Lord of the Rakes (4 page)

“Who is that, Miss Langley?” The words came out almost as a croak. Philip’s mouth had gone unaccountably dry.

Miss Langley craned her neck, trying to glimpse which of the women he might be talking about. “Do you mean Miss Fiona Rayburn? I wouldn’t have thought her your sort, and you should know she’s engaged to the Honorable Mr. James Westbrook.”

Philip had been so absorbed in contemplating the woman in amber, he’d barely noticed the smaller, paler girl still at her right hand. “No, no, next to her. With the chestnut curls and the amber gown.”

Miss Langley craned farther. But at just that moment the fair girl took her friend’s arm and led the amber lady another few steps along the edge of the room until they were obscured by one of Mrs. Gladwell’s famous gilded pillars. Ah. Philip’s smile broadened. The amber lady’s friend—Fiona Rayburn, was it?—had pulled her aside to shield her from the importunate gaze of the Lord of the Rakes.

But, it seemed, the lady herself was possessed of a bit more nerve, or at least curiosity. Moving with ostentatious care, the amber lady stepped a little ways out from behind the pillar and turned her head. She didn’t look directly at him, not at first. Rather, she scanned the shifting, noisy crowd of the ballroom, as if looking for an acquaintance. Only slowly did her eyes slip toward him, and their gazes locked.

Lord, she was beautiful. Looking at her wide eyes, Philip felt like a schoolboy, all eagerness and no finesse. Every bit as tempting was her luscious mouth. A fastidious dandy like Gideon might say those full, dark lips were too wide for her delicate face, but Philip found those lips deeply intriguing. He thought how it would feel to teach that full mouth to tease and to take, and enjoy every moment of it.

Not that mouth and eyes were her only intriguing features. Whoever she was, she was far enough past the first blush of youth to have developed genuine bearing. Her high-waisted amber gown was cut to within a hairbreadth of propriety. It showed her lush and rounded form from throat to derriere. A man could spend a long, pleasurable time thoroughly appreciating the nuances of such curves.

“I don’t know her,” said Miss Langley in answer to a question Philip had almost forgotten he’d asked. “But clearly, Mr. Banbridge does.” She pointed discreetly with her fan to the narrow man in his nip-waisted silk coat endeavoring to shoulder his way through the crowd.

Philip frowned. He was acquainted with Lewis Banbridge, but the acquaintance wasn’t one he particularly enjoyed. Banbridge was a dandy to rival Gideon Fitzsimmons. The difference between them was that Fitzsimmons made his own way, but Banbridge lived off his father and his expectations. Old Lord Banbridge, however, was less than pleased with the way his son had turned out and kept Lewis on a ludicrously short leash. The result was that Banbridge owed everyone in town, including Philip.

Philip found himself watching intently as Banbridge edged free of the crush, strolled up to the amber lady, and made his bow. How would she receive him? Could she conceivably be a Banbridge relative? Or were they acquaintances? Friends? More? These possibilities flashed through Philip’s mind in a single heated, and surprisingly worried instant.

Much to Philip’s relief, the amber lady’s face stayed blank and cool as Banbridge spoke. He could not hear what she said to Banbridge, but he could see her mouth framing only brief answers to his remarks. In fact, Miss Rayburn seemed to be carrying the greater part of the conversation while the amber lady’s attention drifted about the gathering.

And lighted on him, again. Was it his imagination, or had the lady begun to color under his gaze? Dammit, he was too far away to tell, and he found he very much wanted to know. He held her gaze, silently, willing that she keep looking at him. She did, for a time. For long enough for him to see something new—a deep longing written on the amber lady’s magnificent features. The strength of it, and the question in it, crossed the distance between them.
Are you the one?
her longing asked.
Are you the one who can bring what I need?

Banbridge was still talking. The amber lady raised her fan to hide her lovely mouth from view and turned away once more to face her little friend. The movement denied him his inspiring view of her eyes, but flashed the lovely curve of one golden shoulder. Philip found his silk breeches had grown suddenly and uncomfortably tight. When had he last felt so much desire from one glance across a room? Had he ever?

Miss Rayburn was pulling her friend away from Lewis, gesturing to some other acquaintance, real or pretended. Philip felt an instant and deep liking for the little English Rose. The amber lady took her leave of Banbridge with a bow of her head that was polite, and nothing more. As she let herself be moved away, he could see her eyes still glancing about her. Philip frowned. Was it his imagination, or did she now look the least bit frightened?

Then her gaze lit upon him. Philip felt himself smiling at once.
Yes, my unknown lady, I am still here,
he thought toward her.
I am waiting for you and I do bring what you need.

This time she was blushing, he was sure of it. Who on earth was she? He had to find out. There was no question. When he’d arrived here, he’d felt half stifled by his unfamiliar ennui. Now he felt as if he’d come up for a breath of air and found it wondrously sweet. He could not possibly let her slip away without at least speaking to her.

Philip faced Meredith Langley. “Will you excuse me, Miss Langley?” he asked, not without a twinge of conscience. He really was being shockingly rude. But if the smile Miss Langley gave him was a little sad, it was entirely without resentment.

“I release you with a full heart, Mr. Montcalm,” she said, but then a slightest hint of mercenary mischief crept into her voice. “If . . .”

“I will speak with Lady Preston about tickets to her concert.” He bowed gratefully. Miss Langley curtsied and he caught the sparkle of amusement in her gray eyes. Another time he might have teased her with a show of being affronted, but now he had no time.

The first thing was to find out the amber lady’s name and her circumstances. She might, after all, be new married with a husband over with the occupation in France, or some such. No, he would not entertain the thought, but he had better make sure. Once he knew she was free (and she must be free), he could procure an introduction. After that . . . well, after that they would take each other’s measure, and the dance of flirtation would begin. Philip felt himself smile. He was certain the amber lady danced beautifully.

Unfortunately, the closest person he could be sure of having the information he needed was Lewis Banbridge himself. Philip allowed his face to settle into the appropriate mask of world-weariness, and made his away around the room. Fortunately, Banbridge was at the moment engaged only in standing and staring.

“Hullo, Banbridge,” said Philip languidly as he reached Lewis.

Banbridge started a little before he returned Philip’s lazy greeting. “Hullo, Montcalm. Quite the crush, isn’t it? And you here without Mrs. Warrick?” A faint note of surprise, and possibly suspicion touched the dandy’s voice.

Philip forced himself to keep his tone even. “As you see. She’s not with me tonight.” Or ever again.

Banbridge’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell me someone’s finally thrown over the Lord of the Rakes?”

“Let’s say it was a mutual ending to a mutual understanding.”
That’s certainly all you’ll ever know of it, or need to know.
“I will say that was quite the stunner you were talking with just now.”

“Yes. Quite,” muttered Banbridge. “And entirely unex-
pected.”

“Really?” Philip murmured, as if the matter was only of slight interest. “Who was she? I don’t know that I’ve seen her in town before.”

“Lady Caroline Delamarre,” Banbridge replied. As he spoke the name, he seemed to recollect himself and turned more directly toward Philip. Perhaps he just recollected the reputation of the man he was talking to. Now there was no mistaking the suspicion in Lewis’s voice. “Younger sister of the new Earl Keenesford.”

“Earl Keenesford?” Philip cocked a brow toward Banbridge, but did not turn in his direction. He found he did not wish to lose track of the amber lady, Lady Caroline, in the midst of Mrs. Gladwell’s crush. But there she was, still with her friend. It was Mrs. Clarkeswell and her three thin and pale daughters who had them both buttonholed now. “I’ve heard the name Keenesford, but never met the man.”

“No surprise there. You could count the number of times he’s actually been up to town on one hand. I know him from the local hunt, and dine at the house whenever I’m at home.”

Which was probably frequently, Philip thought with sudden annoyance. Banbridge took regular trips back to his father’s country seat. It was well known these pilgrimages were made in equal parts to beg for more money and to elude his latest set of London creditors.

“What’s kept her in the country?” Philip asked. “She appears perfectly at home here.” The Clarkeswell females had cleared away, and Lady Caroline and her friend were strolling in the general direction of the refreshment room. Once more he was struck by her grace and bearing. She stood out among the younger women like a swan among herons.

“Bit of a scandal there,” said Banbridge. “The old earl married a young and rather wild beauty back in the day. There was an outrage of some sort, and he bundled his countess off into a permanent exile.”

“That’s quite harsh.”

“But apparently not without provocation. Although, I will admit I’ve never been able to find out what exactly happened. There are oysters less closemouthed than Keenesford.”

Philip considered this. Normally he didn’t give a hang about society gossip, but this added not a little to the mystery that was Lady Caroline Delamarre. Perhaps he’d ask Aunt Judith about it. There wasn’t a scandal that had occurred in the last fifty years that Aunt Judith wasn’t fully informed of.

“. . . and the daughter got the same treatment as the mother,” Banbridge was saying. “At least while the old earl was alive. Now, though, it turns out the mother had one surprise left in her.”

“Oh?”

Banbridge nodded. “Seems she left Lady Caroline a trust, courtesy of the land leases under Dobbson Square.” Banbridge named a well-established and currently fashionable locality on the south side of Grosvenor Square. “And she now has some ten thousand a year to her credit.” He spoke the words caressingly, but then seemed to remember he was not talking to himself and shrugged. “Or so goes the gossip.”

“Well, that would change things,” murmured Philip, as if Banbridge’s remark hadn’t been in the worst possible taste. His gaze refused to shift from Lady Caroline. She and her friend continued their circuit of the ballroom. They stopped yet again, this time to exchange pleasantries with the Marchioness Landesdown.

On any other night, and with almost any other woman, Philip would have stood back and wished Banbridge well. A sheltered—and probably spoiled—country heiress was not his idea of a worthy conquest, much less a pleasing partner. And Banbridge on the scent of a fortune would not make for an . . . elevating rival. The exquisite mouth he’d glimpsed was a temptation, true, but there were plenty of smiles to be had in this room. More than one of those belonged to a lady ready and eager to get on her knees and do just exactly as she was told.

But there was that brief moment when Lady Caroline let herself look so boldly at him. There had been something beyond beauty in her eyes. It was not a challenge exactly, and not simple hunger either. This was something deeper—a kind of longing he was having difficulty putting a name to, but it had already set his blood pounding.

Philip tried to tell himself that was all pure imagination. It might, in fact, be nothing more than his suddenly unruly member telling him tales. A glance through a crowd was hardly the ideal circumstance under which to discern a lady’s intentions. But after all his seasons among the adventurous belles and widows of the ton, Philip’s instincts were well honed. He saw something in Lady Caroline’s bold glance. He wanted to speak with her, to draw her out, and discover just what caused such longing.

And exactly what a man might do to satisfy it.

“W
ell, Caroline,” said Fiona Rayburn. “What do you think?”

“It’s exactly as I imagined,” Caroline breathed.

Caroline’s immediate impression upon entering Mrs. Gladwell’s ballroom was of heat, noise, light, color, and the dazzling light of three enormous chandeliers reflected in half a dozen mirrors and an equal number of bowed windows overlooking illuminated gardens. It seemed that half of London must be here, with the other half still trying to cram themselves inside.

Another young woman fresh from the country might find herself overwhelmed, but Caroline had spent so many hours as a child listening to her mother’s stories of town balls that she felt surprisingly at home. Perhaps she had not precisely imagined it would be quite so warm, or how the scent of wax candles would mix so strongly with the smells of perfume and perspiration, but these were minor details.

“Miss Rayburn!” A plump woman in a bold gown of emerald silk and sapphire lace sailed up to Fiona. “How wonderful to see you! I’m so glad you could come, and that you could bring your friend.”

Fiona made her curtsy and turned to Caroline. “Mrs. Gladwell, may I present Lady Caroline Delamarre.”

“Welcome to London, Lady Caroline. How delightful to finally meet you! And this is Lady Michaels, Countess Stokely.” Mrs. Gladwell stood back to allow Caroline to make her curtsy to a lady in lavender and white, with a freshly starched widow’s cap covering her dyed, black curls. “She most particularly asked to be introduced as soon as you arrived.”

“How do you do, Lady Michaels,” said Caroline.

“Very well, very well, Lady Caroline. I trust we will be seeing a great deal of each other now that the season’s begun. I had hoped to be able to introduce you to my son, Lord Gerald, but he’s taken himself off, probably to the cardroom. You know how gentlemen are.”

All the women shared a polite laugh before the hostess and the countess passed on. Caroline took Fiona’s arm again and let her friend lead them farther into the ballroom.

“Actually, I don’t know, Fiona,” she murmured. “How are the gentlemen?”

“Caro! Such a question! Do you think I’ve made some sort of study of the season’s fashion in rogues?”

“Well, I certainly don’t think you want my answer to that.”

Fiona pulled a childish face at Caroline’s sally of wit, but she also tipped her fan in acknowledgment of her point. Since Fiona had first left for town, her letters to Caroline talking about society events were filled with descriptions of the men, especially the dangerous ones.

“Well, I can say for fashionable rogues, the selection tonight is quite good.” Fiona surveyed the room from over top her Holland lace fan. “Mrs. Gladwell is always more interested in being able to brag about a crush than about being thought exclusive. The one in the red waistcoat, that’s Pearson Quinnell.” Fiona nodded toward a slender young man standing with the dandy set. His waistcoat was a truly amazing shade of scarlet and his yellow curls must have been the envy of half the women in the room. “They say he never sits down at a table where the stakes are less than a hundred guineas, and never keeps fewer than three mistresses at a time. But he’s a great favorite of Lady Jersey right now, so he gets invited to all the best houses. Now, over there by the potted palm, that’s Lord Evenrood.” She nodded toward a ginger-headed man sporting heavy side whiskers and fingering a gold watch chain that had at least a dozen seals dangling from it. “He’s very thick with the Carleton House set, and he’s just broken off his grand affair with Mrs. Holding. It seems she . . .”

But Caroline never did hear what Mrs. Holding had done. All her attention was suddenly and completely fixed upon one man standing on the very edge of the shifting crowd.

Had anyone asked what about this man captivated her attention, Caroline could not have said. It was not merely that he was tall, although he was. In fact, he towered head and shoulders over the bespectacled woman next to him. Neither was it the gleam of his dark, golden hair or the curve of his broad shoulders beneath his exquisite forest-green coat. It was the sheer impression of power and grace about him, she decided. Even though he stood still, she could sense that his impression of worldly laziness was a sham. Every inch of him was taut with repressed energy. He should be hunting, thought Caroline abruptly. But hunting for what? Or whom?

Caroline realized with a flutter at the base of her throat that she wished he might be hunting for her.

“Oh, no, Caro.” Fiona took a firmer grip on Caroline’s arm and drew her into the shadow of one of the ballroom’s huge, gilded pillars. “Not Philip Montcalm.”

“What on earth do you mean, Fiona?” Caroline barely remembered to raise her fan as she spoke. “Is
that
the Lord of the Rakes you’ve been telling me about?” Actually, Fiona hadn’t mentioned him since the day she’d come to Keenesford Hall to announce her engagement, but Caroline hadn’t been able to get the idea of the notorious rake out of her mind. She’d been hoping more than a little to catch a glimpse of the man who so frightened the matrons of the ton.

“I ask you to trust me, Caroline,” Fiona said seriously. “Pick any rogue in the pack, except him.”

In deference to her friend’s feeling, Caroline let herself be turned away. But her curiosity needled her with surprising strength. She risked a slow step out from behind the sheltering pillar, and an even slower look over her shoulder. Philip Montcalm had not moved. She let her gaze drift down his powerful, intriguing form, and back up again, confident that distance and the crowd would hide her most improper scrutiny.

Whatever else he might be, the Lord of the Rakes was not a dandy. His coat was simple and cleanly cut, entirely without the padded shoulders or nipped waist favored by the most fashionable. In his plain attire and tight silk breeches, he might be classed as a Corinthian, but there was an air of ease about him that did not belong to that haughty, sporty set.

Caroline lifted her gaze, meaning only to take another passing glance at the man’s sculpted face. Instead, she found herself looking directly into Philip Montcalm’s eyes.

A paralyzing shock ran from the crown of Caroline’s head to the soles of her feet. She felt trapped by that gaze and for a moment panic set in. He might be all the way across the room, but she was certain Philip Montcalm saw her blushing cheeks and how her eyes had gone wide with surprise, and something more. Heat rose in Caroline’s blood, a warmth far beyond any created by candles and crowds. It swelled beneath her breasts and turned her breath ragged. She was so warm that she longed to strip her white silk gloves off her perspiring hands, and—shockingly, incredibly—she very much wanted that man to watch her do it.

“Pay attention, Caro!” whispered Fi fiercely. “You’ve got problems beyond Philip Montcalm.”

Caroline followed her friend’s gaze and suppressed a groan. Lewis Banbridge was elbowing his way through the crowd, heading straight toward them. Because she’d been so careless standing and staring at that other man, they’d already missed their chance to move away.

“Lady Caroline, Miss Rayburn.” Mr. Banbridge greeted them with his usual lackadaisical drawl. “How delightful. And may I wish you the joy of your engagement, Miss Rayburn?” Bows and curtsies were exchanged, quite shallow and quick all around.

“Thank you, Mr. Banbridge,” said Fiona as she straightened. “That’s kind of you.”

“And you, Lady Caroline, I’m positively shocked to see you here. I was under the impression you hated London at least as much as Jarrett.”

Caroline had an answer ready. In fact, she’d prepared a whole set of vague commonplaces regarding her sudden arrival and had spent several minutes rehearsing them in front of the mirror as Mrs. Ferriday arranged her hair. “Oh, I have no particular antipathy toward town. It’s simply that my family responsibilities did not permit me to come up until now.”

“Caroline’s to be maid of honor at my wedding,” cut in Fi in an attempt to distract Mr. Banbridge. “Will we be seeing you at Lady Preston’s concert later this week, Mr. Banbridge? I understand it’s to be quite the event.”

“I do hope to be there,” Mr. Banbridge answered Fi, without looking at her. His attention remained reserved entirely for Caroline. “How is your brother Keenesford, Lady Caroline? I haven’t seen him since he called off our dinner—what was it, almost three months ago now, I think.”

“He’s very well, thank you,” she murmured coolly. The truth of the matter was, she’d barely spoken two words to Jarrett since the day they’d argued over Mother’s trust. From that moment on, she’d plunged herself into frantic preparations for her departure from the hall. Those preparations had been much delayed by the fact that Jarrett had threatened to instantly dismiss without references any servant who helped her. Mr. Penney, Jarrett’s solicitor, was at the hall almost daily, locked away in consultation with her brother. Caroline’s days had become one long terror. She could not escape the fear that between them Jarrett and Mr. Penney would find some way to seize the money she’d so recently been granted, and keep her confined at the hall.

That terror returned to her now, cold and bottomless. She had to get away from Mr. Banbridge, before he could ask anything further.

Fortunately, Fi came to her rescue. “And there is Mrs. Clarkeswell,” she said, with a convincing sigh of regret. “You’ll excuse us, Mr. Banbridge? I promised Caroline I’d introduce her.”

They made their curtsies, and Fi led Caroline away. Caroline squeezed her friend’s arm in mute thanks. Now that her fears had awoken, however, they followed close behind. Her eyes darted about the room, as if she expected to see Mr. Penney, or Jarrett himself, lurking in one of the painted alcoves.

Instead, she saw Philip Montcalm. He was still beside the young woman in yellow, who was looking at him with what might have been amusement. Something in that sight reassured Caroline, although she could not have said quite what it was. But then Philip Montcalm smiled and rational thought vanished. His was a slow, bright smile that filled his eyes with promises. From the other side of the room, Mr. Montcalm promised her . . . everything. Everything and more. The new, nameless heat blazed from Caroline’s heart to her core. Her hands felt suddenly clumsy and so weak that it was a struggle to lift her mother-of-pearl fan so she could shield herself from the strength of that fascinating gaze. But it was too late. Philip Montcalm had indeed been hunting, and he had caught her.

Caroline leaned closer to Fiona behind her fan. “Now that we’ve finished with Mr. Banbridge, you must tell me more about Mr. Montcalm.” She tried to keep up a joking tone, but could not tell if she succeeded. The strength of sensation awoken by Mr. Montcalm’s smile had completely disordered her wits. “What is it about him that so distresses everyone? Is he in debt? A Tory? Or is he, is he . . .” She dropped her voice to the lowest whisper. “Is he French?”

“Oh, worse, far worse.” Fiona’s blue eyes sparkled. “Philip Montcalm’s a scorpion.”

Caroline drew back, pretending to be scandalized as her friend uttered the cant term for a second son.

“He’s the younger son of the Marquis of Innsbrook, and . . .” Fiona raised her fan a little higher, as if murmuring some dread secret. “He’s a terrible dangler!” She said this with the same intonation she would give to the word “flirt” if they had been speaking of a lady. “They say no woman has ever been able to resist him.”

“Do they?” murmured Caroline. She meant to stop there, but unfortunately, the imp that was her sense of humor got the better of her. “So, tell me again why I must not look at him?”

Fi, however, no longer seemed to be in a laughing mood. She ignored Caroline’s question and increased her decorous pace, clearly trying to put more of the crowd between them and the so-dangerous Mr. Montcalm. Caroline had no choice but to walk with her, but she could have told Fi it wouldn’t work. She could still feel the touch of Philip Montcalm’s gaze. It penetrated silk and skin to call that intriguing, stimulating heat out of the deepest recesses of her body. What did he see when he looked at her with all those promises shining in his eyes? What was he thinking?

What did he want of her?

These undisciplined thoughts so occupied Caroline’s mind, she barely remembered to make her curtsies and pleasantries to the woman with the three sharp-faced daughters who had come up to Fi for an introduction.

“Caroline, you are my dearest friend,” Fi whispered, once they had moved on from Lady Clarkeswell and her daughters—all of whom were obviously relieved to find Caroline too mature a lady to be a threat to their marriage prospects. “Please believe that I am telling you the truth when I say Philip Montcalm is not some workaday rapscallion. He’s positively notorious.”

“By ‘notorious,’ I take it you mean sought after?”

“I mean notorious,” Fiona whispered urgently. “It’s rumored there’s no dissipation he doesn’t dabble in, especially when it comes to women.”

“I’m sure they exaggerate.” Unfortunately, the flutter returned to Caro’s throat, and upset the carelessness she’d meant to infuse into those words. She was already yearning for another look at this notorious Philip Montcalm. She wanted to drink in every detail of his powerful form. But she didn’t even dare peek over the edge of her fan toward him. If she caught his gaze again, she would stare, and if she stared, she would lose her breath and be filled once more with that intoxicating heat.