by Cara Elliott
Startled, Kate fell back a step.
“Don Juan is a very wicked man, is he not?” he murmured, making reference to the Mozart opera arias. “He should be a lesson to all young ladies that the world is fraught with danger.” Sidling closer, he added, “So you ought not venture into dark corners at night. Especially when you are alone and unprotected.”
“Thank you for your concern, sir,” she replied slowly. “But I can take care of myself.”
“Ah, yes, the iron fist in the velvet glove.” Marco brushed the back of his knuckles along her jawline. “You throw a very pretty punch, cara. However, I must warn you that it wouldn’t prevent a true cad from having his way with you.”
Kate recoiled. “There are other ways to stop a man in his tracks.”
“There are,” he agreed, edging closer. “For example, if you were to hook your finger in your bodice and inch it down to give me a peek at your perfectly shaped curves, I would find myself riveted to the stones.”
Kate touched her tongue to her lower lip.
“Ah, do that again,” he murmured. “It’s incredibly provocative.”
“As if you need any provocation for playing your wicked games,” she rasped.
“This is only light foreplay, bella. If I chose to be truly wicked, you wouldn’t still be wearing your clothes.”
A muscle jumped on her jaw.
“Though it is a lovely gown,” he went on in a whisper. “The fabric is exquisite and the cut flatters your figure. I particularly like the way the bodice accentuates your beautiful breasts and creates an enticing cleavage.”
“Stop it.” Though she tried to sound firm, her voice was a little ragged around the edges.
“Why? Because it is making your nipples harden?” Marco dropped his voice a notch. “Do I arouse your innermost naughty instincts?”
Kate quickly crossed her arms over her chest and slid a step deeper into the shadows. “You are an uncivilized beast.”
“And yet you respond to me. What does that make you, Miss Woodbridge?”
Her mouth parted in shock, then quickly thinned to a prim line. “Don’t flatter yourself, sir. There is a simple scientific explanation for the phenomenon you have just observed. Cold air makes skin pucker.”
“So does heat,” he replied. It was evil to tease her. Truly evil to taunt her with his dark, debauched thoughts. And yet he couldn’t help adding, “Are you feeling a lick of fire between your legs?”
A swirl of the night air ruffled through the overhanging ivy.
“The intermission is almost over.” Her hands clenched. “I must be going back inside to my grandfather.”
Marco slowly stepped aside. “Yes, run on back to the bosom of your family, bella. As I said, it’s not safe for young ladies to wander around alone at night.”
“And as I said, sir, you might be surprised to find that some ladies know how to defend themselves,” she replied.
“You wouldn’t have a chance,” he said softly.
She moved past him, but not before leaving a last word hanging in the air.
“Don’t be so sure of that.”
Chapter Three
Repressing a sigh, Kate settled herself into the plush velvet seat of her grandfather’s carriage. Like all his possessions, it was of exquisite quality, but rather oppressive in its opulence. She preferred simpler things—all the gilding and gold-threaded draperies made her eyes ache.
Which matched the dull throbbing at her temples. The musical program had been even worse than she had anticipated. Lud, where did Lady Hamden find such egregiously awful singers? Opera was an art form, but she had heard a more melodic baritone from the rattle of rusty anchor chain.
And then, of course, there was the intimate interlude with Marco. Dear God, how dare he keep bedeviling her with his presence. She squeezed her eyes shut. How dare he tease such terrible longings to life inside her! Even now, a moist heat was lingering between her legs, an uncomfortable reminder of how little she had in common with the innocent young ladies of London.
The iron step shivered and a moment later the Duke of Cluyne eased his broad shoulders through the doorway. A liveried footman quickly fastened the latches and signaled the driver to set the team of matched grays in motion. The harness jingled, the wheels rolled.
Like clockwork, thought Kate. The duke’s servants functioned like a well-oiled machine.
“It was good of you to come tonight, Katharine.”
Kate looked up in surprise. Cluyne took obedience for granted. He expected people to bow to his wishes.
Unsure how else to respond, she merely murmured, “Of course, Your Grace.” Not ‘Grandfather,’ not ‘Cluyne,’ but the far more formal ‘Your Grace.’ His knees were just inches from hers, but in her mind he was distant, detached. A stranger in spite of their shared blood.
“Not that I imagine you enjoyed it,” he said gruffly. “Dreadful singers, dull conversation. But Lady Hamden is an old friend.”
“Of course,” repeated Kate.
“Her grandson and several of his friends were supposed to be in attendance. The fellows all belong to some sort of scientific society, so you might have found their company interesting. But I suppose the music scared them off.”
“That says something in favor of their intelligence.” She usually tried to temper her tart humor in the presence of her grandfather. However, the fact that he was taking it upon himself to find her a husband set her teeth on edge. Until now, Great Aunt Hermione had been in charge of finding a suitable match. But the poor lady must have thrown up her hands in despair.
“Be that as it may, Your Grace,” she went on. “Please do not feel obliged to act as matchmaker for me. I fear you will only be wasting your time.” And mine, she added to herself.
“Harumph.” The duke cleared his throat, as if trying to dislodge an irritant, and folded his arms across his girth. But rather than speak again right away, he turned his gaze to watch the moonlit mansions of Grosvenor Square roll by.
Lowering her lashes, Kate studied his profile. Austere. Autocratic. Arrogant. Those were the first adjectives that came to mind. Despite his advanced years, Cluyne was still a very imposing figure. His silvery hair was thick and showed no signs of retreating from the broad plane of his forehead. His brows were bushy, accentuating piercing green eyes and an aquiline nose. And though his mouth was usually set in a grim line, his lips were full and well-shaped. As for the jaw, its square shape and stubborn jut were all too familiar a sight—Kate saw them reflected each morning in the looking glass.
“Harumph.” This time the sound was followed by speech. “Aye, it’s clear you have a mind of your own, gel.”
“Which clearly drives you to distraction,” she said none too softly.
“I am only trying to do what is best for you,” countered Cluyne. “It is my familial duty to see you well settled.”
To Kate’s ears, the words were eerily similar to what he had said to her mother so many years ago. Anne Woodbridge had not been bitter, merely sad when she had repeated them.
“We clearly have very different notions as to family and duty,” replied Kate.
His eyes flashed, but in the shifting lamplight it was impossible to tell whether it was in anger or some other emotion.
Kate sighed. “I don’t want to quarrel with you, sir. As you have pointed out, I have spent a good deal of my life studying science. So perhaps I should have known from the start that this experiment was not going to work out well. Like oil and water, certain elements just don’t mix.”
His brows drew together. “What are you saying?”
“That maybe it would be best for both of us if I leave England,” she replied slowly.
“And go where?” he demanded in a thunderous voice. “Back to living on naught but a wing and a prayer?”
She waited for his imperious ire to stop echoing off the polished paneling. “I have not yet decided. However, you need not worry that I will make any demands on you to fund my future pla
ns. I have enough money of my own to live quite comfortably.” That was a gross exaggeration, but pride would not allow her to admit otherwise.
“Now see here, missy—”
“I’m not a schoolgirl, Your Grace,” she interrupted hotly. “Please remember that I don’t need your permission—or your blessing—to live my life as I please. I have been in London long enough to see that most people of the ton allow themselves to be controlled by family money and influence. I am not one of them.”
A muscle twitched along the line of Cluyne’s clenched jaw.
She looked down at her fisted hands, feeling torn between guilt and resentment that they often ended up arguing. “Forgive me for shrieking like a fishwife. As you have noticed, I have an unfortunate tendency to let my temper get the best of me.”
The seat slats creaked as the duke shifted his bulky body.
“I am not ungrateful for your hospitality, sir,” she added. “There are things I do like about London. I have made some very good friends, and the scientific societies offer a wealth of interesting lectures.” Cluyne was not overly happy with her intellectual pursuits or her botanical studies, though he himself was quite knowledgeable on the subject. He would much rather she chase after some Tulip of the ton.
But she wouldn’t pretend to be someone she was not, simply to curry his favor.
“Then perhaps you should not be so hasty to leave Town,” he said tightly. “No need to kick up your heels and run off to some far corner of the globe at this moment.”
It was as close to an apology as the duke would ever make. Kate decided to accept it.
“Very well.”
She thought she heard him exhale a pent-up breath. But maybe it was just the whisper of her silk skirts or a hiss of wind blowing up against the windowpanes.
They rode on in uneasy silence for several moments, the sounds of the jingling harness and the hooves clattering over the cobblestones filling the void between them.
“I was hoping you would consent to come to the country next week,” said the duke after smoothing out his cravat. “At the request of the Foreign Office, I am hosting a house party at the Kent estate in honor of the upcoming peace conference in Vienna. If you recall, Lord Tappan, one of the junior ministers, lives on the estate adjoining mine, but his house is not large enough to accommodate such a distinguished group. The guests will include a number of visiting European intellectuals and diplomats.”
Kate couldn’t help but be cynical—several of them must be unmarried and under the age of eighty.
“Lord Tappan also expressed a hope that you would consider the invitation.”
“Me?” Her head came up in surprise. “I can’t imagine why.”
“To begin with, he mentioned that he has met you at a ball and is aware of your scholarly pursuits. He feels that your presence would add a nice touch to the gathering.”
Kate did not recall ever meeting Lord Tappan. Was this just one of her grandfather’s ploys?
“Seeing as a number of foreign military attachés are in London, Tappan is working with the War Office on making up the guest list,” he went on. “And apparently Lord Lynsley mentioned to him that you might find the interlude enjoyable, given your scientific interests.” Cluyne made an odd face. “I was not aware that you had met the marquess.”
Several times in the last year, Lynsley had consulted with her scientific circle on some very odd questions. But as Kate was sworn to secrecy on the matter, it was not something she could reveal to him. She thought quickly. “I believe that my friends Ciara and Alessandra have a passing acquaintance with him.”
“Well, I have known Lynsley for years. He’s a capital fellow. Both he and Tappan add that you would be doing the government a service. The presence of ladies will help keep the gentlemen from arguing too much.” Cluyne cleared his throat. “But lest you think it is just the ministers who wish you to be there, let me repeat that I, too, think you might find it interesting.”
More likely, Cluyne was trying to avoid the embarrassment of having his granddaughter absent from the affair, thought Kate. He didn’t care about her “interests.” Only his cursed ducal pride. God forbid that another female of his family stir up scandalous gossip.
All her resentments came flooding back, and for an instant, Kate was tempted to tell him to go to the devil. But she forced herself to consider the matter dispassionately. Aside from doing Lord Lynsley a favor, there were personal reasons to consider. The estate conservatory was renowned for its fascinating array of exotic plants, and a new shipment of specimens had just arrived from the Far East. And her good friend Charlotte had recently remarked that a dip in her finances was not going to allow her to leave London for a sojourn in the country.
Recalling the earlier mention of Machiavelli, Kate gave a cool smile. “I will consider coming—that is, if the invitation includes my fellow scientist, Lady Charlotte Fenimore.”
Cluyne’s lips compressed to a grim line. After a long moment, he gave a curt nod. “I have no objection to that, I suppose. She is of respectable birth, even if she is considered a trifle eccentric by the ton.”
“So am I,” muttered Kate under her breath.
Whether he heard her or not, he ignored the comment.
“Then I may count on your presence?” asked the duke.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered. Deciding it would be churlish to needle him with a reference to her merchant father, who had taught her the art of negotiating a business deal, she left it at that. But the irony of it provoked a sardonic smile.
No, Cluyne would not understand. Nor would he be remotely amused if he did. And that, she admitted, was the essence of their estrangement. He was a man who could not laugh at himself. While she, on the other hand, was all too aware of her own follies and foibles.
Lord, what fools we mortals be…
Her education had been exceedingly eccentric, but Shakespeare had been part of her early reading.
Perhaps she should leave a copy of the Bard’s plays on her grandfather’s bedside table.
The brandy burned a trail of fire down his throat. Marco tilted the bottle for another swig, only to come up empty.
Hell, was the bottle really empty?
A slow shake confirmed his suspicions. Letting it slip through his fingers, he fell back against the plump eiderdown bed pillows, only to wince at the brittle clink, clink, clink of glass hitting glass. Strange, he didn’t remember draining more than two other ones.
Usually his mind—as well as the rest of his body—could soak up a prodigious quantity of spirits without suffering any impairment. However, at present he wasn’t feeling quite his usual self.
“Ciao, Marco! I’m back.” The mattress bounced as a shapely bum dropped down beside him. “This is your lucky night—Madame Erato found one last bottle of your favorite Barolo wine stashed away in the cellars.”
Prying one eyelid open, he saw only a hazy blur of slim, dexterous hands twisting a corkscrew. The Grotto of Venus spared no expense in keeping its customers satisfied. It could well afford to, he thought wryly, considering the obscenely high prices that were charged for the pleasure of passing an evening with one of its beauties.
Pop. A splash of liquid spilled into a crystal glass.
“Grrrrr,” mouthed Marco, making no move to take the glass. “Maybe I’ve had enough to drink for now.” The brandy had unaccountably left a sour taste on his tongue. It took another moment or two for his fuzzed brain to realize why.
Damn. Was he really still stewing over his encounter with Alessandra’s friend?
What the devil did it matter whether he had shocked Miss Kate-Katharine Woodbridge? He had, he told himself, likely done her a favor. She might fancy herself a woman of the world on account of her travels outside the rarefied realm of the English aristocracy. But in truth she had no real knowledge of human nature. Good and evil. Light and dark.
Someone needed to illuminate for her how truly black a soul could be.
Averting h
is gaze from the golden glare of the candles, Marco made another rough sound in the back of his throat. “It feels like a red-hot pitchfork is jabbing into my skull.”
“In a foul humor?” Paloma slipped her hand beneath the satin sheets. “Seeing as you are not in the mood for drinking, let’s discover if we can find another way to elevate your spirits,” she said coyly.
His growl softened—and his body hardened.
Her smooth fingers danced lightly along his stiffening length. “Your head might not feel up to it, but Il Serpenti is always in a playful mood.”
True. On the rare occasions when he couldn’t drown himself in drink, he was always able to submerge himself in lust.
Paloma straddled his thighs, teasing her touch through the nest of coarse curls between his legs. “Ah, Marco, you are the very picture of masculine beauty.” She leaned back admiringly, watching the firelight flicker over his naked body. “A flame-gilded god.”
“Who will likely roast in hell,” he murmured.
“You are a very wicked man,” she agreed. Dipping her fingertips in the wine, she circled his shaft and began a slow, rhythmic stroking. “But Lucifer and his glowing coals lie far in the future. For the present, you are here with me, so why not enjoy it?”
“Why not, indeed.” Marco slid his hands to the warm, willing curves of her bottom and lifted her into the air.
A throaty laugh floated through the faint swirls of smoke thrown up by the scented candles. She hovered for an instant above his arousal, a dark angel casting shadows across his face, then gave a deep moan as their flesh joined and their bodies became one.
Pleasure. For a fleeting interlude, it was enough to keep his inner devils at bay.
Chapter Four
A late night?”
Marco waved away the offer of tea. “Coffee, if you please,” he said to the hovering footman. “Black and strong.”
The Marquess of Lynsley went back to buttering his toast and reading the newspaper. “You look like dung.”
“I feel like shite.”
“Perhaps you ought to consider tempering your carousing.”