Lord of the Rakes (5 page)

“Caro, you must listen. Philip Montcalm is deep waters. You might not be able to get yourself out so quickly once you’re in.” Fiona touched Caroline’s hand. “If you want a beau, Harry would—”

“Fiona, I am too old for beaux, and you have been throwing me at your brother for years. It is wonderful to know you want me for a sister, but I am not in love with Harry.” Harry Rayburn was a good man. He needed a steady wife to keep his house and raise his children. It would be a crime if he was burdened with an unruly creature who could only see a country home as a cage.

Could she risk one more look? Yes, she decided, but in the next instant she regretted it. Because there, next to Philip Montcalm, stood the popinjay figure of Lewis Banbridge. Were the two men friends? What were they talking about? Were they already talking about her? Was Lewis warning him off?

“Walk, Fi,” Caroline said softly, and Fi did, but not without taking a glance over her shoulder to see what so alarmed her friend. When she did, her eyes widened.

“Caro, you’re not worried really about Lewis, are you? I know he’s a fortune hunter but . . .”

“That’s just it, Fi. When I just had a title and the possibility of whatever pittance Jarrett planned to settle on me, it was one thing. But now I have an actual fortune for him to hunt.” She sighed and flapped her fan listlessly. “This is my first night out, and I’d have preferred not to be bothered by Lewis Banbridge quite so soon.”

“Especially when you’d rather be bothered by Philip Montcalm,” replied Fiona, just a trifle tartly.

Caroline supposed there was reason for Fi to urge caution. Mr. Montcalm had the air and appearance of a wealthy man. The son of a marquis, even the second son, would still be considered a decent prize on the marriage market. If he remained unmarried, it was by choice.

If Caroline ever meant to marry, this realization and her friend’s warning would be things any intelligent woman must take seriously.

“Caro, have you heard a word I’ve said?” Fiona was asking.

“Every single one, I swear.” Caroline squeezed her friend’s hand. “But, Fi, from now on, I intend to live my own life and live it freely.” She met her friend’s worried gaze. “If your fiancé would rather you didn’t associate with me after tonight, Fi, I do understand.”

“James is nothing like so high in the instep,” said Fiona firmly. “Besides, if he ever even hinted that I must choose between you and him, we would have a serious discussion on the matter. A most serious discussion.”

Caroline sighed. Probably she should let it all go, not in the least because she risked causing Fi discomfort. Besides, if Mr. Montcalm had spoken to Mr. Banbridge, he would certainly not have heard anything complimentary. She could not imagine Lewis Banbridge taking kindly to a rival if he was planning on making his own advance.

All at once Caroline’s wilting resolve stiffened. Lewis Banbridge could do as he pleased. She was no one’s to claim, nor would she ever be again. It was Mr. Montcalm she wanted to meet, to speak with, and . . . more.

Fiona looked at her change of expression, and before Caroline could even speak, she rolled her eyes. “All right, Caro, if you’re that determined, and since you’ve so clearly got the man’s attention, at least accept a little sisterly advice as to your next move . . .”

Fi leaned close and whispered, and once again, Caroline listened carefully to every word.

D
espite Philip’s experience with overfilled ballrooms, making his way around to Mrs. Gladwell took time and, at one point, a discreet elbow in a viscount’s corseted ribs. At last, however, he was able to present himself to his hostess.

“Mrs. Gladwell.” Philip made sure to boldly meet her eyes and pitch his voice low, as if conveying some secret. “I have returned to beg a favor of you.”

“Goodness!” she cried happily and pressed her fan against her bosom. “What could the Lord of the Rakes possibly need from me?”

“I need you to procure me an introduction, madam, to Lady Caroline Delamarre.”

“Ah! So you’ve taken note of our new heiress as well, have you?” Philip kept his smile steady and gave the smallest of shrugs. “You know, I think the only reason any of the town beaux consented to be here was they’d heard Lady Caroline accepted my invitation.” Mrs. Gladwell gave a dramatic sigh of lamentation. “I’ve been positively besieged by men wishing to meet her. But, as it is
you,
Mr. Montcalm, I will do all I can.” Mrs. Gladwell craned her neck to try to see through the press of bodies that filled her rooms to overflowing. “Now, where has the lady gotten herself to?”

Philip also turned his attention to the crowd. The musicians had struck up a quadrille, and couples were forming up sets in the center of the room. There was, however, no sign of a stunning lady in amber silk. He could not see her on the dance floor, or in any of the room’s arched and pillared alcoves. Neither could he see her through the doorway that opened onto the supper room, or the cardroom, or the conservatory, or the smaller dancing room.

“How provoking, Mr. Montcalm! Lady Caroline has quite vanished.”

“Ah, well, that is my punishment for being inexcusably slow to make my bow.” Even though he spoke lightly, Philip found it difficult to cover his disappointment. He suddenly cursed his notion of talking with Banbridge. She might have seen it, and assumed they were birds of a feather. That was more than provoking, it was troubling. It had been years since he’d made such a clumsy error in pursuit of a lady.

“Well, you may be sure when I do find her, I shall
mention
you.” Mrs. Gladwell batted her eyes and fluttered her fan coyly. Then, with a laugh for him and herself, she turned away to speak with the Dowager Marchioness of Aidenderry.

Philip drifted away from his hostess’s orbit, still surveying the glittering, shifting crowd. The quadrille was well into its second figure. He circled the edge of the dance floor, aware that he was uncharacteristically close to prowling. He instructed himself to put Lady Caroline aside, bold eyes, luscious figure, and all. He would either see her again tonight, or he would not. It was of no matter. If Mrs. Gladwell’s was the sort of invitation she chose to accept, they would find each other before much more of the season had passed. In the meantime, he could see Mrs. Forsythe watching the dancers opposite him. She was always entertaining company. There, too, was the lovely, and recently widowed Lady Cliffton. She was at last out of mourning and looking quite arresting in her scarlet gown. Tonight would be a perfect time to make her better acquaintance. If all else failed, Gideon was loitering in the doorway of the cardroom and yawning his head off. Probably he had finished his business and was thinking it high time to start for Crockburn’s.

But Philip did not turn his steps either toward the highly available woman or toward his friend. His entire being had become fixated on Lady Caroline’s bold eyes and beautiful face, not to mention her deeply colored and smiling mouth. As for those luscious curves . . .

It was not only Philip Montcalm’s mind that desired better acquaintance with Lady Caroline.

“Excuse me, Mr. Montcalm?” said a man’s voice. Philip turned to find one of Mrs. Gladwell’s footmen at his elbow. “A note for you.”

The man extended a silver tray that held a neatly folded slip of paper. It also held a single white lily. Philip felt his brows lift in surprise. He was certain this was the same lily that had graced the rich chestnut curls of Lady Caroline Delamarre.

Philip took both highly intriguing items, thanked the servant, and waited until the man had withdrawn to carefully unfold the note. It was brief, and written in a firm and elegant hand.

A
breath of air would be so refreshing, do you not think?

C.

Philip raised the lily and inhaled its subtle perfume. A swirl of amber silk caught his eye. Lady Caroline was on the terrace, turning away from the brilliantly lit room and its tonnish crowd. While he watched, she walked slowly down the central staircase toward the illuminated garden and vanished into the cool, spring nighttime without once looking back.

Sending a note and a personal token to a man with whom she had no acquaintance was shockingly improper. And she’d waited just long enough to make sure of him. It seemed the lady had a touch of the original about her, and clearly, she enjoyed a bit of drama. Philip smiled. There were many ways in which a man could show his appreciation for such a spark in a beautiful woman. So many ways to tempt and tease. So many delightful scenes to set and delectable games to play.

But first, he must ascertain just how far she intended to take this particular game.

Philip tucked the note into his pocket, and the flower into his buttonhole. Then, slowly and casually, he set off to follow where Lady Caroline led.

 • • • 

Caroline watched Philip Montcalm descend the curving terrace stairs. Mrs. Gladwell’s house was enormous, and its terrace ran its entire length. The wall beneath was decorated with a series of alcoves, plainly meant to echo those in the gilded ballroom. But instead of potted palms and sofas, these held urns and marble statues. Caroline had chosen one with a stone lady carrying a pitcher, and backed into its shadows to wait, watch, and wonder.

The early June night was cool but not chill, and heavily overcast. It would rain again before much longer. Despite this, a number of guests had come out to enjoy the gardens. The gusting wind played with the torches, making the light uncertain, but Caroline was positive the man who now stepped off the staircase was Mr. Montcalm. She would not mistake those broad shoulders, tapered waist, and well-shaped legs. No other man she had seen at this ball possessed such an arresting form. Even though he was now standing still and surveying the gardens, she could easily discern the strength of the man. The knowledge that he was looking for her set Caroline’s heart racing. She wished he would turn. Not that she wanted him to see her, yet. Rather, she wanted time to get used to his handsome visage and the brilliance of his smile. She could not become breathless when she walked out to meet him. She must be poised when they spoke. She must remember that she had seen him recently with Lewis Banbridge. She needed to keep her composure and find out what he’d heard, and what he thought of her because of it. A real lady mast always be composed and rational, even when she was choosing a paramour. Especially when she was choosing a paramour.

But part of her would not be calmed. Part of her wanted to retreat to the ballroom and tell Fiona they had to leave. That part wanted to forget she’d ever sent a note and a flower to the Lord of the Rakes.

Yet another part of her wanted to walk out to Mr. Montcalm at once—never mind poise, never mind the control and dignity required of a lady under all circumstances. That unruly part of her wanted to take Philip Montcalm by the hand and draw him into this private bit of darkness, and find out precisely what would happen once she did.

“Now that you’ve called me out here, is it your pleasure to keep me waiting?”

Startled by the question that so neatly matched her hesitations, Caroline stifled a gasp. But evidently Mr. Montcalm heard that slight sound, because he turned, just a little, just enough so that she could see one bright eye, its brow raised in mocking inquiry.

“Good evening,” he said. He possessed a deep, strong voice that suited his powerful appearance perfectly. Fresh butterflies flitted through Caroline’s nerves.

He wore her lily in his buttonhole.

Now that she’d been discovered, Caroline had no choice but to step from the alcove into the light. She felt oddly as if she was shedding a cloak and laying herself bare to Philip Montcalm’s arresting gaze.

“Good evening,” she said. “I fear I make a rather dull quarry, if I am so easily detected.”

She was not at all ready to be so near him. She had not collected herself. She did not move with the necessary poise, or speak with cool reserve. And yet she could not resist the chance of approaching this man, to stand beside him, to see him clearly and be seen just as clearly by him.

“When you truly wish to hide, you should choose a less vibrant color for your gown,” Mr. Montcalm replied. “Although that would be a shame.” He reached out one hand, as if he meant to touch her sleeve, but stopped with his fingertips just a hairbreadth from the silk that covered her upper arm. Just a hairbreadth from impropriety. “This one suits you so perfectly.”

Caroline felt her blush rising. She strove to find some cool, tart reply.

Then, in the darkness of the gardens, a woman screamed.

The blood rushed from Caroline’s cheeks. Her gaze met Mr. Montcalm’s. Agreement flowed between them without a word being spoken, and both turned to run toward the sound. Montcalm, with his long legs, easily outpaced her at first. But Caroline hiked up her skirts and, with the strength born of a country life, followed hard at his heels.

Just as they reached one of Mrs. Gladwell’s carefully sculpted rose beds, another, deeper scream exploded from the greenery. A stout man stumbled through the roses, crying out in pain and shock. He would have collided with Caroline had Philip not grasped her shoulders and pulled her back against him.

“So sorry!” the man gasped, and tried to dart past them. This operation was hindered by the fact that he was also trying to pull up the breeches slipping down his jiggling, scraped thighs.

“Brute! Cad!” Another form charged through the roses. This one was a short, curvaceous woman whose ball gown and chemise had bunched down around her waist, leaving her generous breasts bare to the night. The half-naked fury clutched a branch in both fists. She charged up to the polite but underdressed gentleman, leafy weapon raised and face contorted with anger. “Beast! Monster!”

“No! Georgiana! Stop!” The gentleman would have run, but Philip caught hold of his arm and held him tight, without any apparent effort. A small crowd had gathered to see what was the cause of so much noise, and several of the gentlemen had come up beside Philip, ready to assist if needed.

“Stop! I’ll stop
you,
you brute, you cad, you . . .” Either Miss Georgiana’s anger had robbed her of her vocabulary, or she was singularly lacking in imagination. She swung her branch down. Caroline, scarcely thinking about what she did, stepped forward, hand up, and caught the improvised cudgel before it made contact with the man’s head.

“What is this? Has he hurt you?” Caroline tried very hard to keep her gaze focused on the other woman’s face.

“Hurt me!” Miss Georgiana struggled to pull her branch out of Caroline’s grip, which made her bared bosom ripple dramatically. This, Caroline thought with surprising detachment, helped account for the number of men in the crowd gathering around them. “He did worse!”

“No . . .” Humor and detachment both bled away, and Caroline saw the man squirm as Philip’s grip tightened about the man’s arm.

“He told me he stands to inherit twenty thousand pounds!” Georgiana pointed a shaking finger at the gentleman. “Now I find he’s in debt to every moneylender in the city and he wants me to take him for five hundred a year!
Five hundred!
”

“My love.” The unfortunate gentleman held out one hand in a pleading gesture. Philip, evidently taking pity on Miss Georgiana’s erstwhile paramour, let him go. “I thought . . .”

“You thought with that puny thing between your legs!” Georgiana finally yanked her branch out of Caroline’s grip and aimed a swipe toward the offending portion of his anatomy, which made him jump back and, unfortunately, try to shield his privates with both hands, which left his breeches without means of support, so they slid back down to his knees. “You thought I’d just . . . with a . . . Cad, brute, shopkeeper!”

Georgiana charged past Caroline, swinging her branch like a broadsword. The man yelped, grabbed up his breeches, and ran. In retreat, he displayed an impressive degree of speed as well as an expanse of buttocks and bandy legs. Screaming her limited range of imprecations, Miss Georgiana took off behind him, causing Caroline to jump backward, and fetch up against the very solid form of Mr. Montcalm.

Someone in the crowd laughed. Someone else began to clap. Soon mirth and applause erupted generally. But not from Mr. Montcalm. Mr. Montcalm stayed as he was, quiet and still with his fingers closed around Caroline’s shoulders. Her skin tingled where his gloved hands curved over her bare skin. Caroline’s throat tightened. Her heart began to stutter against her ribs. That glowing delightful warmth Philip’s gaze had sparked rose within her once again. She imagined leaning against him, perhaps complaining of feeling faint so he would have to wrap his arms around her for support and comfort.