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Synopsis
Kate Woodbridge has spent most of her life sailing to exotic ports around the globe, acquiring an expertise in botany, along with a few less ladylike skills. So when a deathbed promise to her parents brings her to London to seek reconciliation with her grandfather, the imperious Duke of Cluyne, she feels like a fish out of water. Her outspoken views and fiery temper tend to set off sparks in Society-especially with the rakish Conte of Como. A devil-may-care rogue, Marco finds the alluring and mysterious Kate a tempting target for his flirtations. But when murder strikes at the duke's country house party he begins to suspect that she's hiding a dark secret. He has his own clandestine reasons for offering to help her prove her innocence . . . And so begins a journey of dangerous deception that leads from England to the glittering ballrooms of Vienna, where Marco and Kate must duel with a deadly villain . . . and their own explosive attraction.
Release date: February 1, 2011
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 376
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To Tempt a Rake
Cara Elliott
Ah, a naked lady. How lovely.”
Katharine Kylie Woodbridge felt a whisper of breath tease against her neck, its gossamer touch warm and wicked on her bare
flesh.
“A naked statue,” she corrected. Ignoring the sardonic smile reflected in the diamond-paned glass, she carefully turned to the next painting
in the portfolio.
The Conte of Como strolled a step closer and perched a hip on the edge of the library table. “It appears that Lord Giacomo
has quite a talent for painting the female form,” he drawled, leaning his well-tailored shoulder a little closer.
A little too close.
As heat speared through the thin layers of silk and wool, like a hot blade melting butter, Kate tried to quell the liquid
quickening of her pulse. Don’t, she warned herself. Oh, don’t react. It would be flirting with danger—nay, utter disgrace—to encourage the attentions of
Giovanni Marco Musto della Ghiradelli.
Of all the men in London, he was the only one who might recognize the truth….
“Do you not agree?” The conte—who preferred Marco to his more formal string of names—traced a fingertip along the deckled
edge of the watercolor.
Perhaps if she were rude enough, she could make him go away.
“Indeed,” replied Kate, keeping her voice deliberately cool. “Lord James is a highly accomplished artist.” She paused a fraction.
“How nice to see a gentleman apply himself to mastering a laudable skill. So many aristocrats idle away their lives in debauched
revelries.”
“I, too, have devoted a great deal of time to the serious study of feminine shape and proportion,” replied Marco, a flutter
of amusement shading his gaze.
No man ought to have such long, luxurious lashes. Or, for that matter, such exquisite brandy-gold eyes, or such a supremely sensual mouth. Kate quickly looked back at the
painting. And it was most unfair of the Almighty to bless a rakehell rogue with beautiful bones and hair that tumbled in sin-black curls to kiss the
ridge of his shoulders.
No wonder he was said to be the very devil with women.
“And I would say that Lord Giacomo could use a little work on sketching the shape of a lady’s breast, si?” went on Marco. Lowering his aquiline nose to within inches of the textured paper, he made a show of studying the painting
from several angles. “It’s not quite perfect. Perhaps he should draw from life instead of inanimate stone.” The indecently
long lashes gave another silky swoosh. “After all, he now has a lovely model close at hand.”
“What a very vulgar suggestion, sir,” replied Kate, pinching back the urge to laugh with a thin-lipped frown. “Especially as the lady in question is your cousin.”
“You don’t think Lord Giacomo will be tempted to sketch his new bride in the nude?” asked Marco with a provocative smile.
“As a connoisseur of Italian art, he seems to appreciate seeing the principles of symmetry and proportion stripped to their
bare essentials.”
The mention of body parts, clothed or otherwise, was absolutely forbidden in Polite Society, but as usual the conte seemed
to take obscene delight in making a mockery of English manners. Which, in truth, was rather refreshing. She, too, found all
the complex rituals and rules of the ton horribly constricting.
However, as she could never, ever admit that to Marco, Kate snapped the portfolio shut with an exaggerated grimace. “You are
outrageously lewd, sir. And crude.”
“So is Lord Byron,” murmured Marco. “Yet women find him… intriguing, do they not?”
“That’s because Lord Byron is intriguing. He writes wildly romantic poetry when he’s not misbehaving. While you—I shudder to think what you do when you’re
not flirting or drinking.”
Marco rose and smoothed a wrinkle from his elegant trousers. “I might surprise you, bella.”
Her eyes flared in alarm at the whisper of Italian. Dear God, surely he didn’t suspect that there was any connection between
a long-ago night in Naples and the present….
No. Impossible.
But all the more reason to keep him at arm’s length.
Quickly masking her reaction with a mocking laugh, Kate hastened to add, “Ha! And pigs may fly.”
“Have I made you angry?” His sensual mouth slid into a lazy smile. “Come, let us cry pax. I was merely trying to tease a touch of color to your cheeks with my banter.”
“Your mere presence is enough to do that,” retorted Kate. “Your arrogance is really quite intolerable.”
Marco clapped a hand to his heart.
Assuming that he had one, thought Kate. The gossip among the ladies of London was that the conte possessed only one sensitive organ—and it was not located in the proximity of his chest.
“You wound me, Miss Kate-Katharine.”
“Actually, I’ve only insulted you,” she replied. “You are lucky I am wielding only my tongue and not a rapier. Else your voice
would be an octave higher.”
A casual flick of his wrist set the fobs on his watch chain to dancing against the silk of his waistcoat. “Trust me, Miss
Kate-Katharine. If we were to cross blades, you would not come out on top.”
To Kate’s chagrin, she felt a fresh flush of heat rise to her face.
Marco slid a step closer and flashed a lascivious wink. “I am considered one of the best swordsmen in all of Europe.”
Much as she wished to riposte with a clever retort, she found herself momentarily at a loss for words. For all his braggadocio,
he wasn’t exaggerating his skills with sharpened steel. Even if she hadn’t known for a fact that he routinely bested Angelo,
the premier fencing master in London, she would have guessed at his physical prowess. In her former life, she had learned
to assess a man’s strengths and weaknesses in one glance.
And Marco? His gestures were deceptively lazy, but beneath the pose of an indolent idler, the conte moved with a predatory grace. Like a lean, lithe panther. A sleek wild animal, all whipcord muscle and coiled quickness.
But that was not the only reason he was dangerous….
Recovering her voice, Kate stepped back and slowly drew on her kidskin gloves. “What a pity we cannot put such a claim to
the test.” He was not the only one who could employ theatrics.
Marco watched the soft leather slide over her skin. “You could use one of those to slap me across the face and challenge me
to a duel.” The hint of laughter in his voice—a rumble redolent of aged brandy and smoky boudoirs—sent a tiny shiver prickling
down her spine.
“Tempting,” she said. “But I mustn’t forget that I am a lady.”
“There is no danger that such a fact will ever escape my mind, cara.”
Danger. The word stirred another whispered warning inside her head. Kate averted her eyes, reminding herself that she mustn’t encourage
him to look too carefully at her features. The chances were razor-thin, but he just might remember…
“No doubt because you rarely think of anything but sex,” she said tartly, trying to deflect his attention. “Do you never tire
of the subject?”
At that, Marco laughed aloud. “On rare occasions, I do think of other things.”
“Now you have shocked me, sir.”
“Not as much as you interest me, Miss Kate-Katharine—”
“Do stop calling me by that ridiculous moniker,” she interrupted.
“Izzz wrong?” he asked, greatly exaggerating his accent. “My cousin Alessandra calls you Kate and your maid calls you Katharine.
Knowing the English fondness for double names, I assumed—”
“Please spare me the long-winded explanations.” As she preferred a more informal name to ‘Katharine,’ she was called ‘Kate’
by her close friends. Among whom the Conte of Como did not number. “And please address me properly. To you, I am ‘Miss Woodbridge.’
”
“Propriety is so boring,” he murmured. “I should think that a lady of your intellectual inquisitiveness would agree.”
Ignoring the remark, Kate stepped away from the display table. “If you will excuse me, I must find the bride and groom and
take my leave.”
“Why the rush back to London? Most of the wedding guests are staying until tomorrow.”
“Charlotte has a lecture on medieval metallurgy to prepare for the Mayfair Institute of History and Science.” The elderly
scholar was, like herself, a member of the Circle of Scientific Sibyls, a small group of intellectual females who met each
week to share their knowledge. And their friendship.
Given that the ton did not approve of serious learning for ladies, the five members had taken to calling themselves by a more informal moniker—the
Circle of Sin. Kate felt a small smile twitch at the corners of her mouth. Without the stalwart support of the ‘Sinners’ over
the past year, she wasn’t quite sure how she would have navigated the uncharted waters of Polite Society.
“Sounds fascinating,” drawled Marco.
“Yes. It is.” She raised her forefinger and crooked it up and down. “After all, without science, your steel might bend at an inopportune moment.”
He was suddenly blocking her way. “I have heard of the phenomenon, but having never experienced it, I am not sure what could
cause such a malfunction. Perhaps you would care to explain it to me?”
She gasped as his coat brushed against her breasts, the heat of him singeing through the silk. “Nemernic.”
The dark laugh sounded again, far too close for comfort. “I speak enough Romanian to know that I have just been called a very bad name.” His wide, wicked mouth was now only a hairsbreadth from hers. “I thought you weren’t going to forget that you
are a lady.”
“I—” Her words were cut off as his lips came down on hers. Their touch was shockingly sensual, like sun-warmed velvet stroking
the most sensitive spot of flesh.
The sensation held her in thrall, but only for a heartbeat. Recovering her wits, Kate struck a sharp uppercut to his jaw,
her knuckles landing with a good deal more force than his teasing kiss.
Marco fell back a step. His nostrils flared as he drew in a taut breath and then he let it out slowly, looking oddly bemused.
“Where did a gently bred female learn to punch like that?”
“Never mind,” she muttered, surreptitiously flexing her fist. He had a very solid chin.
His nose quivered, like a bird dog on the hunt. “You smell like oranges and… something else.”
Damn.
Before Marco could go on, a shadow slanted over the alcove.
“Oh, there you are, Kate.” Alessandra della Giamatti—now Lady James Jacquehart Pierson, wife of the Duke of Ledyard’s youngest son—paused in the oak-framed doorway, her new husband
by her side. “Excuse me, are we interrupting a private conversation?”
“Ciao, Alessa,” answered Marco. “No, your learned friend and I were just having a very stimulating discussion on fencing.”
A tiny furrow formed between her brows as Alessandra spotted the lingering red welt on his jaw. “Fencing,” she repeated softly.
“Si, and had I known science was such a provocative field of study, I would have asked to join your little group ages ago.” He
moved quickly to kiss her on both cheeks and added a rapid-fire volley of Italian. “You are more beautiful than ever this
morning, cara. Marriage must agree with you.”
“And you are more incorrigible than ever,” murmured Alessandra, deflecting the sly innuendos with a wry smile. Turning to
Kate, she said, “If my cousin is annoying you, feel free to tell him to va’ all’ inferno.”
Go to hell.
Kate made a face. “He’s probably been there and back several times over.”
“Aye.” James Jacquehart Pierson chuckled. With his midnight locks, olive complexion, and muscled military bearing, he was
known throughout London as “Black Jack.” But Alessandra had assured Kate that he had a heart of gold. “I imagine that the
devil booted him back to our world, after finding him far too obnoxious to tolerate for any length of time.”
Marco contrived to look hurt. “And here I thought we were amicos, Lord Giacomo.”
“Friends?” Jack arched a dark brow. “Don’t press your luck, Ghiradelli. Your presence here is tolerable. Barely. In fact…”
Leaving the men to their verbal sparring, Kate drew Alessandra into one of the arched alcoves and brushed a kiss to her cheek.
“Much as I hate to agree with your cousin on anything, you do look glorious. And happy.”
“I am,” replied Alessandra. Which for her was a notable display of emotion. Of all the ‘Sinners,’ she was the most reserved
about her feelings and her past, even with her closest friends.
With good reason, acknowledged Kate. Alessandra had a dark secret from her past life in Italy that had recently come to light and threatened
to destroy both her and her young daughter. But Black Jack Pierson, a highly decorated veteran of the Peninsular campaign,
had proved his mettle in love as well as war by vanquishing a cunning enemy and winning her heart.
Glancing at the rows of leather-bound books, Kate felt her lips quirk. Just like a storybook hero. What a pity that a noble knight could not transform from ink and paper to flesh and blood.
Not that any mortal man could slay her dragon. Some secrets were worse than others…
Forcing a smile, Kate gave a light laugh. “We are all so delighted for you.”
Alessandra squeezed her hand. “I am so grateful for my friendship with all of the ‘Sinners.’ I would never have survived the
last few months without it.”
“That is what friends are for.” She paused, feeling a little pang of regret that she would be leaving Ledyard Manor that afternoon.
“Speaking of which, I was just coming to tell you that Charlotte is anxious to return to London, on account of her upcoming lecture.”
“Of course.” Alessandra slanted a look at Jack and Marco, who were still exchanging barbs. “Come, let us fetch Ciara and Ariel
from the conservatory, and visit her room while she finishes her packing.”
The idea of circling their little group, if only for a short while, lifted Kate’s spirits. “What an excellent suggestion.
You don’t mind leaving Jack to fend for himself?”
“Oh, once he and Marco stop needling each other, they will actually enjoy conversing on Roman art and antiquities. For all
of my cousin’s frivolous teasing, he is very knowledgeable on the subject.”
“I never would have guessed that the conte had any interest in intellectual subjects,” she replied slowly.
“Marco has a number of unexpected facets to his character, which he takes great pains to hide.” Alessandra’s voice took on
a wry note. “But then, who am I to talk?”
Kate hesitated for a moment before answering. “I daresay we all have things that we keep to ourselves.”
Let her go.
Assuming an expression of bored indifference, Marco slowly looked away from watching the two ladies walk off.
“Set your sights elsewhere,” murmured Jack, as if reading his mind. “You may be her cousin, but Alessandra will chop off your
testicolos and feed them to the Tower ravens if you try to play your usual wicked games with Miss Woodbridge.”
Though he was thinking much the same thing, Marco reacted with a cynical smirk. “What makes you think she wouldn’t welcome
my attentions?”
“The fact that you are a conceited coxcomb and your arrogance is insufferable at times.”
“Si.” Marco widened his mouth to a wolfish grin. “But most females find that intriguing.”
“Alessandra’s friends are not like most females,” pointed out Jack. “Their intellect sets them apart, so you can’t expect
to charm them with your usual approach.” He paused. “I imagine that Miss Woodbridge is smart enough to see that you are an
arse.”
“Trust me, Lord Giacomo, I don’t need advice on flirting from you.”
“No? Well, from what I have observed, you don’t appear to be making much progress on your own.”
Leaning a shoulder on the fluted molding, Marco watched the last little flutter of sea-green silk disappear down the corridor.
To be sure, Kate Woodbridge was no ordinary young lady. But it was not just her brains that set her apart. There was an unexpected
glint of grittiness shading her lovely aquamarine eyes. As if she had seen the grim realities of the world outside of the
gilded confines of Mayfair’s mansions.
Which was, of course, highly unlikely. Kate was the granddaughter of the Duke of Cluyne, one of the highest sticklers of Polite
Society. She had been born into a life of wealth and privilege and was surrounded by an army of servants ready to do her bidding.
Such coddled innocence bored him to perdition. So why did the sway of her shapely hips provoke the urge to follow?
“Perhaps I haven’t tried very hard,” drawled Marco, turning his attention to the folds of his cravat. Smoothing a finger over
the starched linen, he added, “It’s hardly a fair match of skills. And contrary to what you may think, I do not deliberately toy with an innocent young lady’s affections.”
Jack gave a mock grimace. “Good God, you mean to say that you have a conscience?”
Marco straightened from his slouch. “You military heroes are not the only ones with a code of honor.”
“Well, you need not wage any great moral battle with your self-proclaimed noble scruples. According to Alessandra, her friend
can look out for herself.”
Marco let out a grunt of laughter. “Miss Woodbridge may be clever and possess a cutting tongue, but that does not mean she
is equipped to deal with the darker side of life.” He curled a lip. “Rapscallion roués, jaded fortune hunters. Or rakehell
rogues like me.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” countered Jack. “From what I gather, Miss Woodbridge has had a rather eccentric upbringing. Her
mother tossed away title and fortune to elope with an American sea captain. She’s spent most of her life sailing around the
world.”
He felt his sardonic smile thin ever so slightly. His cousin had not talked much about her friends with him. No doubt feeling
that he couldn’t quite be trusted with the intimate details of their lives.
“The fact is, I think she had a rather rough time of it these last few years,” continued Jack. “Her parents died of a fever
within days of each other, and only a deathbed promise to them brought Miss Woodbridge here to seek a reconciliation with
her grandfather.” He shrugged. “Apparently the waters at Cluyne House are anything but calm. She’s fiercely independent, which
tends to make waves with the duke.”
“That begins to explain her salty language,” murmured Marco thoughtfully. Today was not the first time she had let fly with
a very unladylike word.
Jack chuckled. “Alessandra says she can swear like a sailor in nearly a dozen different dialects.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes, but not nearly as interesting as the collection of rare books I have here on classical architecture.” For Jack, ancient
Rome was a far more fascinating topic of conversation than Katharine Kylie Woodbridge. “Come, there is a seventeenth-century
volume of engravings on the Temple of Jupiter that I want to show you….”
Marco reluctantly pushed aside all thoughts about ladies—naked or otherwise—to follow Jack to one of the display tables set
by the bank of leaded-glass windows. Yet somehow the tantalizing scent of Sicilian neroli and wild thyme stayed with him, teasing at his nostrils.
Strange, it seemed hauntingly familiar, but he just couldn’t place it.
And no wonder, he thought, dismissing the notion with a sardonic shrug. He had inhaled too many perfumes in his wicked, wanton life to
recall them all. In truth, none of the women had been very memorable.
Save for one clever whore in Naples who had dared…
“Pay attention, Ghiradelli. If you drool on that Doric column, I swear I shall cut off your tongue.”
What is that horrible smell?”
“Fish guts and dried cow manure.” Kate shifted the inkwell on her desk and kept on writing up her notes, intent on catching
up with her botanical work now that she was back home in London. “Sorry, I thought I had washed all of it off my hands.”
Her maid eyed the streak of slime on the hem of Kate’s work dress, which was slowly oozing onto the priceless Aubusson carpet.
“Perhaps you might want to consider a change of clothing.”
Kate glanced down. “Shite,” she muttered under her breath.
“That’s another way of putting it,” replied Alice, who now was very used to her charge’s peculiar quirks. Unlike the half-dozen
or so predecessors, none of whom had lasted more than a month, the maid was not intimidated by noxious stains or foul language.
“However, it does sound a trifle more ladylike when you say it in French.”
“Yes, but I keep telling you, I am—”
“Not a real lady,” chorused Alice. “Thank heavens. Otherwise this position would be awfully boring.”
Kate grinned. “It was certainly a stroke of luck that Simpson found you. None of the others sent by the employment agency
had any sense of humor.” She tapped the tip of her pen to her chin. “It wasn’t as if I deliberately put the dissected frog’s
leg in my sash to terrify poor Susan. I simply forgot it was there.”
“It wasn’t luck,” said Alice. “After that incident, he gave up trying to find respectable candidates through an agency. I
am acquainted with his cousin—don’t ask how—and as the poor man was at his wit’s end, he was willing to overlook the rather
sketchy explanation of my past positions in return for me promising that I didn’t faint at the sight of dissected reptiles.”
“That doesn’t happen often. I was merely trying to duplicate a lecture I heard at the Royal Zoological Institute.” Kate brushed
a leaf from her sleeve. “As you know, my specialty is botany.”
“Is a fish now considered a plant?” asked Alice, giving another exaggerated sniff.
“I was just experimenting with a new formula for fertilizer. My friend Ariel and her new husband are working on developing
a new strain of Papaver somniferum—that is a type of poppy from the East—but the seedlings are quite delicate.”
Alice pinched at her nose. “Maybe your next project could be on formulating botanical oils for perfume.”
The mention of fragrance caused Kate to suck in a slow breath and hold it in her lungs. She had always made up her own scent,
a unique mixture of sweet spices and earthy herbs. The ingredients came from a tiny shop in Sicily that overlooked the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was, she supposed,
a signature of sorts. Something that was hers, and hers alone.
Exhale, she told herself. Men were not subtle creatures. Neroli and wild thyme were used in myriad feminine fragrances. Marco had sniffed around far too many women to remember a fleeting
encounter in Naples.
“An excellent suggestion,” said Kate casually. “We could open a shop on Bond Street to earn extra pin money.”
Alice pulled a face. “Can you imagine his reaction if the duke heard that his granddaughter was going into trade?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I can,” answered Kate, unable to keep the edge of resentment from her voice. “Cluyne turned my
mother out on her ear without a farthing when she dared to marry an American merchant sea captain against his lordly wishes.”
Alice, who had heard a brief overview of her employer’s history, clucked in sympathy. “Some people are just very rigid in
their thinking, especially when they are surrounded by toad-eaters and flatterers who tell them from birth that they are always
right.” The maid thought for a moment. “No one defies a duke. So it must be hard for him to know when he is right or wrong.”
Kate sighed. “That is a very wise observation, Alice.” She took up her inkwell and set the thick, viscous liquid to swirling
against the cut crystal. “But it’s hard to forgive him all the same. His pride is so… so bloody unyielding.” The ink spun
faster and faster, creating a vortex that seemed to suck her mood into its black depth.
“I’m only here because I made a deathbed promise to my parents that I would seek a reconciliation with my grandfather,” she
continued. But things were not sailing along very smoothly. “To be honest, if I had my choice, I would book passage on the first merchant ship sailing from the East India docks and
never look back.”
“There is something to be said for a life free from worry and want,” murmured Alice. “Here you are surrounded by luxury and
people anxious to do your bidding.”
“Yes, and most of the time it makes me feel like a bird trapped in a gilded cage. I’m used to my freedom, my independence,
and I prefer to exercise my own judgment, rather than be treated as if I had naught but feathers stuffed between my ears.”
Her maid smothered a snort. “That is for sure.”
Kate tried to look offended, but a telltale smile curled the corners of her mouth. “Am I really that bad?”
“Well, let us just say that next time you wish to exercise your independence, try not to do it in front of Angelo’s fencing
salon. I’m not sure those two young gentlemen have yet recovered from having you threaten to cut off their cods.”
“I didn’t!” she protested. “Not precisely.”
The incident had been a touch flamboyant, even for her. But Kate had thought Alessandra was in imminent danger and needed to speak with the
infamous Giovanni Marco Musto della Ghiradelli without delay. It wasn’t entirely her fault that the conte had chosen to saunter
out into the street clad in a sweat-damp shirt, skintight buckskins, and bare feet.
“You may not have mentioned a specific anatomical appendage, but they weren’t taking any chances.” Alice primly smoothed at her skirts. “In the future, please try to be more discreet. I like this job, but the duke will have my
guts for garters if I let you stir up a whiff of scandal.”
“Hmmph,” she huffed under her breath. “Had he been more circumspect with his own daughter, I would not be such a black blot
on his precious ducal dignity.”
“Society may remember the old scandal of your mother’s elopement, but in their eyes, you are a perfectly respectable young
lady who has grown up in Boston.” Coals crackled in the hearth, speckling the ashes with a shower of orange sparks. “Let us
try not to upset their assumptions.”
Kate went back to her writing.
Moving to the delicate pearwood escritoire, Alice began sorting through the pile of invitations. “Shall you be wearing the
indigo-figured silk gown to Lady Hamden’s soiree tonight?”
“Drat, I had forgotten all about that.” She slapped down her pen. “The dowager is dull as dishwater, and her musical programs
usually sound like a sackful of wet cats trying to claw their way loose. I think I shall cry off.”
“You’ve squirmed out of the las. . .
Katharine Kylie Woodbridge felt a whisper of breath tease against her neck, its gossamer touch warm and wicked on her bare
flesh.
“A naked statue,” she corrected. Ignoring the sardonic smile reflected in the diamond-paned glass, she carefully turned to the next painting
in the portfolio.
The Conte of Como strolled a step closer and perched a hip on the edge of the library table. “It appears that Lord Giacomo
has quite a talent for painting the female form,” he drawled, leaning his well-tailored shoulder a little closer.
A little too close.
As heat speared through the thin layers of silk and wool, like a hot blade melting butter, Kate tried to quell the liquid
quickening of her pulse. Don’t, she warned herself. Oh, don’t react. It would be flirting with danger—nay, utter disgrace—to encourage the attentions of
Giovanni Marco Musto della Ghiradelli.
Of all the men in London, he was the only one who might recognize the truth….
“Do you not agree?” The conte—who preferred Marco to his more formal string of names—traced a fingertip along the deckled
edge of the watercolor.
Perhaps if she were rude enough, she could make him go away.
“Indeed,” replied Kate, keeping her voice deliberately cool. “Lord James is a highly accomplished artist.” She paused a fraction.
“How nice to see a gentleman apply himself to mastering a laudable skill. So many aristocrats idle away their lives in debauched
revelries.”
“I, too, have devoted a great deal of time to the serious study of feminine shape and proportion,” replied Marco, a flutter
of amusement shading his gaze.
No man ought to have such long, luxurious lashes. Or, for that matter, such exquisite brandy-gold eyes, or such a supremely sensual mouth. Kate quickly looked back at the
painting. And it was most unfair of the Almighty to bless a rakehell rogue with beautiful bones and hair that tumbled in sin-black curls to kiss the
ridge of his shoulders.
No wonder he was said to be the very devil with women.
“And I would say that Lord Giacomo could use a little work on sketching the shape of a lady’s breast, si?” went on Marco. Lowering his aquiline nose to within inches of the textured paper, he made a show of studying the painting
from several angles. “It’s not quite perfect. Perhaps he should draw from life instead of inanimate stone.” The indecently
long lashes gave another silky swoosh. “After all, he now has a lovely model close at hand.”
“What a very vulgar suggestion, sir,” replied Kate, pinching back the urge to laugh with a thin-lipped frown. “Especially as the lady in question is your cousin.”
“You don’t think Lord Giacomo will be tempted to sketch his new bride in the nude?” asked Marco with a provocative smile.
“As a connoisseur of Italian art, he seems to appreciate seeing the principles of symmetry and proportion stripped to their
bare essentials.”
The mention of body parts, clothed or otherwise, was absolutely forbidden in Polite Society, but as usual the conte seemed
to take obscene delight in making a mockery of English manners. Which, in truth, was rather refreshing. She, too, found all
the complex rituals and rules of the ton horribly constricting.
However, as she could never, ever admit that to Marco, Kate snapped the portfolio shut with an exaggerated grimace. “You are
outrageously lewd, sir. And crude.”
“So is Lord Byron,” murmured Marco. “Yet women find him… intriguing, do they not?”
“That’s because Lord Byron is intriguing. He writes wildly romantic poetry when he’s not misbehaving. While you—I shudder to think what you do when you’re
not flirting or drinking.”
Marco rose and smoothed a wrinkle from his elegant trousers. “I might surprise you, bella.”
Her eyes flared in alarm at the whisper of Italian. Dear God, surely he didn’t suspect that there was any connection between
a long-ago night in Naples and the present….
No. Impossible.
But all the more reason to keep him at arm’s length.
Quickly masking her reaction with a mocking laugh, Kate hastened to add, “Ha! And pigs may fly.”
“Have I made you angry?” His sensual mouth slid into a lazy smile. “Come, let us cry pax. I was merely trying to tease a touch of color to your cheeks with my banter.”
“Your mere presence is enough to do that,” retorted Kate. “Your arrogance is really quite intolerable.”
Marco clapped a hand to his heart.
Assuming that he had one, thought Kate. The gossip among the ladies of London was that the conte possessed only one sensitive organ—and it was not located in the proximity of his chest.
“You wound me, Miss Kate-Katharine.”
“Actually, I’ve only insulted you,” she replied. “You are lucky I am wielding only my tongue and not a rapier. Else your voice
would be an octave higher.”
A casual flick of his wrist set the fobs on his watch chain to dancing against the silk of his waistcoat. “Trust me, Miss
Kate-Katharine. If we were to cross blades, you would not come out on top.”
To Kate’s chagrin, she felt a fresh flush of heat rise to her face.
Marco slid a step closer and flashed a lascivious wink. “I am considered one of the best swordsmen in all of Europe.”
Much as she wished to riposte with a clever retort, she found herself momentarily at a loss for words. For all his braggadocio,
he wasn’t exaggerating his skills with sharpened steel. Even if she hadn’t known for a fact that he routinely bested Angelo,
the premier fencing master in London, she would have guessed at his physical prowess. In her former life, she had learned
to assess a man’s strengths and weaknesses in one glance.
And Marco? His gestures were deceptively lazy, but beneath the pose of an indolent idler, the conte moved with a predatory grace. Like a lean, lithe panther. A sleek wild animal, all whipcord muscle and coiled quickness.
But that was not the only reason he was dangerous….
Recovering her voice, Kate stepped back and slowly drew on her kidskin gloves. “What a pity we cannot put such a claim to
the test.” He was not the only one who could employ theatrics.
Marco watched the soft leather slide over her skin. “You could use one of those to slap me across the face and challenge me
to a duel.” The hint of laughter in his voice—a rumble redolent of aged brandy and smoky boudoirs—sent a tiny shiver prickling
down her spine.
“Tempting,” she said. “But I mustn’t forget that I am a lady.”
“There is no danger that such a fact will ever escape my mind, cara.”
Danger. The word stirred another whispered warning inside her head. Kate averted her eyes, reminding herself that she mustn’t encourage
him to look too carefully at her features. The chances were razor-thin, but he just might remember…
“No doubt because you rarely think of anything but sex,” she said tartly, trying to deflect his attention. “Do you never tire
of the subject?”
At that, Marco laughed aloud. “On rare occasions, I do think of other things.”
“Now you have shocked me, sir.”
“Not as much as you interest me, Miss Kate-Katharine—”
“Do stop calling me by that ridiculous moniker,” she interrupted.
“Izzz wrong?” he asked, greatly exaggerating his accent. “My cousin Alessandra calls you Kate and your maid calls you Katharine.
Knowing the English fondness for double names, I assumed—”
“Please spare me the long-winded explanations.” As she preferred a more informal name to ‘Katharine,’ she was called ‘Kate’
by her close friends. Among whom the Conte of Como did not number. “And please address me properly. To you, I am ‘Miss Woodbridge.’
”
“Propriety is so boring,” he murmured. “I should think that a lady of your intellectual inquisitiveness would agree.”
Ignoring the remark, Kate stepped away from the display table. “If you will excuse me, I must find the bride and groom and
take my leave.”
“Why the rush back to London? Most of the wedding guests are staying until tomorrow.”
“Charlotte has a lecture on medieval metallurgy to prepare for the Mayfair Institute of History and Science.” The elderly
scholar was, like herself, a member of the Circle of Scientific Sibyls, a small group of intellectual females who met each
week to share their knowledge. And their friendship.
Given that the ton did not approve of serious learning for ladies, the five members had taken to calling themselves by a more informal moniker—the
Circle of Sin. Kate felt a small smile twitch at the corners of her mouth. Without the stalwart support of the ‘Sinners’ over
the past year, she wasn’t quite sure how she would have navigated the uncharted waters of Polite Society.
“Sounds fascinating,” drawled Marco.
“Yes. It is.” She raised her forefinger and crooked it up and down. “After all, without science, your steel might bend at an inopportune moment.”
He was suddenly blocking her way. “I have heard of the phenomenon, but having never experienced it, I am not sure what could
cause such a malfunction. Perhaps you would care to explain it to me?”
She gasped as his coat brushed against her breasts, the heat of him singeing through the silk. “Nemernic.”
The dark laugh sounded again, far too close for comfort. “I speak enough Romanian to know that I have just been called a very bad name.” His wide, wicked mouth was now only a hairsbreadth from hers. “I thought you weren’t going to forget that you
are a lady.”
“I—” Her words were cut off as his lips came down on hers. Their touch was shockingly sensual, like sun-warmed velvet stroking
the most sensitive spot of flesh.
The sensation held her in thrall, but only for a heartbeat. Recovering her wits, Kate struck a sharp uppercut to his jaw,
her knuckles landing with a good deal more force than his teasing kiss.
Marco fell back a step. His nostrils flared as he drew in a taut breath and then he let it out slowly, looking oddly bemused.
“Where did a gently bred female learn to punch like that?”
“Never mind,” she muttered, surreptitiously flexing her fist. He had a very solid chin.
His nose quivered, like a bird dog on the hunt. “You smell like oranges and… something else.”
Damn.
Before Marco could go on, a shadow slanted over the alcove.
“Oh, there you are, Kate.” Alessandra della Giamatti—now Lady James Jacquehart Pierson, wife of the Duke of Ledyard’s youngest son—paused in the oak-framed doorway, her new husband
by her side. “Excuse me, are we interrupting a private conversation?”
“Ciao, Alessa,” answered Marco. “No, your learned friend and I were just having a very stimulating discussion on fencing.”
A tiny furrow formed between her brows as Alessandra spotted the lingering red welt on his jaw. “Fencing,” she repeated softly.
“Si, and had I known science was such a provocative field of study, I would have asked to join your little group ages ago.” He
moved quickly to kiss her on both cheeks and added a rapid-fire volley of Italian. “You are more beautiful than ever this
morning, cara. Marriage must agree with you.”
“And you are more incorrigible than ever,” murmured Alessandra, deflecting the sly innuendos with a wry smile. Turning to
Kate, she said, “If my cousin is annoying you, feel free to tell him to va’ all’ inferno.”
Go to hell.
Kate made a face. “He’s probably been there and back several times over.”
“Aye.” James Jacquehart Pierson chuckled. With his midnight locks, olive complexion, and muscled military bearing, he was
known throughout London as “Black Jack.” But Alessandra had assured Kate that he had a heart of gold. “I imagine that the
devil booted him back to our world, after finding him far too obnoxious to tolerate for any length of time.”
Marco contrived to look hurt. “And here I thought we were amicos, Lord Giacomo.”
“Friends?” Jack arched a dark brow. “Don’t press your luck, Ghiradelli. Your presence here is tolerable. Barely. In fact…”
Leaving the men to their verbal sparring, Kate drew Alessandra into one of the arched alcoves and brushed a kiss to her cheek.
“Much as I hate to agree with your cousin on anything, you do look glorious. And happy.”
“I am,” replied Alessandra. Which for her was a notable display of emotion. Of all the ‘Sinners,’ she was the most reserved
about her feelings and her past, even with her closest friends.
With good reason, acknowledged Kate. Alessandra had a dark secret from her past life in Italy that had recently come to light and threatened
to destroy both her and her young daughter. But Black Jack Pierson, a highly decorated veteran of the Peninsular campaign,
had proved his mettle in love as well as war by vanquishing a cunning enemy and winning her heart.
Glancing at the rows of leather-bound books, Kate felt her lips quirk. Just like a storybook hero. What a pity that a noble knight could not transform from ink and paper to flesh and blood.
Not that any mortal man could slay her dragon. Some secrets were worse than others…
Forcing a smile, Kate gave a light laugh. “We are all so delighted for you.”
Alessandra squeezed her hand. “I am so grateful for my friendship with all of the ‘Sinners.’ I would never have survived the
last few months without it.”
“That is what friends are for.” She paused, feeling a little pang of regret that she would be leaving Ledyard Manor that afternoon.
“Speaking of which, I was just coming to tell you that Charlotte is anxious to return to London, on account of her upcoming lecture.”
“Of course.” Alessandra slanted a look at Jack and Marco, who were still exchanging barbs. “Come, let us fetch Ciara and Ariel
from the conservatory, and visit her room while she finishes her packing.”
The idea of circling their little group, if only for a short while, lifted Kate’s spirits. “What an excellent suggestion.
You don’t mind leaving Jack to fend for himself?”
“Oh, once he and Marco stop needling each other, they will actually enjoy conversing on Roman art and antiquities. For all
of my cousin’s frivolous teasing, he is very knowledgeable on the subject.”
“I never would have guessed that the conte had any interest in intellectual subjects,” she replied slowly.
“Marco has a number of unexpected facets to his character, which he takes great pains to hide.” Alessandra’s voice took on
a wry note. “But then, who am I to talk?”
Kate hesitated for a moment before answering. “I daresay we all have things that we keep to ourselves.”
Let her go.
Assuming an expression of bored indifference, Marco slowly looked away from watching the two ladies walk off.
“Set your sights elsewhere,” murmured Jack, as if reading his mind. “You may be her cousin, but Alessandra will chop off your
testicolos and feed them to the Tower ravens if you try to play your usual wicked games with Miss Woodbridge.”
Though he was thinking much the same thing, Marco reacted with a cynical smirk. “What makes you think she wouldn’t welcome
my attentions?”
“The fact that you are a conceited coxcomb and your arrogance is insufferable at times.”
“Si.” Marco widened his mouth to a wolfish grin. “But most females find that intriguing.”
“Alessandra’s friends are not like most females,” pointed out Jack. “Their intellect sets them apart, so you can’t expect
to charm them with your usual approach.” He paused. “I imagine that Miss Woodbridge is smart enough to see that you are an
arse.”
“Trust me, Lord Giacomo, I don’t need advice on flirting from you.”
“No? Well, from what I have observed, you don’t appear to be making much progress on your own.”
Leaning a shoulder on the fluted molding, Marco watched the last little flutter of sea-green silk disappear down the corridor.
To be sure, Kate Woodbridge was no ordinary young lady. But it was not just her brains that set her apart. There was an unexpected
glint of grittiness shading her lovely aquamarine eyes. As if she had seen the grim realities of the world outside of the
gilded confines of Mayfair’s mansions.
Which was, of course, highly unlikely. Kate was the granddaughter of the Duke of Cluyne, one of the highest sticklers of Polite
Society. She had been born into a life of wealth and privilege and was surrounded by an army of servants ready to do her bidding.
Such coddled innocence bored him to perdition. So why did the sway of her shapely hips provoke the urge to follow?
“Perhaps I haven’t tried very hard,” drawled Marco, turning his attention to the folds of his cravat. Smoothing a finger over
the starched linen, he added, “It’s hardly a fair match of skills. And contrary to what you may think, I do not deliberately toy with an innocent young lady’s affections.”
Jack gave a mock grimace. “Good God, you mean to say that you have a conscience?”
Marco straightened from his slouch. “You military heroes are not the only ones with a code of honor.”
“Well, you need not wage any great moral battle with your self-proclaimed noble scruples. According to Alessandra, her friend
can look out for herself.”
Marco let out a grunt of laughter. “Miss Woodbridge may be clever and possess a cutting tongue, but that does not mean she
is equipped to deal with the darker side of life.” He curled a lip. “Rapscallion roués, jaded fortune hunters. Or rakehell
rogues like me.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” countered Jack. “From what I gather, Miss Woodbridge has had a rather eccentric upbringing. Her
mother tossed away title and fortune to elope with an American sea captain. She’s spent most of her life sailing around the
world.”
He felt his sardonic smile thin ever so slightly. His cousin had not talked much about her friends with him. No doubt feeling
that he couldn’t quite be trusted with the intimate details of their lives.
“The fact is, I think she had a rather rough time of it these last few years,” continued Jack. “Her parents died of a fever
within days of each other, and only a deathbed promise to them brought Miss Woodbridge here to seek a reconciliation with
her grandfather.” He shrugged. “Apparently the waters at Cluyne House are anything but calm. She’s fiercely independent, which
tends to make waves with the duke.”
“That begins to explain her salty language,” murmured Marco thoughtfully. Today was not the first time she had let fly with
a very unladylike word.
Jack chuckled. “Alessandra says she can swear like a sailor in nearly a dozen different dialects.”
“Interesting.”
“Yes, but not nearly as interesting as the collection of rare books I have here on classical architecture.” For Jack, ancient
Rome was a far more fascinating topic of conversation than Katharine Kylie Woodbridge. “Come, there is a seventeenth-century
volume of engravings on the Temple of Jupiter that I want to show you….”
Marco reluctantly pushed aside all thoughts about ladies—naked or otherwise—to follow Jack to one of the display tables set
by the bank of leaded-glass windows. Yet somehow the tantalizing scent of Sicilian neroli and wild thyme stayed with him, teasing at his nostrils.
Strange, it seemed hauntingly familiar, but he just couldn’t place it.
And no wonder, he thought, dismissing the notion with a sardonic shrug. He had inhaled too many perfumes in his wicked, wanton life to
recall them all. In truth, none of the women had been very memorable.
Save for one clever whore in Naples who had dared…
“Pay attention, Ghiradelli. If you drool on that Doric column, I swear I shall cut off your tongue.”
What is that horrible smell?”
“Fish guts and dried cow manure.” Kate shifted the inkwell on her desk and kept on writing up her notes, intent on catching
up with her botanical work now that she was back home in London. “Sorry, I thought I had washed all of it off my hands.”
Her maid eyed the streak of slime on the hem of Kate’s work dress, which was slowly oozing onto the priceless Aubusson carpet.
“Perhaps you might want to consider a change of clothing.”
Kate glanced down. “Shite,” she muttered under her breath.
“That’s another way of putting it,” replied Alice, who now was very used to her charge’s peculiar quirks. Unlike the half-dozen
or so predecessors, none of whom had lasted more than a month, the maid was not intimidated by noxious stains or foul language.
“However, it does sound a trifle more ladylike when you say it in French.”
“Yes, but I keep telling you, I am—”
“Not a real lady,” chorused Alice. “Thank heavens. Otherwise this position would be awfully boring.”
Kate grinned. “It was certainly a stroke of luck that Simpson found you. None of the others sent by the employment agency
had any sense of humor.” She tapped the tip of her pen to her chin. “It wasn’t as if I deliberately put the dissected frog’s
leg in my sash to terrify poor Susan. I simply forgot it was there.”
“It wasn’t luck,” said Alice. “After that incident, he gave up trying to find respectable candidates through an agency. I
am acquainted with his cousin—don’t ask how—and as the poor man was at his wit’s end, he was willing to overlook the rather
sketchy explanation of my past positions in return for me promising that I didn’t faint at the sight of dissected reptiles.”
“That doesn’t happen often. I was merely trying to duplicate a lecture I heard at the Royal Zoological Institute.” Kate brushed
a leaf from her sleeve. “As you know, my specialty is botany.”
“Is a fish now considered a plant?” asked Alice, giving another exaggerated sniff.
“I was just experimenting with a new formula for fertilizer. My friend Ariel and her new husband are working on developing
a new strain of Papaver somniferum—that is a type of poppy from the East—but the seedlings are quite delicate.”
Alice pinched at her nose. “Maybe your next project could be on formulating botanical oils for perfume.”
The mention of fragrance caused Kate to suck in a slow breath and hold it in her lungs. She had always made up her own scent,
a unique mixture of sweet spices and earthy herbs. The ingredients came from a tiny shop in Sicily that overlooked the Tyrrhenian Sea. It was, she supposed,
a signature of sorts. Something that was hers, and hers alone.
Exhale, she told herself. Men were not subtle creatures. Neroli and wild thyme were used in myriad feminine fragrances. Marco had sniffed around far too many women to remember a fleeting
encounter in Naples.
“An excellent suggestion,” said Kate casually. “We could open a shop on Bond Street to earn extra pin money.”
Alice pulled a face. “Can you imagine his reaction if the duke heard that his granddaughter was going into trade?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I can,” answered Kate, unable to keep the edge of resentment from her voice. “Cluyne turned my
mother out on her ear without a farthing when she dared to marry an American merchant sea captain against his lordly wishes.”
Alice, who had heard a brief overview of her employer’s history, clucked in sympathy. “Some people are just very rigid in
their thinking, especially when they are surrounded by toad-eaters and flatterers who tell them from birth that they are always
right.” The maid thought for a moment. “No one defies a duke. So it must be hard for him to know when he is right or wrong.”
Kate sighed. “That is a very wise observation, Alice.” She took up her inkwell and set the thick, viscous liquid to swirling
against the cut crystal. “But it’s hard to forgive him all the same. His pride is so… so bloody unyielding.” The ink spun
faster and faster, creating a vortex that seemed to suck her mood into its black depth.
“I’m only here because I made a deathbed promise to my parents that I would seek a reconciliation with my grandfather,” she
continued. But things were not sailing along very smoothly. “To be honest, if I had my choice, I would book passage on the first merchant ship sailing from the East India docks and
never look back.”
“There is something to be said for a life free from worry and want,” murmured Alice. “Here you are surrounded by luxury and
people anxious to do your bidding.”
“Yes, and most of the time it makes me feel like a bird trapped in a gilded cage. I’m used to my freedom, my independence,
and I prefer to exercise my own judgment, rather than be treated as if I had naught but feathers stuffed between my ears.”
Her maid smothered a snort. “That is for sure.”
Kate tried to look offended, but a telltale smile curled the corners of her mouth. “Am I really that bad?”
“Well, let us just say that next time you wish to exercise your independence, try not to do it in front of Angelo’s fencing
salon. I’m not sure those two young gentlemen have yet recovered from having you threaten to cut off their cods.”
“I didn’t!” she protested. “Not precisely.”
The incident had been a touch flamboyant, even for her. But Kate had thought Alessandra was in imminent danger and needed to speak with the
infamous Giovanni Marco Musto della Ghiradelli without delay. It wasn’t entirely her fault that the conte had chosen to saunter
out into the street clad in a sweat-damp shirt, skintight buckskins, and bare feet.
“You may not have mentioned a specific anatomical appendage, but they weren’t taking any chances.” Alice primly smoothed at her skirts. “In the future, please try to be more discreet. I like this job, but the duke will have my
guts for garters if I let you stir up a whiff of scandal.”
“Hmmph,” she huffed under her breath. “Had he been more circumspect with his own daughter, I would not be such a black blot
on his precious ducal dignity.”
“Society may remember the old scandal of your mother’s elopement, but in their eyes, you are a perfectly respectable young
lady who has grown up in Boston.” Coals crackled in the hearth, speckling the ashes with a shower of orange sparks. “Let us
try not to upset their assumptions.”
Kate went back to her writing.
Moving to the delicate pearwood escritoire, Alice began sorting through the pile of invitations. “Shall you be wearing the
indigo-figured silk gown to Lady Hamden’s soiree tonight?”
“Drat, I had forgotten all about that.” She slapped down her pen. “The dowager is dull as dishwater, and her musical programs
usually sound like a sackful of wet cats trying to claw their way loose. I think I shall cry off.”
“You’ve squirmed out of the las. . .
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