to mind, but somehow, when Kate opened her mouth, all that came out was a choked sob. “On second thought, I must be falling ill,” she managed to say a moment later. “I never turn into a watering pot.”
A handkerchief fluttered in front of her nose. “Here, blow your nose, Missy, and I’ll order up a nice, hot bath. There’s nothing like a long soak to soothe yer spirits. If ye want, I can send word to your grandfather that you are feeling under the weather and wish to cry off from the evening.”
Behave like a craven coward? After a small sniff, Kate crumpled the linen in her fist, kneading it into a tight little wad. Katharine Kylie Woodbridge did not back away from a confrontation, no matter how daunting. She had fended off irate creditors, she had outmaneuvered Chinese pirates, she had stood firm against a knife-wielding Neapolitan brute.
She wasn’t about to crawl under her coverlet and let Marco think she was too afraid to be in his company.
“No, I’ll be just fine.” Putting on a brave face was a trick that Kate had mastered long ago. By now it was like slipping into a second skin.
The gilt-edged card on his dressing table announced that the guests were expected in the drawing room for drinks promptly at seven. Marco gave a last little tweak to his cravat and dismissed his valet. No wonder he avoided these country gatherings like the plague, he thought. The duke had planned the daily routine with military precision, and while most of the guests enjoyed the regimented activities, he chafed at having to march in line with someone else’s expectations.
But orders were orders.
Having accepted the assignment, he must discipline himself to perform it well.
The key was to keep his mind on the gentlemen. Entering the drawing room, Marco kept his gaze from seeking the gleam of wheat-gold hair. Teasing Kate Woodbridge had begun as a tantalizing distraction, but it was threatening to get out of control.
“Did you enjoy the ride around the lake, Lord Ghiradelli?” After murmuring something to one of the liveried footman, the duke turned and joined Marco by the one of the Elizabethan display cabinets flanking the entrance doors. A massive silver candelabra crowned its top, the candles gently flickering with the arrival of each guest. Light and shadows rippled over the polished patterns of the tiger’s eye maple.
“I decided to take a stroll in your gardens instead,” answered Marco. “I rode in the morning and have already had the pleasure of seeing the views across the water.”
“Have you an interest in plants, sir?” asked Cluyne.
“No, Your Grace. But even for one who cannot discern beggarweed from Spanish lavender, it is hard not to admire the color and symmetry of the design.”
The duke sipped his sherry. “Yet you recognized the shrubs bordering the orchard walk,” he said dryly.
“My mother was an avid gardener. She enjoyed digging in the dirt,” said Marco, surprised at the pinch of pain that the memory stirred. He suddenly thought of languid summer days, playing hide-and-seek with his brother among the ornamental grasses and flowering shrubs, the contessa laughingly warning them not to trample her precious blooms. Daniello had inherited her passion for coaxing life from the earth…
“But me, I find my pleasures elsewhere,” he added with a hard smile.
Cluyne gave a grunt that made Marco wonder whether one of the workmen had seen him and Kate together in the conservatory.
“Of course,” he hastened to add, “I am not seeking anything here at Cluyne Close but an interlude of restful relaxation and convivial conversation while enjoying the pastoral beauty of your lands.”
“Hmmph.” The grunt was more pronounced this time. “Apparently, Tappan had some reason for requesting that your name be added to the guest list.”
Marco deflected the oblique question with a casual shrug. “I am acquainted with several of the Continental guests, so I assume that he thought a familiar face would make them feel more at home.”
Cluyne’s silvery brows rose a notch. Up close, Marco could see the subtle similarities between Kate and her grandfather. The line of the jaw, the angle of the cheekbones, the imperious tilt of the nose—and, most of all, the watchfulness of the aquamarine eyes.
He would have to be on guard. The duke was no doddering fool. There was a sharp intelligence lurking beneath the scowl.
“Then allow me to let you go mingle with your friends.” With a discreet gesture, the duke summoned the butler from his station just outside the