she felt a little lonely, it was easy enough to shrug off. After all, what man would be attracted to a female who had committed the cardinal sin of…
Don’t dwell on mistakes of the past, Kate told herself. As for men, what did it matter what they thought of her?
In the hazy glow of the lantern flames and the moonlight, Kate tried to distract her maudlin musings by studying the surrounding specimen plants. The collection offered a tantalizing array of textures and hues.
So why was the wild tangle suddenly taking the form of Conte Ghiradelli’s sin-dark hair and sensuous face?
It must be the wine. Kate pressed her palms to her heated brow. It had nothing to do with the memory of his fleeting kiss or the strong, solid muscles of his arms lifting her into the saddle.
Her insides clenched as she recalled the subtle scent of his skin, a masculine mixture of leather, smoke, and midnight revelries.
Dear God, was she really attracted to the devil?
Much as she hated to admit it, the answer was yes. She couldn’t help responding to his animal allure. He was beautiful—in body, if not in spirit. The very image of masculine grace and power.
Pushing past the silvery blades of an olive branch, Kate plunged deeper into the shadows. In some ways, they certainly shared some similarities. The man made no effort to follow the strictures of Polite Society. He was a rogue, a rakehell who lived by his own rules.
But a dislike of conformity was all they had in common. She cared about serious things, like science and intellectual ideas, while he was a sybarite who lived only for selfish pleasure.
Her steps quickened. She had no idea what had brought him here to her grandfather’s staid house party. But one thing was for sure—for her own peace of mind, she must try to stay far, far away from him.
In no real hurry to reach his empty bed, Marco wandered along the graveled pathways, choosing to meander around the back of the manor house to the side entrance near his rooms. From the grove of pear trees came the song of a nightingale. Crickets chirped in the freshly cut grass.
When was the last time he had listened to crickets, or lifted his eyes to gaze at the glittering stars overhead?
He slowed his steps, listening to the long-forgotten night music, so very different from the drunken laughter, the shuffling cards, the sultry murmurs that usually serenaded his nights. A breeze blew through the high boxwood hedge, and its scent, redolent with the clean, fresh tang of earth and leaves, suddenly stirred old memories of the past. Of boyish larks through wild meadows, of moonlit swims in forbidden lakes, of shared adventures with his brother.
Bloody hell. What maudlin mood had come over him? Marco forced a sardonic laugh through his clenched teeth. Thank God he was no longer a callow, naïve youth, besotted with childish dreams. He had made his own life, his own rules. The road to perdition was far more fun than trudging along the beaten path.
As he rounded the corner, he stopped short and felt his jaw drop.
Dappled in starlight, a soaring glass pavilion rose up like some black magic apparition. Its graceful form—unearthly planes of shimmering silver silhouetted against the dark trees—seemed to be floating on swirls of mist.
Marco blinked, unsure whether his eyes were playing tricks on him. Then he recalled hearing mention of the duke’s famous conservatory and its exotic array of plants.
Curious, he stepped off the graveled path and approached the structure. It was as if a window had suddenly opened onto some enchanted world. Several brass lamps were lit, their softly flickering flames casting a mellow glow over a lush jungle of greenery. Potted palms swayed gently, their delicate fronds misted with beads of moisture. A profusion of colorful blooms that he couldn’t identify spilled from the terra-cotta planters that lined a narrow brick walkway. The faint splash of an unseen fountain drifted through the blurred shadows. Marco inhaled deeply, almost sure he could smell the perfume of the plants.
On a whim, he pressed his cheek to the glass and closed his eyes. Its surface was both hot and cold, and the strange sensation sent a shiver skating down his spine. He stood as still as a statue, held by some inexplicable force.
“Diavolo,” he murmured, the sound of his own voice finally breaking the spell. He raised his gaze—only to find himself eyeball to eyeball with another human form.
A wood