seemed even more cloying as he suddenly recalled the subtle fragrance that spiced Kate Woodbridge’s skin. Her essence teased and tantalized. It didn’t bludgeon a man in the gut.
Another lurch of his brandy-logged insides reminded him that he ought to be moving. His boots were already half-submerged in the vile-looking ooze. Squinting up at the sky, Marco judged that it must be midafternoon. A squall looked to be blowing in, so he started walking, hoping to spot a hansom among the cluster of warehouses up ahead.
Out in the middle of the river, several small wherries bobbed in the ebbing waters, their white sails silhouetted against the gray waves as they followed the flow down toward the Greenwich docks. Closer to shore, a lone lad was rowing a dory, his oars cutting in and out of the rippling eddies with a natural rhythm that seemed in perfect harmony with the river.
Marco found himself admiring the scene. It wasn’t muscle—the youth was slender as a reed—that propelled the dory, rather a supple, sinuous grace…
As the wind gusted, the brim of the lad’s floppy cap blew up, giving a glimpse of his profile.
Marco blinked, wondering if his bleary eyes and cupshot brain were playing tricks on him. Quickening his steps to keep pace with the dory, he watched for a few more moments before uttering a low oath.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
It had been a stroke of luck that her father’s old bosun had decided to settle in London, thought Kate as she gave another hard pull on the oars, reveling in the smooth feel of the blades cutting through the water. Eli Welch now worked along the Thames, overseeing a small flotilla of vessels that ferried cargo to and from the East India docks. He was always happy to lend her his little dory for an hour or two while Alice waited in a side alley with the hansom. And his quarters by the stone landing where his boats were moored provided a safe harbor in which to change from her gown to the set of boy’s clothing that she kept stowed in his cupboard.
Her secret was safe with Eli, she mused, which allowed her a short interlude of freedom, a chance to escape from the gilded formality of Mayfair and experience the old familiar touch of vanished wood against her palms and a salty breeze on her cheeks.
Ebb and flow. Life was so much simpler as a vagabond sailor. Wind, water, sky. The rough-hewn timbers of a merchant ship rather than the perfectly polished parquet of a ducal ballroom.
Expelling a long breath, Kate admitted to herself that she was having a hard time navigating the uncharted waters of Polite Society. There seemed to be hidden shoals at every turn and treacherous crosscurrents ready to sink an unwary vessel. She much preferred the open sea and a limitless horizon. Follow the sun. Glancing up, she made a face. Here in London the heavens seemed perpetually covered by clouds, shrouding the city in dull, depressing shades of gray.
The only bright spot was the Circle of Sin. Her friends were kindred souls who dared to be different. Kate gripped the oars a touch tighter and quickened her strokes. Unlike the perfectly polished young ladies of the ton, who would faint if a hair drifted out of place or a bead of sweat defiled their brows. Pattern cards of propriety. While she was… cut from a different cloth. Salt-stained sail canvas and sun-bleached cotton, fluttering wild and free. Which of course violated every rule of Polite Society.
Rules. There was only one person she knew who seemed to dislike rules as much as she did. The Conte of Como was unrepentantly arrogant, deliberately outrageous—and she rather liked that. As for his smoldering sensuality…
She felt her cheeks turn a trifle hot. His tawny eyes were lush with a liquid fire. Like fine brandy, they were potent with the promise of wild nights and forbidden pleasures. He reminded her of the jungle felines she had seen in her travels. Untamed. Unpredictable.
Dangerous.
Her mouth quirked. But then, she had always been attracted to danger. It set her pulse to pounding and made her feel alive.
A loud splash jerked her out of her reveries. Looking up, she saw a pair of ragged urchins running away from the riverbank. Mudlarks disposing of some detritus, she decided. The Thames was a graveyard of unwanted…
She suddenly spotted a small tiger-striped head swirling in the leaden currents—a cat, struggling to stay afloat.