Lord of the Rakes (19 page)

There was only one answer to this that a man like Rayburn would accept. “Here’s my hand on it.”

They shook, and Harry climbed to his feet. “And now I’m expected elsewhere, as, I suspect, are you.”

Philip met the other man’s frank gaze. “I’ll wish you good evening, then.” He also stood and reclaimed his hat and gloves.

“By the way, Montcalm?” said Rayburn softly to his back.

“Eh?” Philip turned.

“If you hurt Lady Caroline, I’ll be seeing you very early one bright morning. And that is a promise.”

He spoke with complete seriousness, and when Philip remembered how coolly he’d talked of having been in a knife fight with a smuggler, he found he could not muster any urge to smile at Harry Rayburn.

I
t had gone past one o’clock in the morning when Caroline finally returned home from the opera. Mrs. Ferriday was still waiting up for her, and it was not just Mrs. Ferriday. Shortly after she had settled in her sitting room, the new cook produced a fine light supper—a ragout of rabbit, potatoes, and greens, followed by a sweet omelet and coffee.

Caroline was astounded by her own appetite. Despite the unusual hour, she ate almost everything put in front of her. It was as if her body knew she needed fortification for the rest of the night, because Philip would soon be with her.

Caroline wondered what Harry was saying to him. She frowned at the remains of her supper. She had no idea what gentlemen actually talked about when they were alone together. Neither Harry nor Philip owned land, which was the chief topic of conversation between her brother and father. Hunting perhaps? It was extremely irksome not to know. It left too much room in her mind to imagine them discussing her. She ordered herself not to worry. Harry was her good friend. He wouldn’t do anything ridiculous, like forbid Philip to come near her.

Time stretched out. This was worse than the first evening when she had waited for Philip. This time, she knew what she was waiting for. This time, Caroline seemed to hear every tick of the clock, and the sound of every carriage that rattled past. The fashionable residents of Andover Street were returning from their own evenings at the opera, or some rout, or a concert, perhaps even their own rendezvous with their own lovers.

Was this what it was to be a man’s mistress—to spend each night waiting in this agony of suspense, wondering whether he would arrive or would he not?

Any one of those carriages might be bringing Philip to her. What would she do when he arrived? How should she act? Thought and feeling swung like a pendulum. The longer the memory of the evening sat with her, the more alarmed she became about the encounter with Lewis and Mrs. Warrick. Lewis Banbridge was clearly watching her. He might write to Jarrett. Jarrett might be in communication with him at this moment, asking Lewis to keep watch on her. It was only her brother’s horror of public scenes that had protected her thus far, that and the fact that he still had not managed to break the trust and so maintained limited leverage over her. But both facts could be overcome if he thought she was making a spectacle of herself.

In almost the same moment her mind’s eye showed her Philip as he had been in her bed—unabashedly and magnificently naked. Her body seemed to have retained a perfect memory of how it felt to have him hold her against the wall and thrust into her, filling her with such delight she begged for more. She burned to hold him again, to stroke him and hear his groans of delight.

But when she remembered the hungry, furious look Eugenia Warrick had turned on him, Caroline grew cold again. This was not a woman who shared what she had, and she had Philip Montcalm. At least, she wanted Caroline to believe she did. What part did Lewis play in Mrs. Warrick’s game? Had she used him to gain an introduction? That didn’t sit right. Perhaps it was Lewis who used Mrs. Warrick.

Caroline bit her lip. If Lewis was seeking to interrupt her relations with Philip, there could only be one end in it. He must have designs on her for himself. Once, she would have laughed at any hint that Lewis Banbridge represented a danger to her. But when she put Lewis together with Jarrett, she couldn’t muster any feeling except fear.

It’s just another two weeks until Fiona’s wedding,
she told herself.
Lewis has never managed to move quickly in his life. He won’t be able to do anything in just two weeks.

Finished with her supper, Caroline tried to send Mrs. Ferriday to bed. Her attendant, however, refused to go, and Caroline found herself too worn out by her wondering and worrying to argue. They retired to the sitting room so Caroline could drink tea, and Mrs. Ferriday could finish her mending. Despite the late hour, Mrs. Ferriday showed no sign of being at all weary. She chatted comfortably with Caroline about the calls they could anticipate. There was already a large stack of letters and cards on Caroline’s writing table. However, as time wore on, Caroline became less able to find suitably light answers to Mrs. Ferriday’s small talk. She distracted herself with writing to Mr. Upton, who was now officially her man of business. She requested he call on her as soon as was convenient. She wanted to alert him to the new accounts she had opened with the various shops, and to talk over the Dobbson Square leases, and the trust. Then there were cards to open, and invitations to read, and notes to make in her new visiting book.

Even this, however, was not enough to keep her from glancing at the clock. What if Philip did not come? What if Harry said something to him that made him change his mind? What if he thought the better of carrying on even a brief affair with a woman who had so many entanglements, and decided to return to this Mrs. Warrick?

In desperation, Caroline pulled her embroidery from her workbasket and attempted to start on a fresh rose petal. But what if he did not come? What then? She would be left alone in her house, with nothing but her needs and emotions knotted up as badly as the embroidery thread in her hands. She had told Fiona her heart would not be involved where Philip Montcalm was concerned. Caroline stared at the threads in front of her and found herself wondering if she’d lied.

The hall clock chimed three. The last stroke had barely faded when the doorbell jangled.

Philip!
Caroline lifted her head from the tangle she’d made of her embroidery. He was here. He had kept his promise. He had not let anything stop him.

Mrs. Ferriday set her mending aside to answer the door. She returned a moment later. “Mr. Montcalm asking to see you, my lady,” she said. “What shall I tell him?”

Caroline’s heart pounded at the base of her throat. She thought of saying no. Continuing this affair was madness. She thought of the gossips bantering her name about in the street. She thought of Lewis sitting in his rooms writing out a letter to Jarrett.

But she also thought of Philip’s eyes, his voice, his laugh, his arms around her, and of all the wicked commands he issued. She thought of him filling her, of her legs wrapped around his. She thought of sitting beside him, talking with him, laughing with him.

“Show Mr. Montcalm to the front parlor, Mrs. Ferriday,” Caroline said. “Then you may . . . I will not need you again tonight.”

“Very good, my lady.” Mrs. Ferriday gave a shallow curtsy and started toward the door. This told Caroline what she had suspected all along. The older woman had kept her company in case Philip did not come as he promised.

“Mrs. Ferriday?” whispered Caroline.

Mrs. Ferriday turned slowly, her face displaying only the unflappable demeanor of an experienced servant. “Yes, my lady?”

“Have I . . . do I shock you?”

Mrs. Ferriday’s hesitation was just long enough to send Caroline’s heart plummeting. But then she walked forward and seized Caroline’s hand. “There is no reason you should not have the life you want, my lady,” she said firmly. “I mean to do everything in my power to help you find and keep it.”

Caroline squeezed her hand in return, feeling the strength of it. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Ferriday withdrew, once again the impassive attendant. Caroline laid her embroidery away in her workbasket, probably taking more time about it than necessary. Philip was waiting for her. She wanted to be with him. She wanted this so badly her hands trembled as she closed the lid. But she was determined she would be in control when she went to him. She was an independent woman in charge of her own life. She would not be overwhelmed by her desires, or her fears.

With these thoughts held firmly in her mind, Caroline walked up the dim corridor. She took a breath, drew her shoulders back, and opened the right-hand door.

The front parlor had been furnished for receiving casual visitors of both sexes. So, while it was a relatively plain room, everything was of the best. Mahogany paneling framed the room up to the wainscoting, but the cream silk paper above that saved it from becoming somber. The generous armchairs and sofa were solidly carved and upholstered in deep burgundy. The drapes were bottle-green velvet without showy lace or fringe.

Philip stood in front of the hearth, leaning one arm against the mantel and staring into the fire. The flickering light outlined his sculpted form. Heady desire rose in Caroline. She was instantly conscious of Philip being too far away. He would only be close enough when he was in her arms. No. He would only be close enough when he was inside her.

At that moment Philip turned. He smiled—boldly, impudently, and devastatingly—and his eyes burned with a light warmer than any flame. Caroline caught herself looking at the hemline of his coat, but what she really wanted to see was the line of his trousers. For all that she knew they must talk, her desire remained irrepressible and inexhaustible. She wanted to know if he was hard for her. Did he think of her hands touching him? She would not have any peace in her mind or her body until she also had Philip in her arms. But she could not have him there until this matter was settled.

Caroline gritted her teeth and forced herself to hold her place on the parlor threshold.

“Good evening, Mr. Montcalm.” She made the curtsy manners dictated.

Philip did not bow, or return her greeting. Without a word, he stretched his hand out, inviting her to him. Caroline’s stomach, and her core tightened uncomfortably. It was all she could do not to run to him. She wanted to press the whole of her body tight against his. Caroline felt certain Philip knew what sort of riot he raised inside her, and that he enjoyed it. This both thrilled and annoyed her, and she could not have said which was worse. The annoyance at least lent her the determination she needed to walk decorously into the room and coolly extend her hand to him, the way a lady in charge of her emotions should.

“Good evening, Lady Caroline.” Neither of them wore gloves, and Philip’s bare fingers closed over hers. He bent down to gently brush his lips across the back of her hand, not once lowering his bright eyes from hers.

Caroline pulled her fingers away from Philip’s. She was sure her hand had never moved so slowly or reluctantly. She wanted to collapse against him, her mouth open to receive his kisses. But she could not. She must not.

“My maid has left us coffee.” She moved to the tray with its silver pot and plate of iced cakes, silently blessing Mrs. Ferriday for her efficiency. “Or would you prefer something stronger?” She indicated the decanters of port and whiskey on the cabinet table.

“Coffee, if you please.” Philip folded his hands behind his back. “I have this sudden idea I will need all my wits about me.”

Caroline poured Philip’s coffee, inquired as to whether he took cream (he did not) or sugar (three lumps, as with his tea), and handed him the cup, being very careful not to let her fingers graze his.

“How did you find Harry?” she asked as she settled herself into a chair by the fire.

“I like him.” Philip looked thoughtfully down at Caroline in the armchair, and then toward the sofa, which would have allowed him to sit next to her. “He’s invited me to dine with the family.”

Caroline looked at her skirts, and knotted her fingers tightly together in her lap. “Did you accept?”

“I did, as it happens.” She heard the clink of china against stone as he set cup and saucer on the mantel. “Now, Caroline. We need to talk. I promised you an explanation about Mrs. Warrick.” Philip paced over to the sofa and turned without sitting. That told her as clearly as any words that he meant to talk only. He would not try to cloud her thinking with a touch, or a kiss.

“What is it you want most to know?” he asked.

“I suppose . . . I want to know what happened between you and Mrs. Warrick, and why.” Caroline paused and twisted her hands again. “You are, of course, well within your rights to refuse an answer. We have made no promises . . .”

“But if I do refuse, you will not forget it,” said Philip. “You will wonder if I abandoned Eugenia Warrick when she was in some difficulty, and whether I will do the same should difficulty come to you.”

Pride lifted Caroline’s chin. “I make no claim to your assistance.”

“But just the same, you would not want to be with a man who would desert a woman in trouble. Any woman.”

“No,” she answered him. “I don’t believe I would want to be with such a man.” Realization touched her. “And you would not want to be with me if I showed so little self-respect.”

“No,” he agreed, and Caroline found she had all the strength she needed to meet his frank gaze. “But I also do not believe such . . . contradictions exist within you.”

Something farther inside Caroline eased, and her hands were able to still themselves. Of course Philip noticed this. In fact, for a long moment he seemed entirely caught up in contemplating her hands. A tide of emotion that was equal parts pride and desire surged through Caroline. It was becoming familiar, this entirely unladylike blend of feeling. Familiarity, however, did not wipe away its delight, or lessen its strength.