shadows and dancing dust motes would hopefully hide her unwilling response. He seemed to take an ungentlemanly pleasure in teasing her to anger. She wasn’t sure why.
But then, the Lord of Lechery seemed to take pleasure in a good many naughty things.
“You are welcome to enjoy a laugh at my expense, sir,” she replied. “As long as you do me the courtesy of staying quiet about what you’ve seen.”
His lashes gave a lazy flutter. “Well, now, if it were a more scandalous transgression, I might be tempted to turn it to my advantage.”
Fear squeezed at her throat. She was right to think him dangerous. Oh so dangerous.
“But there is nothing depraved about strenuous exercise, Miss Woodbridge, so you need not look so stricken.” A suggestive flex of his shoulders emphasized his words. “Indeed, the ancient Greek intellectuals considered it essential for both body and spirit.”
“Thank you for the history lesson,” she replied in a rush of relief, then couldn’t help adding, “Or was it biology?”
He laughed again, but a shadow seemed to darken his beautiful eyes. “Let me offer another fact of life. As you just witnessed, this is a dangerous area, where bad things can happen in the blink of an eye. It’s not safe for you to be here all alone.”
His wine-roughened voice teased a tingling down her spine. “As I told you the other evening, sir, I can take care of myself.”
Marco watched her lashes flutter, a wink of gold against the encroaching gray as she pulled the brim of her hat a little lower. “So you say. And yet it appears that you are hurt,” he replied. Capturing her hand, he held it up for inspection.
She flinched and tried to pull away. “It’s naught but a scratch.”
In answer, he lowered his lips and blotted a bead of blood from her wrist.
“Don’t.”
Ignoring her whispered protest, Marco ran his tongue along the line of claw marks and slowly drew the tip of her forefinger into his mouth. She tasted of salt and a sweetness he couldn’t describe.
Rain started to fall, spattering her skin with silvery droplets. Yet neither of them moved.
Strange, thought Marco, suddenly mesmerized by the moment. She was a beguiling mix of strength and softness—something he had never encountered in a woman before. He suckled her skin, savoring the rough and smooth textures.
“Don’t!” Her voice was louder, and a little ragged around the edges. Wrenching free of his grasp, she clenched her hands into fists and shoved him back a step.
“If you are trying to discourage a man from pawing over your body, allowing him a glimpse of it clad in a rain-soaked shirt is not a good idea.” He lowered his gaze. “White linen is nearly transparent when wet, especially when the fabric is clinging to every shapely curve of your breasts. The effect leaves little to the imagination.”
Uttering an oath, Kate quickly tugged on her jacket. “You’ve had your fun, sir, now kindly step aside. My grandfather is very strict about the supper hour and I must not be late.”
“And if I don’t, are you going to challenge me to a bout of fisticuffs?” Marco waggled a brow.
“Don’t be so sure that I couldn’t hold my own in a fight,” she countered.
“You seem to enjoy flaunting your physical prowess, but rather than throwing punches, I could suggest a far more delicious way of engaging our limbs.”
“Go to the devil,” she muttered.
“As a matter of fact, I am about to embark on a journey,” he replied. “So I, too, ought to be returning to my townhouse. I have a great deal of packing to do.” With a flourishing bow, he stepped aside to let her pass. “Have a safe trip back to Mayfair, Miss Woodbridge.”
“Enjoy your travels, Lord Ghiradelli,” replied Kate as she brushed by him. “I hear that Hades is quite hot at this time of year.”
Chapter Six
A country house party?” Alessandra lifted a brow in surprise. “That is not your usual choice of diversions.” She poured herself a cup of tea and gestured for Marco to help himself to the spirits on the sideboard. “I take it there will be some willing widow in attendance.”
He shrugged. “Not that I know of. Though it would, of course, make the affair a good deal more pleasurable.”
“Do you never think of aught but pleasure?”
“Very rarely.”
Alessandra rolled her eyes. “Dio Madre, do try to be serious.”
“Why?” he shot back.
Her heavy sigh stirred the sheaf of watercolor sketches lying on the library table. The deckled edges fluttered against