oak-paneled doors. “While I have a look at the arrangement of flowers for the dining room.”
Why, wondered Marco, would a man of such obvious intelligence allow his family to be torn asunder by pride? He looked up at a pair of unsmiling ducal ancestors peering down their painted noses at him from the gilded confines of their ornate frames.
But then, he was hardly one to comment on familial relationships. His own past was not a pretty picture.
Marco looked around to see Kate enter the drawing room just as her grandfather was going out. Her color was a touch flushed, and she appeared to be a little breathless.
“Sir.” She stepped aside in a whisper of silk to let him pass.
Cluyne hesitated, and then fixed her companion with a gimlet gaze.
“What a marvelous collection of Liliaceae you have in the conservatory,” said Von Seilig enthusiastically. “Forgive us if we are a little late, Your Grace, but Miss Woodbridge was kind enough to give me a short tour of the new arrivals just now.”
“We met on the stairs,” said Kate. “And the colonel expressed such an interest that…” Her words trailed off, but a mutinous expression remained on her face. The colonel might not be aware of the nuances governing the rules of an English lady’s behavior, but she clearly comprehended her transgression.
And didn’t give a damn, observed Marco. He felt his lips thin to a wry grimace. Had she been enjoying another heated interlude among the tropical greenery? Perhaps Kate Woodbridge—the infamous Belladonna—was a harder female than she let on.
“Katharine,” began Cluyne.
“Of course, I, too, was anxious to see them. So we all decided to have a look,” announced Charlotte, who quickly appeared from the depths of the corridor. “I trust you don’t mind, sir.”
That the elderly scholar had come from the opposite direction of the conservatory did not escape Marco’s notice. Nor did he think that the duke was fooled.
Cluyne’s eyes narrowed, but Charlotte did not look the least bit intimidated by the ducal daggers.
Flicking open her fan, she gave a languid wave. “My, my, it was quite warm in there. I should very much like a glass of champagne.”
Von Seilig, who to his credit sensed that some misstep had been made, kept his mouth shut and offered one arm to her and the other to Kate. “Allow me to be of service, ladies.”
The trio moved away, leaving Cluyne standing in the doorway. The duke watched Kate’s rigid retreat for a fraction of a moment before turning to the corridor, an inscrutable expression on his face.
Personal battles were none of his business, Marco reminded himself. Lynsley had sent him here as part of a far bigger war. Time to sharpen his sword—and his wits—and prove his mettle.
Spotting Lady Duxbury and her brother, Marco strolled over to join them. Allenham’s greeting was friendly enough, but he seemed a little distracted, and his eyes kept darting around the room. “You missed a capital gallop this afternoon, Ghiradelli. The duke has some prime mounts in his stables.”
“I decided to exercise my own legs instead,” said Marco.
The countess ran her gaze up and then down the length of his trousers. “Ah, yes, I have heard that you have a great fondness for vigorous physical activity.” Regarding him through her lashes, she murmured, “What a pity you didn’t mention your intentions. The carriage ride into that dreary little town was a bore. I should have much preferred a walk in the woods.”
Or a roll in the hay.
Marco grimly reminded himself to avoid the darkened corridors of the manor late at night. Lady Duxbury seemed intent on stalking her chosen prey with the ruthlessness of a hungry lioness.
“I took a tour of the gardens,” he replied lightly. “They are magnificent. The duke has quite a passion for botany.”
She made a face. “Eccentricity seems to run in the family. His granddaughter also seems to enjoy mucking in the mud. I saw her come out of the conservatory yesterday covered in filth.”
He felt himself bristle. “She is a noted scholar of plant life, and her work demands careful observation of actual specimens.”
“Work,” repeated Lady Duxbury with a toss of her auburn curls. “Another oddity. If you ask me, Miss Woodbridge is aloof and arrogant. And abominably rude. Why, I tried to engage her in friendly conversation the other evening and was coldly rebuffed.”
“Keep your voice down, Jocelyn,” warned Allenham.
“Oh, pish.” Crooking a finger, she signaled a footman to refill her glass. “Everyone knows that she is considered a frightful