sir. I was merely seeking a bit of space. I don’t mingle well in a crowd.”
Kate ventured a peek through the space between leather-bound spines. Cluyne and Charlotte were standing together in the recessed archway, half hidden from the rest of the guests by the fluted moldings. The duke’s dark evening clothes were indistinguishable from the paneling, but a nearby candelabra painted his profile in a soft light.
He thinned his lips, as if annoyed by the tart remark. But when he spoke, it was to comment on a different subject. One that Kate hoped he had forgotten about. “You weren’t in the conservatory with my granddaughter,” he accused. “Why did you say you were?”
“To prevent you from ringing a peal over her head,” replied Charlotte. “Why must you be such a martinet?”
“M-martinet?” sputtered Cluyne. “I am simply trying to ensure that Katharine does not… make the mistake of finding herself shunned by Society.”
“Well, you are going about it all wrong,” said Charlotte frankly. “Kate is a very independent young lady, and wise beyond her years.”
“Too independent,” growled Cluyne.
“Perhaps,” countered Charlotte. “Be that as it may, she is trying to fit in. You might make it easier if you were to show her a little kindness and understanding, rather than always shout and scowl.”
His mouth opened and then shut with a snap.
“It shouldn’t be so difficult. I have a feeling that your bark is worse than your bite.”
A ferocious frown tightened Cluyne’s face for a moment. And then, to Kate’s surprise, it relaxed into a wry grimace. “I’m not sure whether I have been complimented or castigated.”
Charlotte quirked a tiny smile. “Perhaps a little of both.”
After an awkward moment of silence, the duke shuffled his feet. “Is there any other criticism you care to voice before I return to my guests?” he asked.
“You might try calling your granddaughter Kate, rather than Katharine. It might help break the ice, so to speak.”
“Hmmph.” He gave a curt nod and started to turn away.
“Just one more thing, Your Grace.”
Cluyne paused.
“It’s about the books. I… well, I don’t know quite what to say—and as you may have noticed, I am rarely rendered speechless.” Charlotte drew in an unsteady gulp of air and went on in a rush. “So I’ll simply say thank you. It was incredibly generous of you. And… thoughtful.”
The duke cleared his throat with a gruff growl. “I was merely returning them to their rightful owner, Lady Fenimore. You, at least, appreciate them more than most people. I daresay you won’t cut them up into pennyprints.”
“No,” said Charlotte, her voice a little breathless. “I won’t cut them up.”
Kate never heard her friend sound like a giddy schoolgirl. Angling a quick look at her grandfather, she saw that his expression had turned… odd.
Bashful?
Good Lord, the champagne must be affecting her head.
She blinked, and sure enough, her grandfather’s craggy features had their usual sharp edge. “I am glad to hear it.”
With that, he pivoted on his heel and walked away.
Charlotte slowly released the fisted fringe of her shawl and smoothed out the folds before following.
Kate leaned back against the books. Some mischievous ghost of Cluyne Close must have stirred up an ancient spell to plague this house party. She made a face. And whatever the black magic, it was awfully potent.
No scientific rationale could explain the mysterious force that was making opposites attract each other.
“Found a good book to read?”
Speak of the devil. Kate looked up at Marco. “I was actually looking for a volume on alchemy.”
“You wish to transform base metals into gold?” His gaze held a glint of amusement. “I was under the impression that fancy baubles were not to your taste.”
“I wish to transform plaguey rogues into perfect gentlemen.”
His low laugh tickled against her cheek. “I’m afraid
that may be beyond the powers of any magic, black or otherwise. But you are welcome to try.”
The close confines of the alcove seemed to intensify his presence—his shoulders seemed even more muscular, his smile even more sensuous, his scent even more…
Masculine.
There was no other word for the heady mix of tobacco, brandy, and sandalwood shaving soap.
“As a scientist, I take pride in being a realist. Any experiment to change you would be a waste of time. I recognize a hopeless task when I see it.”
Marco shifted his stance, and suddenly his thigh was touching hers. “I thought scientists were not supposed to jump to conclusions.”
Her knees gave a little lurch.
“Aren’t you supposed to gather empirical evidence to prove your assumptions?” he pressed. Somehow, his terrible, tempting mouth was now only inches from hers.
“I’ve observed enough to make a logical deduction,” said Kate. “You are an incorrigible womanizer who hasn’t a serious bone in his body.”
“I’m not sure you explored my anatomy thoroughly enough to come to that conclusion.”
She couldn’t help but imagine what his lean, chiseled chest, stripped bare of wool and linen, would feel like against her hands. “You have just proved my point—”
His kiss was so swift that she wasn’t quite sure whether she had simply imagined the touch of his lips. “All that I have proved is the fact that your cheeks turn a very beguiling shade of pink whenever I get under your skin.”
A lick of heat teased up her spine. Kate told herself it was anger. And yet anger had never before stirred the strange sensation of butterflies beating their gossamer wings against her ribs.
“Bella,” he murmured.
“D-don’t call me that,” she whispered.
“Why? Does it remind you of your wicked past?”
Oh yes, she was wicked.
“Or your wicked present?”
She felt a little woozy and her ears began to ring.
“Ah, there is the bell summoning us to supper. Shall I escort you to the dining room?”
“I…” For an instant she was tempted to take his arm and lean her head against the muscled stretch of his shoulder. But then there was a sinful little flicker in his eye, as if he guessed at her thoughts, and she regretted her momentary weakness.
“I would prefer to go there on my own.” Gathering what remained of her dignity, Kate whisked her skirts free of his legs and hurried to join her grandfather’s guests.
• • •
Discipline. Contrary to the prevailing perception, Marco could exert a modicum of self control when he chose to. So, although the meal seemed to go on interminably, Marco made polite conversation with the two Spaniards and listened patiently to their long-winded assessments of European politics.
But it wasn’t easy.
His gaze kept stealing to the head of the long table, where Kate sat flanked by the Prussian colonel and Lord Tappan. A massive silver epergne filled with a profusion of exotic flowers obscured his view of her face. She appeared to be enjoying her supper partners, and yet, beneath her light smiles, Marco sensed lurking shadows. Secrets and lies. Not for the first time, he wondered about her past.
There was a mystery surrounding her, and for all his dissolute habits, Marco was very good at solving mysteries when he put his mind to it. Even Lynsley conceded that, when motivated, Marco was the best clandestine agent in Whitehall’s secret network.
Lifting his wineglass to his lips, Marco watched Kate slice off a morsel of roasted duck with a deft flick of her knife. The blade flashed, and for one mad moment, he was reminded of the sunburned harbor of Naples, where a notorious pimp had been found stabbed to death in an alley. Strange that the timing coincided with the disappearance from town of the female cutpurse known as Belladonna.
No, impossible. However, in his profession, coincidence always stirred suspicions.
Be that as it may, duty demanded that he concentrate his attention on the European diplomats. Whatever sordid secrets lay in Kate Woodbridge’s past, they were none of his concern. Leaning back in his chair, Marco saw that he was not the only one surreptitiously watching her. The duke’s gaze flitted to his granddaughter, and his normally impassive face betrayed a flash of mingled consternation and concern.
So Cluyne found Kate a conundrum, too, thought Marco.
As the final savories were removed, the ladies rose in well-practiced union and left the room.
The duke surveyed the remaining gentlemen and fingered his chin. “What say you to enjoying our port and cigars out on the terrace this evening. The night is mild and the skies uncommonly clear, so I think that the ladies would enjoy joining us with their tea. The gardens appear especially fine in the light of the full moon.”
A murmur of assent greeted the suggestion and the servants were dispatched to set up the tables and torchieres.
The party was soon reassembled outdoors and tea was served to the ladies while the gentlemen savored several excellent vintages brought up from the duke’s cellars.
“I daresay there will be many a lavish gathering in Vienna,” said Tappan. “It is said to be a city that loves a party.”
“A city that loves to dance.” Lady Duxbury looked up at the sky and heaved a theatrical sigh. “Imagine—moonlight swirling over the Danube and couples waltzing under the stars.”
“Mama say the waltz is very risqué,” murmured Lady Caroline.
“Pish.” Lady Duxbury waved off the comment. “Even the dragonesses at Almack’s now permit it.”
“I—I have never seen it done,” admitted Lady Caroline.
Rochambert smiled. “Come, there is plenty of space here on the terrace if we gentlemen shift a few of the urns. I should be happy to demonstrate the dance with Lady Duxbury, if His Grace does not object to an impromptu ball.”
Cluyne gave a nod. “I see no reason to spoil the fun.”
Even the dowager countess did not object, though she did summon her daughter to stand by her side. “You may watch Caro, but nothing more.”
Clapping her hands in delight, Lady Duxbury looked around. “And if we open the doors to the music room… Perchance does anyone know how to play a waltz on the pianoforte?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” volunteered Charlotte. Catching Kate’s quizzical look, she explained. “Remember, when I visited Helen Gosford at the beginning of the summer? She had a sheaf of sheet music sent to her by a friend in Vienna, and during the evenings we would take turns playing to entertain ourselves. I think I can remember one of the simpler tunes.”
“Merci, madame!” Rochambert gave her a gracious bow. “Music will make the experience even more enjoyable.”
He and several of the other gentlemen quickly slid the marble decorations to one side. Offering his hand to Lady Duxbury, the Frenchman led her to the center of the slates. Through the open doors of the music room floated the first lilting notes of the melody.
Marco had to admit the scene was wildly romantic. Flickering flames, a gentle breeze, the distant glimmer of the lake, its waters pale and pearlescent in the softly shimmering light.
Setting down his brandy glass, he cut across to where Kate was standing. “The more, the merrier.” Before she could protest, he took hold of her arm and drew her onto the makeshift dance floor.
“I—I don’t know the steps,” she hissed in his ear.
“But I do,” Marco replied. “Relax, and just follow my lead.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, just where the gentle curve of her spine formed a slight hollow. She stiffened as his palm flattened against her gown. “Relax,” he repeated. “The waltz is all about abandoning yourself to the rhythm of the music. A dancing couple must move as one.”
“If you get any closer, we might as well be glued together,” said Kate. Her voice sounded a little unsteady.
“Yes, the English find it shocks their sensibilities that a man and a woman are allowed to touch so intimately in public. What
about you, Kate?”
“I—I…”
Before she could answer, Marco swept her to the first gliding steps of the dance. “Trust me,” he murmured, twirling through a slow spin. Her slender body fit perfectly against his, and through the thin layers of fabric he could feel the quickening of her breath. His feet felt as if they were skimming over the stone in a blur.
Faster, faster. Kate looked up, a tentative smile on her face, and his heart began to race. Or was it hers? Marco wasn’t quite sure he could separate the tattoo of tiny thuds against his skin.
Dio Madre, he was a jaded rake, a wanton wastrel. A chaste dance should not be making him lose control.
“Hold on tight, Kate,” he whispered. “For the next few minutes let us fly.”
Her feet were lifted from the ground, and suddenly Kate was whirling through the air, as if she were as light as a feather in his strong, sure hands. The breeze kissed her cheeks, and a laugh bubbled up inside her. For a giddy instant, she felt free as a seabird, soaring high over the ocean.
Even when her slippers touched back down to earth, the heady excitement stayed with her. Marco moved with a lithe, light grace and she instinctively sensed the subtle changes in his steps. His hand rested lightly near her hip, yet she was intimately aware of its heat searing straight to her core.
No wonder English society had been loath to allow the waltz to cross the Channel. It was wicked, indeed. And wonderful. She felt like a fairy princess, capering in the moonlight madness.
As they spun through a turn, Marco’s long, dark hair brushed against her cheek. Kate wished she could strip off her gloves and twine her fingers through the silky tangle. And then pull his sensuous mouth close and taste the hot spice of brandy lingering on his lips.
