Marco’s hoot of laughter rose above the patter. “Hardly a show of Anglo-Saxon superiority,” he called. “Perhaps you had better ask the lady to make another adjustment to the bow.”
“We have yet to see you step up to the mark, Lord Ghiradelli,” called Vronskov. “Come and show us if your aim is anywhere near as sharp as your tongue.”
Waving off the request with a flourish of a champagne bottle, Marco pointedly refilled his glass. “Thank you, but I think I shall pass.” He winked at the ladies. “It’s too hard to concentrate on martial arts when surrounded by so much pastoral beauty.”
The dowager’s daughter giggled while Lady Duxbury responded with a sultry smile.
The last few contestants took their turn, and then the party began to split up for the other afternoon activities. A carriage had been arranged to take the ladies into the nearby town, and the gentlemen had been invited to take a ride around the lake and inspect the grouse moor.
Kate withdrew from the shopping expedition, grateful for the chance to steal a bit of solitude. Charlotte had already retired to her room, announcing that she needed a nap to refresh her strength for the evening.
Arthritic knees had slowed her friend’s step, but Kate suspected that what she really wanted was to spend some time with her newly restored books.
Ouch. As she escaped around the corner of the privet hedge, her own aching body protested the hurried pace. Pausing to massage her bruised bum, she realized she was cutting a very unladylike figure in the middle of the gardens.
Thank God the guests were all off enjoying the duke’s hospitality.
As for her plans, they certainly didn’t include getting anywhere near a dratted horse. Not with Marco, who raced like a centaur, waiting to enjoy another laugh at her expense.
Unfortunately there were precious few places at Cluyne Close where she could hide from his amused eyes.
Looking around, Kate squinted into the light reflecting off the conservatory glass. A sun-warmed breeze stirred and through one of the open doors wafted the pungent scent of the interior knot garden, with its heady assortment of medicinal, culinary, and ornamental herbs.
Her muscles twinged. Perhaps Charlotte was right and a long, hot soak would sooth the niggling pain. If only it might help assuage her mental distress. All throughout the midday meal she had surreptitiously tried to read in Marco’s face some hint of his intentions.
But all she saw was a mask of merriment. A man who lived for the present moment. He laughed, he flirted, he drank. If at times a fleeting shadow seemed to shade his eyes, it was likely an illusion. Marco did not appear much given to introspection.
While she would sit in a steaming tub and stew over the consequences of their midnight encounter.
Heaving a sigh, Kate cut some rosemary and arnica flowers for the bath water with her knife, then wandered over to a potted arrangement of clove trees. The gardeners had left a small sack of the dried spice buds on the potting table and she added a handful to her basket. Fragrance was a balm for the spirit, and the exotic sweetness of the cloves reminded her of the lush, languid islands half a world away.
Lud, how her life had changed. The journey from vagabond sea merchant to a lady of privilege could not be measured in mere miles. The distance was far more profound. In the past, she had been free to shape her own self, while now she was expected to conform to a rigid set of rules.
To the devil with rules. Kate chose the pebbled pathway leading through the orangerie. There were times when she just wanted to pick up her skirts and run barefoot on a sandy beach.
A profusion of potted specimen trees lined the way, their lush greenery creating a canopy of swaying shadows overhead. The gardeners had just misted the leaves, and the humid air hung heavy with the sweet aroma of ripe fruit and wet earth. It reminded her of the jungles along the coast of Java…
A tingling suddenly snaked along her spine, causing her to stumble. Strange, but all at once she felt as if watchful eyes were on her. As if a hidden predator was stalking her every move.
Don’t be foolish, she chided herself. She wasn’t in the Molluccan Islands. She was in England, and there wasn’t a more civilized place on earth—