Refusing to be provoked, Kate answered sweetly, “La, I wouldn’t know, sir. Your affairs are none of my concern.”
“Perhaps that will change,” he murmured sotto voce.
The silky sound stirred a strange flutter inside her chest. Had she known Marco was to be one of the guests, she might have reconsidered her decision to come here. Dealing with Cluyne was going to be difficult enough without a darkly sensuous devil-in-the-flesh to torment her thoughts.
She wouldn’t. Think about Marco, that is. With all the other guests around, it should be easy enough to avoid his company.
She was saved from having to make further conversation with Marco by the arrival of Andreas Vincenzi, who greeted his fellow Italian with effusive delight and drew him off to the far corner of the room.
The ordeal of introductions over, Kate was about to return to Charlotte when Jeremiah Ludlowe, an American from Philadelphia, requested that she join the group gathered by the hearth.
“Miss Woodbridge, might I ask you to help us settle a debate. Lady Gervin and I disagree on how many specimens your grandfather’s conservatory is said to hold…”
“A glass of sherry would be lovely,” said Charlotte to the liveried footman. After accepting the drink, she moved back into the shadows of the corner alcove and returned to her study of the botanical prints on the wall.
The delicate colored engravings looked to be from a medieval herbal. From southern Switzerland, she decided, judging by the spidery German script. Magnified by the lens of her quizzing glass, the alpine specimen of St. John’s Wort looked to have somewhat longer leaves than the common English variety.
Lost in scholarly thought, she moved on to the next one.
“Fetch up another three bottles of champagne from the cellars. And be sure that Higgins has decanted the claret to serve with the roast beef.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Charlotte was suddenly aware of having company within the secluded alcove.
“Add the ’78 Madeira to the selection of ports,” continued Cluyne to his butler. “Better include a malt from Scotland—”
She didn’t move quite quickly enough to dodge a collision with the ducal backside.
A grunt—or rather a growl—rumbled in his throat as Cluyne turned around. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he said, sounding more irritated than apologetic. “I did not realize anyone was lurking in here.”
Her opinion of him already colored by Kate’s resentment, Charlotte found herself piqued by the duke’s abrasive manner. To hell with pandering to his imperious pride, she decided. If he wanted to toss her out on her arse, he was welcome to do so.
Her bum was already bruised.
“Feel free to have your servants check under my garments,” she replied, lifting the edge of her shawl. “To make sure I am not purloining any of your valuable art.”
He had the grace to flush.
“They are also welcome to poke through my reticule after supper, to ensure that I haven’t slipped in any of the heirloom silver.”
“Perhaps ‘lurking’ was a poor choice of words,” he said through gritted teeth. “I meant no offense.”
Apologies did not come naturally to him, thought Charlotte. And why would they? A duke was never expected to express contrition for anything. Raising her quizzing glass, she regarded him with a cold stare.
As anticipated, his scowl grew more pronounced.
Repressing a smile, she turned back to the prints. “I was looking, not lurking. Have you any objection to my studying this display of prints? Which are, by the by, quite magnificent. They are Swiss, are they not?”
“Yes,” he muttered.
“From Basle, I imagine,” said Charlotte, noticing the printer’s mark at the bottom of the page. Forgetting her initial ire, she subjected the image of the Pastinaca sativa to a more thorough scrutiny.
“Indeed.” Cluyne joined her by the print. “From the workshop of Johann Froben, whose skill in printing was unrivaled.”
“I would say that the Parisian atelier of Simon De Colines was equally adept at capturing the nuance of line,” she replied. “Though I daresay you are right about the coloring. The artists employed by Froben achieved more subtlety in their shades.”
“Hmmm.” The duke cleared his throat and shuffled a step to his left. “This one of a Monarda fistulosa shows the brush technique more clearly.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Charlotte after examining the print for a long moment. “Speaking of which, are you familiar with the work of Pietro Andrea Mattioli?”
“I have several examples hanging in my study.” Another cough. “Not many people know of his work.”