Most females were simple to figure out, but Kate Woodbridge was different. An enigma. A puzzle whose pieces he could not quite fit together. She intrigued him.
Perhaps that was part of the challenge.
“What are you staring at, sir?” She turned her face to the trees, obscuring her features in the leafy shadows.
“You—you have a dusting of freckles across your nose, and a crinkling from the sun at the corners of your eyes.” And a spicy scent to her skin that was bedeviling his memory.
“As you see, I am hardly a pattern card for the perfect young London miss.” Kate tried to twist free. “Kindly release me. Or do I have to make good on my threat?”
“No, I should prefer to keep my manhood in full working order.” And yet he was strangely loath to let her go. “Tell me something, though. Your perfume—it reminds me of southern Italy, with its orange blossoms, wild thyme—”
She shoved at his chest, knocking him back a step.
“Dio Madre, sheath your claws, you little hellcat.” In catching her arm to steady himself, he pulled them both off-balance.
His hip hit the bench, rattling the terra-cotta pots. Mindful of destroying the duke’s precious plants, he spun clear, using his body to shield Kate from a blow. They teetered along the brick path, falling deep into the jagged shadows before he found his footing.
“That was close,” he said, exhaling softly. Her cheek was just a hairsbreadth from his, and the puff of air stirred the tendrils of hair around her ear. Despite the half light, its contour was distinctive—a perfectly proportioned curve, shaped like a seashell.
Bloody hell. That shape. That scent. No wonder they struck a familiar chord. He had encountered this lady before. Suddenly the details came flooding back.
Drawing back a touch, Marco bared his teeth in a smile. “Well, well, well, so we meet again, Bella…” He paused a fraction. “Donna.”
Fear flared in Kate’s eyes, along with some other emotion. “I—I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Oh, but I think you do. The city of Napoli. A harbor brothel.”
“A brothel?” Her voice was brittle as the surrounding glass. “You must be drunk. Or mad.”
Yes, it was completely insane. For a moment he wavered, wondering whether his wits had finally cracked. And yet, he knew instinctively that he was right.
But in that heartbeat of hesitation, Kate had slipped free of his hold. The shadows swayed as she disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the swoosh of silk to echo the wildly waving palm fronds.
Chapter Twelve
The morning sunlight slanted through the glass panes, filling the corner of the conservatory with a tropical warmth. Rolling up her smudged sleeves, Charlotte took up a magnifying glass and spread the petals of a Cymbidium rubrigemmum. She and Kate had been working for over an hour, and they were both beginning to look a little bedraggled.
Worried that the heat and humidity might be a bit much for her friend, Kate rang for a pitcher of lemonade.
“Have a look at this—the pistils are quite unusual!” exclaimed Charlotte. “And would you kindly pass me my notebook? I would like to make a quick sketch.”
Kate handed it over, along with a pencil. “Interesting,” she agreed. “Let’s make a note to ask Mr. Hopkins about it when we return to London. I wonder if he’s seen a similar arrangement in the specimens from Ceylon.”
Engrossed in her drawing, Charlotte gave a vague nod.
Kate returned to her own study of an orchid from jungles of southern India. The color was a delicate shade of purple… or maybe puce…
“Ouch!” Sitting back on her heels drew an involuntary grunt of pain. As if she needed the constant reminder of her egregiously awful lapse in judgment.
How had she been so bloody, bloody stupid? Common sense had warned her to stay away from Marco. He might be a dissolute womanizer, but he was not a fool. In fact his wits were sharper than most.
Which begged the question of why she hadn’t been smart enough to keep her face and her fragrance from dredging up a memory from the past.
“Really, my dear.” Charlotte clucked in sympathy. “I insist that you go upstairs and lie down for a few hours of rest. Squatting in such a position cannot be… comfortable, given the nature of your injury.”
“I’ve put up with far worse aboard a ship,” muttered Kate. “Trust me, when there is a storm at sea, one suffers a good many hard knocks.”