Lord of the Rakes (13 page)

“Really?” His face became such a mask of exaggerated surprise, Caroline felt a reluctant smile form. “Well, now that you have said so much, my dear, I am afraid I must insist on the rest. What was it? Surely not the magnificent cut of my coat.” He plucked up the discarded garment off the chair arm and shook it out in perfect imitation of a solemn, efficient valet.

He was doing it again, making her laugh and putting her at ease. It was amazing how he could do that, even while he was dressed and she was naked, and he was leaving and she remained behind. “It is a lovely coat,” she acknowledged. “But that isn’t it. I am not staying in London, you see.”

Philip paused. It was for only the fragment of an instant, but it was there. “I did not see,” he said casually, and drew his lovely coat on. “But go on.”

“I’m only here until Fiona’s—my friend Miss Rayburn’s—wedding.” She was coming very close to stammering again. “Then I am traveling to the Continent. I don’t know when I shall return. I did not want . . . I did not want to hurt anyone’s feelings by leaving them abruptly.”

Philip turned around. “So you chose the Lord of the Rakes? A man known—if you’ll forgive the cant phrasing—to be a terrible dangler.”

“I told you it did not reflect well on my character.” Caroline spoke these words to her hands, which were currently engaged in trying to tie knots in the corner of the bedsheet.

She heard the pad of Philip’s feet against the boards. His hand closed over hers.

“On the contrary. That you had no wish to risk an entanglement when you knew you would not be able to form a permanent attachment speaks admirably of you.”

Caroline raised her eyes. There was no trace of mockery in Philip’s expression, and her heart constricted.

“Will you not stay a little longer?” The words left her without any thought behind them. There was nothing there except desire. This was not the heated passion that had drawn her so far under last night, but it was desire nonetheless. She wanted to remain in this man’s company, if only for just another few moments.

Philip’s smile was soft, and he lifted her hand to brush his mouth against her knuckles. “I cannot stay, my lady, and I am sorry for it.”

“But we haven’t even, you never . . .” She gestured with her free hand to the glove and the sash, which both had fallen to the floor at some point during the night’s proceedings.

Mischief returned to Philip’s expression. It lit his eyes with an intensity that was somehow both dark and merry at the same time. That heated contradiction served to remind her of every single wicked caress he had lavished on her—from the gentle press of his mouth against her throat to the way he touched her most exquisitely sensitive flesh. He picked up the glove, turning it over in his hands, examining it closely, from fingertip to buttons. Then he hefted the sash, as if testing its weight for some obscure purpose. He eyed her just as thoughtfully, and all the sore muscles at Caroline’s core constricted.

Then he folded both sash and glove together and laid the bundle of silk in her palm.

“Keep them.” He closed her fingers around the silk. “They will be my promise for what we will together enjoy next time.”

“Next time,” she repeated. She could not tear her gaze from his mouth. She could not stop remembering all that mouth had done to her last night. She had been right. What had been a pleasant restlessness was now a positive ache, and she was sure it showed.

Philip kissed her, softly, sensuously sliding his lips against hers. Caroline leaned into the kiss, sighing with impatience when he pulled away once more.

“Where will you be tomorrow, Caroline?” he asked.

“Tomorrow I have an invitation to Lady Preston’s charity concert. The next day?” She meant the words to be calm, casual, but they were not. They sounded small, timid even. But all feelings of uncertainty fell away before Philip’s magnificent smile.

“Then the day after tomorrow it must be. I shall expect to find my lady waiting for me once more, and entirely at my command.”

Hope and pure, hot desire tightened inside her, but Caroline made herself meet his gaze.

“At your command, sir? What right have you to issue commands when you are leaving against my express wishes?”

“And well I know what happens when my lady expresses her wishes. I suspect she will be expressing a few when next we meet.” He straightened, looking down on her. His expression shifted, the mischief drained away slowly, leaving a thoughtfulness behind. “Unless you wish to wait.”

“Wait?”

“A few days. To have time to . . . adjust to new circum-
stances.”

“Oh. Is that . . . is that what is customary?”

He chuckled, and for a moment looked strangely rueful. “I don’t know.”

Of all the words Caroline might have expected to hear from Philip Montcalm at this moment, those were not any she had even considered. “You don’t know? I thought you were a man of experience.”

“Not with being a woman’s first lover, I am not.”

No,
said her body.
We will not wait. Come again to me now.

But even now, even after all they had done, she could not speak such wanton, eager words. She must control herself now. Passion had its place, and she must somehow learn to keep it there.

“Oh.”

“I thought you might not want to rush.” He was speaking firmly, and with consideration, but he also was not looking at her. He seemed to be very concerned with whether his watch was thoroughly wound this morning.

Caroline swallowed. “Do you want to wait? To adjust?”

Philip tucked the watch back into his waistcoat pocket. Caroline steeled herself to hear that he did want to wait. That this would be said with regret, of course, but she must accept it as preparatory to his not returning at all. The place directly beneath her heart twisted painfully and she had to bite her tongue to remind herself to keep her face still.

Then Philip turned to face her fully once more. “No,” he said. “I do not want to wait.”

“Well.” Now Caroline found she could meet his eyes, and when she did, a smile formed, quite naturally. It felt warm and bold and delightful. “Neither do I.”

B
ack at his house, Philip had a wash and breakfast—both much needed—and changed into fresh clothing. His people were in no way surprised by his coming home at such an hour, or in such a state. They made sure he was clean, clothed, and fed in short order.

He had intended to go to bed and catch a few more hours of sleep, but once he was inside, all he wanted to do was to be out and about once more. Last night’s rain had washed much of the fog and soot from the London air, leaving it fresh and clean. It seemed all but criminal to lounge in bed on such a morning, especially when there was no one to lounge with.

Not that he and Caroline had done much in the way of lounging. Philip smiled as he trotted down the steps. What a creature she was! So proud and so eager at the same time. Had he ever been with a woman at all like her?

When Philip found a lady ready and willing to indulge in some of the more creative aspects of lovemaking, the normal course of events maintained that he construct a scene and issue the orders, like the director of a play. It was the lady’s part to take her instructions, and to obey. Many women enjoyed this state of affairs. Philip suspected it was relaxing and renewing to them. One widow he romanced told him as much. She spoke of all the perfections she was expected to maintain; not only of dress and bearing, but of managing the house, the budget and servants, of seeing to the needs of husband, children, parents, and dependent relatives. Added to this there were the petty but pervasive politics of drawing rooms and charity boards. It was wonderful, she said, to have one place where someone else made the decisions and all that was expected was that she obey, and surrender to the pleasure. That this also allowed Philip to draw boundaries to the love play, and to the affair itself, was another distinct advantage. It helped keep unwelcome complications from creeping in.

But for all the wanton desire Caroline displayed, the desire to have someone else take charge was missing from her. Not for her the easy submission as a prelude to being firmly and enjoyably fucked. Oh, no. If Lady Caroline was to call him master, she must be pleasured into her submission, and a man must prove, repeatedly, that he was worthy. She required experience, and a man’s complete commitment to her pleasure. Then—oh, then—she responded with total abandon, and the determination to drive her lover out of his wits.

Philip chuckled to himself as he strolled down the near-empty street, swinging his cane. Perhaps he should be more concerned that his usual plans had dissolved in the face of Caroline’s passion. Had the results been any less splendid, he might be. But as matters stood, he was already looking forward to their next encounter. Had he really agreed they were to wait until the day after tomorrow? How on earth was he to spend his time until then? There was the club, and he must dine somewhere with someone, and read the papers and . . . Philip chuckled again, but ruefully this time. All his business seemed suddenly very small against the stretch of hours that separated him from Caroline. Over the space of a single night, she had made the perfect freedom of his life seem like a perfect bore.

“You’ll have to be careful of this one, Montcalm,” he murmured to himself. “She’s dangerous.”

Somehow, as he spoke the word, he grew sober once again. He did not want to think of Caroline as being dangerous to him, or his free and easy life. It reminded him too much of his unwelcome conversation with Eugenia Warrick as he left the Gladwell ball. But Caroline was nothing like Eugenia, and she could pose no threat to his freedom, let alone his heart. She was leaving London in a few weeks.

Contemplating all this, Philip paid no attention to the open-topped carriage with its two perfectly matched grays that pulled up alongside him, until he heard a voice calling.

“Hello, Montcalm! You’re about early.” It was Gideon.

“Hello, Fitzsimmons!” Philip called in return. “I could say the same for you.” As a confirmed member of the dandy set, Gideon seldom ventured out of doors before three o’clock in the afternoon. It was positively unfashionable.

“Yes, well, needs must and all that.” Gideon sighed. “It’s this new artist fellow. I had two or three things to say to him, and he doesn’t see anybody after noon. Says it wastes the light.”

Gideon had a singular passion for art. The portion of his money that wasn’t spent on his wardrobe was spent discovering and cultivating new artists, whom he sponsored in private showings. As Gideon was a welcome guest in all the best homes, the artists he championed frequently saw their works come into high fashion and sell for a good bit of money. It was known that Gideon supplemented his modest income with commissions from the work he sold, but most of his friends were polite enough not to mention it.

“You need to stop taking these wild geniuses under your wing, Gideon, if they’re going to be so unreasonable.”

“Yes, fatiguing creatures, artists.”

“My aunt Judith says the same thing about writers.” Judith Montcalm was the publisher of one of London’s leading women’s newspapers, which was only one of the reasons why most of her family had disowned her. Her complaints about her writers were as frequent as Gideon’s about his artists, and about as sincere.

“I expect they are cut of a similar cloth.” Gideon opened the carriage door. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“I was just on my way to the club.”

“I’m going that way. Climb up.”

Philip settled himself onto the seat beside, and Gideon signaled his man to drive on.

“Banbridge was disappointed when you failed to turn up at Crockburn’s after Mrs. Gladwell’s ball,” Gideon remarked as they joined the morning traffic of painted lorries and overburdened carts. “Or again last night.”

“Yes, well, I suddenly found myself with other appoint-
ments.”

“So I told him. He was quite disappointed at that as well.”

“Banbridge would have been disappointed anyway,” said Philip. “This lady’s not for him.”

“You speak very decidedly on that score. He can be quite a charmer when he exerts himself, and he does know her family.” This was Gideon’s way of letting him know it was no secret where he’d been, even if he was not going to speak her name directly.

“Banbridge is a fortune hunter, looking for a prize.” The strength with which Philip spoke raised Gideon’s pale brows. “You may trust me, Fitzsimmons, this woman won’t be caught by any lure he can lay out, whether he knows all her relations or not.” He smiled at the memory of Caroline’s sultry eyes. They had been heavy-lidded with desire as he ran his palm down her soft belly, and slipped his hand between her thighs. No, Banbridge had nothing to offer Caroline. She needed a man who understood a woman’s body, and who enjoyed a woman’s desires, not one who flattered and made love hoping to strike gold.

Gideon watched him intently. “You sound unusually decided. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of keeping this one?”

“What makes you say that?” asked Philip, far more sharply than he intended.

“Nothing, nothing at all. No need to get your temper up.”

They rode on in silence for a minute. Philip found himself watching the traffic in the street rather than Fitzsimmons’s mild expression. Why was Gideon’s remark galling him? It meant nothing. Fitzsimmons, and the rest of the world, could think what they wanted. He would enjoy Lady Caroline’s company, and the delights of her passion, for as long as they were both pleased with the association. Then, either she’d find greener pastures, or he would, and that would be the end of it. That was, as everyone knew, how a real man conducted his life and affairs.

“Actually, I was hoping I’d find you,” Gideon said. “Wanted to pass on a friendly warning.”

“What about?”

“It isn’t just Banbridge’s nose you’ve put out of joint with this new flirtation.”

“You’re talking about Mrs. Warrick, I suppose.”

“I’m rather afraid I am.”

“I’m surprised at your bringing it up. She told me you made sure we stopped at the Gladwell crush as a favor to her. Did she remember to mention our relationship was at an end, or have you taken to playing matchmaker these days?”

Gideon had the good grace to look uncomfortable. “No, as a matter of fact, she did not mention it. She gave me to understand you were still together.”

Philip breathed out several powerful oaths. “We’re not. She’d picked herself out some new man and told me off. But then I found her waiting for me last night outside Mrs. Gladwell’s.”

Gideon’s expression grew uncharacteristically dark. Most people underestimated Gideon Fitzsimmons. They looked at him and saw the idle dandy, but missed the sharp intelligence waiting behind his bright green eyes. It was a fact he took advantage of at both the gaming table and the auction house.

“I owe you an apology, Philip,” Gideon said at last. “I should have asked one or two more questions. I know we men of fashion aren’t supposed to speak of such things, but if there’s anything I can do to help . . .”

“You’ve already helped, Gideon. You warned me. But the hell of it is, I’ve no idea what she’s up to.”

Gideon paused again. “Any chance she might be . . . in difficulties?”

“Not the way you mean. At least, not by me. I took precautions.” It was Philip’s practice to withdraw early, or make use of French letters from the apothecary. He never intended to put one of his paramours through the disgrace that came with pregnancy out of wedlock. If ever he, Philip Montcalm, fathered children, they would be legitimate. Which, of course, meant he would never do so.

Now that he was thinking on it, he’d better lay in a fresh supply of condoms, and leave a stock with Caroline. They were going to need them.

“Well.” Gideon sighed. “I hope you’ll take a bit of advice. Find Mrs. Warrick soon and settle the matter, whatever it is. If you’re with someone new, I suspect it won’t take her long to discover who.”

Those words dropped into the center of Philip’s thoughts like a cold stone. “She wouldn’t make trouble.”

“I wouldn’t lay any large sum on that question.”

Philip unleashed a string of oaths strong enough to raise Gideon’s brows. “Steady on, old man. You’ll spook my driver. He’s very sensitive. So you chose the wrong widow. Happens to the best of us.”

“Not to me,” growled Philip.

“The Lord of the Rakes is exempt from human error?” inquired Gideon. “You’ve been reading about yourself in the columns too much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that any man who thinks he can get through a rake’s dissipated life without the occasional complication is not thinking at all. And before you get that temper warming again, I yield and apologize.”

Philip lapsed into an agitated silence. He was as angry at Gideon for goading him as he was at himself for being goaded. This was hardly the first time Gideon had chaffed him for taking full advantage of the freedoms London offered a gentleman. Although, given what Philip knew about Gideon’s private predilections, the man had no right to throw stones. Still, this morning Philip did not care to hear himself described as dissipated. He also didn’t care to consider that he had failed to see that Eugenia might be in some genuine, material difficulty.

No. He shook that off. Given the way she had mocked him with her new lover, any difficulty she might be in was her own responsibility. As for the rest of it . . . well, that was just Gideon being Gideon. It did not mean anything. Neither did his own reflections this morning on how small his rooms felt, or how trivial the business of his day seemed compared to the delight of being in Caroline’s effervescent and passionate company, or the uncharacteristic reluctance he’d felt to leave her side this morning. It was the matter of a moment’s mood. That was all.

Surely, that was all.