To Tempt a Rake

by Cara Elliott

  “How fascinating.” Kate closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the exotic setting. She missed the excitement of traveling—the sights, the sounds, the smells of a foreign land stimulated the senses.

  “Emperor Francis of Austria will host several other monarchs at the Hofburg, his palace in the center of the city,” said Rochambert. “That alone is worth the visit, for it houses many incredible treasures.”

  “One of the Emperor’s hobbies is tending to his plants in the palace hothouses. He is also an expert in European geography,” added Von Seilig. “His collection of rare maps and books is extraordinary.”

  “It sounds like exactly the sort of place that I would enjoy visiting,” mused Kate.

  “I doubt that Francis will have much time for his plants or his library when the conference begins. Metternich and Talleyrand will be playing cat and mouse, while the Russian tsar and the King of Prussia negotiate over the fate of Poland and Saxony…”

  Kate listened with great interest as the two gentlemen began to discuss the nuances of European politics. They were both articulate and knowledgeable, and when she ventured a question, they did not brush her off but answered it with careful consideration.

  Why, perhaps parties weren’t so awful after all. It was pleasant to be treated as if she possessed a brain, to go along with the rest of her body, she thought to herself.

  Ludlowe, the American envoy to London, and Villafranca, a Spanish government official, came over to join them and quickly offered their perspective on the jockeying for power in the wake of Napoleon’s defeat.

  Caught up in following the lively arguments, Kate was unaware of how much time had passed until the tall case clock in the corner chimed the hour. Suddenly aware that she had left Charlotte to fend for herself, she slanted a hurried look around the room, hoping that her friend was not sitting alone in the shadows with naught but a book for company.

  A prick of guilt jabbed at her conscience. Had she actually been enjoying the evening so much as to forget about her fellow ‘Sinner’? She owed Charlotte an abject apology for abandoning her to a crowd of strangers…

  Hell. Spotting the reflection of her friend’s silvery hair in one of the large glass-front curio cabinets, Kate swore a silent oath. Standing next to Charlotte was Cluyne, his face pinched in an all too familiar scowl.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Without waiting for a reply, she backed up and quickly skirted around the card tables.

  “… You are mistaken, sir. I am quite sure that it is not a Somei Yoshino but a Shidarezakura depicted on the vase.” Charlotte’s voice was as firm as the decorative ironwork framing the cabinet’s glass doors. “Do take a closer look at the shape of the leaf.”

  Her grandfather grumbled something under his breath and reached into his pocket for a pair of spectacles. “Hmmph,” he snorted, once they were perched on his nose. “You may—may, I say—be right.”

  “Forgive me, Charlotte,” interrupted Kate in a rush. “I lost all track of time.”

  “That is quite all right, my dear. You looked to be enjoying a spirited discussion with the gentlemen.”

  “Yes, it is always interesting to hear different points of view…” Argument was stimulating. Only now was she aware that the debate had brought a touch of heat to her face. Strangely enough, Charlotte also seemed to have two hot spots of color on her cheeks.

  Whether from anger or embarrassment was impossible to discern in the candlelight.

  “Thank you for keeping Lady Fenimore company, Your Grace,” said Kate in a rush. “But we need not impose on your hospitality any longer.” Turning to Charlotte, she took her arm. “Come, I’m anxious to show you the book of botanical prints from America.”

  Cluyne’s frown deepened for an instant before he stepped aside to let them pass.

  “I apologize,” whispered Kate as she led the way to a sofa near the crackling fire. “I hope you were not stuck there with Cluyne for long.”

  “Long enough to get into a disagreement on the species of cherry tree shown on his Ming Dynasty vase.”

  “Lud, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Her friend quirked a grin. “He was forced to concede his error.”

  “He ought to know better than to challenge a ‘Sinner’ on a question of science.”

  “I think that I shock him,” said Charlotte cheerfully. “How nice to know that at my age I can still tweak a few noses.”

  Kate made a face. “I don’t mean to disparage your accomplishment, but it doesn’t take much to upset the duke. He has no sense of humor.”

  Charlotte looked thoughtful. “Actually, I think he does. He just hasn’t been encouraged to show it.”

  “Perhaps you are right.” Though she didn’t think so.

  “But let us leave off discussing Cluyne. Tell me about your conversation with the gentlemen.”

  “They were explaining some of the issues that shall be decided during the coming months in Vienna,” said Kate. “Which, by the by, sounds like a fascinating city.”

  “So I have heard. It is a center of music and art, as well as learning.” Charlotte paused. “And the pastries are said to be divine.”

  “Just imagine,” she mused. “It will be an impressive gathering of people from all over the Continent….”

  • • •

  Marco watched Kate from over the top of his playing cards. The candles cast a ring of gilded light around her hair. A softly shimmering halo. Though God knows, the lady was no angel.

  Not with her devil-be-damned defiance of Society’s rules.

  Her lips twitched in response to something her companion said, and he felt his own body stir with a sudden spasm of heat. A throaty laugh floated through the air, its salt-roughened sound leaving a wake of pebbled gooseflesh as it slid over his skin.

  What was it about Kate Woodbridge that aroused such a visceral physical reaction in him?

  Shadows played across her face. Light and dark. Innocence and experience. Aquamarine eyes, swirling with hints of sunbeams and storms. Beckoning him to strip naked and dive into their depths.

  A surge of pure, primal lust welled up inside him. Oh, he was evil—truly evil—to be thinking of how luscious her honey-colored hair would look fanned out on a tangle of creamy white sheets, how sweet her bare breasts would taste against his tongue. How sensuous her sleek, sweat-sheened body would feel beneath his, rising and falling with the same inexorable rhythm as the ocean tides.

  Evil. But then, he had never pretended to be a saint.

  Hell, the list of his sins would stretch from here to Hades and back again. Still, bad as he was, he didn’t usually sink so low as to fantasize about seducing a virgin. Tightening his grip on the cards, Marco fought down a twinge of guilt. He was debauched but not depraved. His bedmates were all equally jaded souls who understood the rules of their naughty games. Expect nothing more than a moment of fleeting pleasure.

  Despite the strange rippling of darkness he sometimes saw in her gaze, Kate Woodbridge was not of his world. The hint of hidden secrets was just an illusion. She was a creature of the day and he was a creature of the night. Her passion was for living, growing things, while his own soul had long since shriveled to dust.

  Causing a death, no matter if it was accidental, changed one’s life forever.

  A whispering of silk fanned the fire to a sudden blaze of burnt-gold flames. Kate rose along with her elderly friend and smoothed her skirts over her hips.

  Marco imagined his hands tracing those same shapely contours and curves, and suddenly all his good intentions seemed to fall by the wayside. It wasn’t as if he was actually going to deflower the lady, he rationalized. Just tease a touch or two over her lovely petals. She wasn’t so innocent that she had never experienced a man’s advances. As a connoisseur of female reactions, he knew she had been kissed before.

  And enjoyed it, no matter that she tried to hide her reaction.

  So surely there was no real harm in a little sporting flirtation…

/>   A nudge brought him back to the game at hand. “Your turn to play, Ghiradelli.”

  Choosing a discard at random, he tossed it down.

  His partner groaned and shot him a pained look.

  Shoving himself back from the table, Marco stood up and relinquished his chair. Kate and her friend had just bade her grandfather good night and left the room. “If you don’t mind, I think I shall step outside for a smoke.”

  He was not alone in abandoning the formality of the duke’s drawing room. A set of French doors led out to the stone terrace, where a handful of other gentlemen were already lighting up cigars. The flare of the glowing coals dotted the deepening twilight, like oversized fireflies in the night. A cool breeze ruffled through the greenery bordering the balustrades, mingling the pungent tobacco smoke with the subtle fragrance of roses and hyacinth.

  Someone had brought a bottle of brandy with him, and the soft splash of the spirits passed from glass to glass. The mood was always a bit reserved at the beginning of a large house party, as guests became acquainted and assessed whose company was worth keeping. It was particularly true for this gathering, thought Marco as he lounged against the railing and surveyed the others with an air of casual nonchalance.

  It would not be easy to see beneath the diplomatic smiles, the practiced lies, to discern who were allies and who were enemies.

  All the more reason to keep his mind on his work, Marco reminded himself. With Lynsley already thinking that he was slipping, he couldn’t afford a misstep.

  Russia in league with Prussia. Austria taking sides with the Kingdom of Saxony. France, in the form of the legendary Prince Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand, determined to have a say in how the new map of Europe would be drawn. Blowing out a mouthful of smoke, Marco made a mental review of the reports that he had read. Lynsley must suspect that some intrigue was afoot here. The marquess did not waste time or resources on mere conjecture.

  Vronskov and Von Seilig did not seem overly friendly, but appearances could, of course, be deceiving. Rochambert merited close observation, for France needed to forge an alliance with one of the other European powers in order to have a bargaining chip at the peace conference table. And then, the Spanish and Danish envoys were minor players… or were they?

  As Marco surveyed the smiling faces, he couldn’t help wondering what scheming was going on beneath the surface show of unity.

  Deceit and deception. Politics was an ugly business, especially when the stakes were so high. So was espionage, he admitted. But at least he believed that he was toiling for a higher good. There wasn’t much in his life that he was proud of. However, his work with Lynsley was the one exception.

  “A pleasant evening, though a trifle dull compared to the delights of London.” Lord Tappan crossed the tiles and paused to flick a bit of ash from his cigar. “No doubt things will become a bit livelier.”

  “So I would imagine,” replied Marco blandly.

  Tappan smoked in silence for a few moments. “As you heard, I plan to ride over to my estate tomorrow morning in order to fetch several books for Miss Woodbridge and her friend. Would you care to join me?”

  “Why not?”

  “Excellent. I shall meet you in the stables at eight.” After another few puffs, Tappan drifted away.

  Yet another relationship to sort out, thought Marco as he resumed his study of the other guests. Tappan’s exact role had not been spelled out by Lynsley. He might have been asked to share his ministry’s information on the foreigners. Or he might have been asked to keep an eye on Marco’s behavior and report any dereliction of duty. Espionage was a dirty business. No emotion, no rules, no remorse. Which was why it suited him to perfection.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lord Allenham step out into the night, accompanied by his sister, the widowed Countess of Duxbury. In the light of the oil lamps flanking the doorway, the coppery gleam of his curling side whiskers clashed with his florid complexion. A big, beefy man, the baron had a look of well-fed complacency about him. And yet, there was a certain hungry light in his eyes.

  Like a man looking to snap up a tasty morsel, no matter how full his ample stomach was.

  From Lynsley’s notes on the guest list, Marco knew that Allenham sat on the governing board of the Northern Mercantile Exchange, a highly profitable private trading company that dealt in shipbuilding supplies from the Baltic region. Timber, turpentine, pine tar—all were critical commodities for the British Admiralty, which maintained the most powerful navy in the world. And as the Empire spread to the far corners of the globe, new merchant fleets would be needed to carry the English way of life to the new colonies.

  The baron looked around briefly, then headed straight for where Von Seilig stood sipping his wine.

  Marco waited a moment before beginning a leisurely stroll along the length of the outer railing. Prussia controlled some of the most important commercial ports on the North Sea. But if the rumors were true, and a new state of Poland was created at the Congress in Vienna, then the trade agreements could change dramatically in the region. It would be interesting to overhear what the two gentlemen had to say to each other.

  Edging closer, keeping to the shadows of the large decorative urns, he caught a glimpse of the Lady Duxbury’s profile through the leafy twists of ivy. Unlike Kate Woodbridge, the countess was a lady whose innocence was not in question. According to the whispers he had heard, the buxom beauty was rather free with her favors. Not that he found anything wrong with that. He had always thought it absurdly hypocritical for men to judge women any differently than they judged themselves.

  Bathed in the moonlight, her face had a pale pearlescent glow. And yet, oddly enough, the effect hardened rather than softened her features. The same could probably be said for his own jaded looks, reflected Marco. Cynicism polished to the smoothness of fine marble. Exquisitely sculpted. Impervious to emotion.

  Perhaps he should consider bedding her, just to keep boredom at bay.

  Lady Duxbury laughed at something her brother said, and for some reason the idea did not seem terribly appealing. Her voice had a brittleness to it—all jagged edges and sharp corners. As opposed to the lush, liquid sound of Kate Woodbridge’s amusement.

  Marco looked away to the mist-shrouded gardens and concentrated on what the gentlemen were saying. It was not hard to hear them, for the conversation was turning increasingly heated.

  “Nein, my mind is made up on the matter, sir.” Von Seilig’s words cut through the stillness. “And nothing you can say or do will change the advice I intend to give to von Humboldt and my king.”

  “We’ll see about that,” muttered Allenham. “We have more power and influence than you imagine.” Taking his sister’s arm, he pivoted for the door. “Come, Jocelyn.”

  As the countess turned, her gaze glided over the urn’s foliage. She paused for a moment as her eyes found his, a half smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Despite the coolness of the evening, she snapped open her fan and fluttered it over her décolletage.

  Tempting.

  The lady knew her charms and was not afraid to flaunt them. Marco watched her go, but decided not to follow. Not tonight. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the last several days and couldn’t afford to have his wits clouded come morning. An empty bed wouldn’t kill him.

  The other guests were beginning to file inside and retire to the guest wing. He hesitated, feeling oddly restless despite his fatigue. Deciding a breath of country air might help clear his head, he took the terrace stairs down to the gardens.

  Chapter Eleven

  Good night, my dear.” Charlotte opened the door to her bed chamber. “Really, you need not have left the party early on my account. At my age, I find that I no longer have the stamina to stay up past midnight.”

  “I am fatigued myself,” replied Kate. “All the activities of a house party are rather exhausting.”

  Her friend pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Yet you seem to be enjoying yourself.”

 
; “I suppose I am,” admitted Kate. “The guests are more interesting than I expected.”

  “They are,” agreed Charlotte. “It is always stimulating to hear a spirited exchange of ideas.”

  Thinking of her grandfather’s earlier comments in the library, she made a face. “Certain opinions are best left unsaid. I apologize again for Cluyne’s overbearing rudeness this afternoon.”

  “Oh, pish.” Charlotte waved off the words. “Like most men, the duke clearly has a low regard for bluestocking females. It’s rather fun to argue with him and see the look of shock on his face.” Cupping her candle, she stifled a yawn. “I shall see you at breakfast. Are you sure you wish to spend the morning in the library looking at books instead of joining the others in the archery games? Colonel Von Seilig seems eager to offer instruction.”

  “Quite sure,” said Kate. “I’d only be tempted to put an arrow in Vronskov’s bum.”

  A chuckle stirred the shadows. “Let’s have no blood spilled. A murder might upset the party.”

  She swallowed hard before forcing a laugh. “Right. I’ll try to restrain my violent urges.”

  Charlotte withdrew, and Kate moved down the darkened corridor to her own rooms. But despite the late hour, she found her head was too unsettled for sleep. Maybe it was the champagne, or the effect of being in the company of so many new people.

  Sighing, she hesitated at her door. She wasn’t in the mood for any further encounters, but this part of the manor house appeared quiet. The party would likely last for another hour or two. Treading lightly over the Oriental runner, Kate made her way to the back stairwell and down to the one spot amidst all her grandfather’s ducal splendor where she felt at home.

  Clicking open the heavy brass-framed glass doors, she slipped into the conservatory.

  All at once, she was in another world. In contrast to the dry formality of the drawing room, the air was alive and untamed—its wet warmth caressed her cheeks and tickled her nose with a riot of earthy, exotic scents. Kate sucked in a deep breath, savoring the swirling rush of sensations. She loved the wildness of nature, the heady sense of freedom inherent in its colors and shapes.