his own wits were sloshed in brandy and lust?
The answer did not lighten his mood.
“Oh, look, here is Talleyrand,” said his friend, pointing to an elegant Frenchman, resplendent in the sumptuous satin, lace, and velvet formality of the last century. “You know what Napoleon called him? Shit in silk stockings.”
As the legendary foreign minister from Paris kissed the hand of a buxom blonde, Nacchioni guffawed. “Mathilde is casting out her lures in the wrong waters. She’ll never land such a big fish as Talleyrand. He is only here to keep an eye on whom Metternich and Humboldt are speaking with. For warming his old bones, he has the Countess of Sagan’s delectable younger sister, Dorothee de Talleyrand-Perigord.”
Marco thought for a moment, trying to remember the dizzying list of names he had studied. It seemed as if every titled lady and gentleman in Europe, from exalted sovereign to local landesknecht, had come to Vienna.
“She is the widow of Talleyrand’s nephew and has come here to serve as her uncle’s official hostess.” His friend’s smirk stretched wider. “Though her other duties no doubt included offering herself on a silver platter.”
Sick of the lewd remarks, Marco set his empty glass on a bust of Venus. “Excuse me. I must go find my wife.”
“Wife!” Nacchioni dissolved in sputtering mirth. “Santa Cielo, you must be joking.”
Marco didn’t reply. Stalking away, he searched the side parlor for a sight of Kate.
Up to this moment, he hadn’t realized just how difficult the mission was going to be. Oh, his brain had comprehended the assignment and its challenges well enough. But the full force of its emotional impact had not hit home until now. He felt as if he had been punched in the gut.
With a sickening lurch, he paused and leaned a shoulder to the carved corner molding, listening to the clinking crystal, the seductive laughter, the polished lies. Deceit and deception whispered in every flutter of the tailored finery. This was his world, not Kate’s, and he suddenly loathed himself for exposing her to such debauched dissolution. Like the waves and wind of the open ocean, she was unpolluted by the drawing room perversions.
Her scent was sun-kissed citrus and fresh-cut herbs. In contrast, the cloying perfumes and oily colognes seemed to clog his nostrils, making it hard to move his lungs.
“Ah, there you are.” The light sweetness of neroli and wild thyme was like a breath of fresh air. “I thought I’d lost you,” murmured Kate.
Forcing a deep inhale, Marco reminded himself that he couldn’t give way to sentiment. He must guard Kate as best he could. Later, there would be time to sort through his conflicted emotions.
“I was just making a survey of the surroundings,” he replied. “And greeting a few old friends.”
“I imagine you are acquainted with quite a few of the guests.”
“Yes,” he said tightly.
Kate’s expression was unreadable. “Well, that will certainly make our job easier.”
He didn’t reply right away. Across the room he saw a trio of men observing Kate with sharp, speculative gazes. And no wonder. She was wearing a low-cut gown of twilight-blue silk. The deep, smoky hue accentuated the golden highlights of her hair and creamy color of her bare arms, while the simple styling set off her shapely bosom and slender waist.
One of the oglers said something and the others leered.
Gritting back an oath, Marco took her arm a little roughly and turned for the main salon. “I need a drink,” he growled.
Kate’s lips thinned but she said nothing.
Grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing footman, he passed one to her and took a quick gulp of wine. “Enjoying the evening?” he asked, once the liquid had loosened his throat. A friend of Kate’s grandfather, a senior member of the English delegation, had spotted her earlier and insisted on introducing her to his wife.
“It is different from London,” replied Kate thoughtfully. “Lady Repton was talking with her friends about the shocking boldness of the ladies here. The Countess of Sagan is called the ‘Cleopatra of the North,’ and her rival, Princess Bagration, is known as the ‘beautiful naked angel,’ as she wears only low-cut white dresses made out of thin India muslin.”
She ran a finger along the rim of the faceted crystal. “And then there is Anna Protassoff, who supposedly served as the ‘tester’ for the guardsmen whom Catherine the Great chose for her bedroom.” She made a wry face. “I confess, I can’t help but admire such boldness in flaunting their individuality. No one can accuse