Lord of the Rakes (6 page)

As tempting as it might be, there was still a crowd about them, and she had no desire to create further spectacle. Not that anyone was paying attention to her or Philip. They were busy exclaiming over the farce they had all just witnessed. The women and girls set about being dramatically appalled while the gentlemen were crafting bons mots they could repeat at their clubs.

Mr. Montcalm squeezed Caroline’s shoulder. It was a simple, but intimate gesture. She glanced up to be greeted by a mischievous smile. Despite how close they stood, the garden shadows were still too thick here for her to tell what color his eyes were. This disappointed her strangely. Mr. Montcalm jerked his head toward the topiary-lined path behind them. Caroline nodded and he bowed, and held out his arm for her to take.

While the slowly dissolving crowd laughed with each other about the recent unexpected and bawdy scene, Philip Montcalm laid his hand over hers, and Caroline strolled deeper into the garden with the Lord of the Rakes strolling easily beside her.

M
rs. Gladwell’s gardens were designed on the same scale as her house—expensive, expansive, and exquisitely ostentatious. Beds of flowers and ferns surrounded grand old trees to simulate nature, had nature suddenly decided to become both exacting and tidy. This naturalizing tendency, however, was offset by the razor-straight rows of hedges shaped into cubes and cones.

In addition to its other ornaments, Mrs. Gladwell’s garden was decked out with marble and wrought-iron benches said to have been brought directly from the imperial palace of Versailles—after the peace, of course. One of the wrought-iron variety decorated an arching grove of poplar trees at the path’s edge. It was here that Mr. Montcalm led them.

Caroline’s head was still spinning from the boisterous scene she had just participated in. What had she been thinking to step between strangers like that? It was entirely against accepted manners to interfere with a private quarrel, no matter how publicly undertaken. She should have stood back and pretended to be shocked with the rest of the ladies. What must Mr. Montcalm think of her?

Whatever he was thinking, Mr. Montcalm’s expression remained calm and pleasant as he extended his arm so that Caroline could be seated on the bench. She opened her mouth to speak, to explain, although she wasn’t entirely sure where to start. But her escort held up his hand. Instead of sitting beside her, he ducked around behind the trees, only to emerge a moment later.

“We are in the clear,” he said as he settled himself down and draped one long arm across the back of their bench. “But in the light of recent circumstances, it’s best to be sure, don’t you agree?”

“Indeed.” Caroline strove to match his insouciant tone. “What I can’t understand is that if a man is not worth five hundred a year, why would he be worth such a scene?”

“Now, if it was five thousand a year . . .” Mr. Montcalm waved his hand casually.

“Or a title?” suggested Caroline.

“Especially a title,” he agreed.

Caroline blinked once at Mr. Montcalm’s solemn expression. Then she began to laugh. It was beyond ridiculous. She had thought she was being so clever about how to begin her first intrigue. Even as she shivered on the terrace waiting for him to receive her note and token, she’d felt certain she could manage the whole encounter. It would be like one of the plays she and Fiona used to act out in her attic, or one of the pretend calls she’d played at with Mother. But all her plans had been wiped away by two outraged and dishonest lovers from behind a rosebush. What else was there to do except laugh?

To Caroline’s relief, Mr. Montcalm joined in. He had a good laugh, and gave himself over to it willingly. His eyes crinkled in a charming fashion, and his smile . . . his smile was even more fascinating up close. Caroline fumbled at her sleeve for the little lace handkerchief she’d tucked there to blot the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Mr. Montcalm caught up her hand and, to her surprise, laid a large, practical handkerchief against her palm. The sensation of his hand closing her fingers around the linen drove away all Caroline’s impulse to laughter. His laughter had also faded, replaced by a curiously determined expression.

“Do you know we have not been introduced?” he asked, and Caroline realized he did not plan to let her go. Instead, he lifted their hands together and guided the handkerchief toward the corner of her eye. “Philip Montcalm, at your service.”

The distant, wavering torchlight turned Philip Montcalm’s face into an arresting mask of shadows. But at last Caroline could see the color of his eyes. They were a deep, stormy blue, made rich and mysterious by the night around them. He made no apology for keeping hold of her, offered no explanation as to why he did not release her. He moved her hand as he saw fit, first to daub one eye, then to dry the trail of mirthful tears on her cheek with a single, slow downward stroke of the cloth.

“Lady Caroline Delamarre,” she croaked, rather astounded she could remember her name at all. Caroline felt suspended, wrapped in a spell cast by this man’s presumptuous and insistent hold on her. His gaze did not flicker from hers as he brushed the cloth along the curve of tender flesh beneath her eyes. This soft sensation combined with the inescapable awareness of how close he was made Caroline dizzy. The desire to touch him blossomed inside her. She wanted to run her free hand across his broad chest, and up around his powerful shoulders. She wanted to lean into his warmth and brush her lips against his throat where it was bared above his collar and simply tied cravat. She wanted to kiss him, hard, passionately. Immediately.

“There.” He set her hand down in her lap and gently took the handkerchief to return to his pocket. “Is that better?”

Time and breath returned in a rush. Her face had been cool from the touch of the breeze against her tears. Now it burned, as much from Mr. Montcalm’s intimate ministrations as from the impulses flooding her.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Montcalm,” she said. “It is much better.”

“I’m glad.” How could a man’s smile do so much to her? It stripped away the last of her propriety. She wanted to close what little distance remained between them. She wanted to explore his body with her hands, to understand every aspect of this exquisitely masculine presence.

“Given the unusual nature of this introduction,” Mr. Montcalm continued, “I was hoping you might consent to call me Philip.” He pulled her lily from his buttonhole and held it toward her. The gallant gesture was only somewhat diminished by the fact that the lily’s delicate petals had been all but flattened from when he’d pulled her close against him earlier.

“It is a little worse for wear, Philip,” she remarked as she turned the flower in her fingers. It felt wonderfully daring to call this stranger by his Christian name, and to see the expression of approval on his sculpted features as she did.

“Then I shall have to replace it, Caroline.” Mr. Montcalm, Philip, took the flower back. She thought he might press it to his lips. But it seemed he was not going to stoop to anything so conventional. He simply tucked the battered blossom into his pocket, the same one where he’d placed the handkerchief. Then he settled back, laying one arm again across the back of the iron bench and stretching his legs out in front of him. Caroline could not stop her eyes from traveling the length of those legs. Pure white stockings encased his calves. His breeches’ pale silk shimmered where it curved across his muscular thighs. She had no business looking at any man like this. Caroline struggled to summon at least some ladylike reserve. She might not be able to play out this scene in the way she had imagined, but she did not have to fall immediately into this man’s arms.

That thought, she realized belatedly, was a serious mistake.

Fortunately, Philip did not seem at all shocked by the impropriety she displayed. If anything, he appeared pleased by her attention to the very personal details of his body. Certainly his voice was warm when he spoke again.

“If I might make so bold as to inquire, Caroline, why did you invite me out here?”

The question flummoxed her. Surely the meaning in her note, her lily, her simple presence here in the dark with him, was all perfectly plain. He could not possibly mean to make her say it. And yet he was clearly waiting for some kind of answer.

“I was . . . I meant . . .”

Philip raised one inquiring brow. The expression would have been coldly aristocratic had it not been for the dazzling smile that accompanied the gesture. At the same time understanding and not a little annoyance cleared the haze his presence cast over her thoughts. Philip was testing her. He wanted to find out what she would say, if she would be able to say anything.

Abruptly, Caroline found herself remembering that moment of accord that passed between them. They did not need to speak then. They had simply looked at each other and understood they would together run toward the emergency, whatever it might be. He had not warned her to stay behind. He had not held her back when she leaped forward to intercede. He had trusted her to know her own mind and resources. Could she trust him now with a truthful answer?

Caroline decided to find out.

“I intended to seduce you,” she said. Propriety shouted at her from the back of her mind. This was too much, too far. No amount of darkness or daring could permit a lady to speak so openly.

“To what do I owe this honor of being selected for your seduction?” Philip inquired softly.

Good sense struggled once more to reassert itself. She must find a way to cover her coarse and wanton speech. She must force her gaze away from his body. She should look at the illuminated gardens, at the house and clouded sky—at anything except Philip Montcalm, with his long legs and silk breeches, which were really cut much too exactly to his measure.

“Caroline?” Philip leaned forward. He did not touch her this time, and that restraint sent a rush of disappointment through her. “Will you tell me?”

Caroline knew full well that she should spin some airy nothings to compliment his masculine virtues. She might perhaps speak coyly about the rumors of his irresistibility, but the coquette’s sophisticated pleasantries died on her lips. Once more, Caroline found herself wanting to know what Philip would do if she spoke the truth.

“When you looked at me, I felt as if I had drawn breath for the first time tonight.”

The words sounded unbearably clumsy. Dread at appearing foolish finally dragged her gaze away from Philip. Caroline had always been assured that a woman possessed of sufficient independence and sense could keep a tight rein on her feelings, no matter what the situation. The mindless attraction depicted in fashionable novels was a fantasy spun by and for foolish, dependent girls. Women controlled and channeled their passions, because the world did not forgive those who did otherwise. No one—not even Fiona with whom she had shared so many confidences—had warned her how a man’s smallest touch could set both heart and imagination running at a mad gallop, or that the emotions themselves could also be so seductive.

“But now you are thinking of leaving me?” Philip murmured behind her. “You have changed your mind about my seduction?”

Caroline turned. Seated as they were, Philip’s dark blue eyes were almost level with hers. Those eyes were widely spaced and framed by thick brows. His nose was long and straight. It would have looked too large had it not been balanced by his wide, clear brow and smiling mouth. Her mind filled with a fresh riot of desires and images. She saw herself removing her gloves and touching him with her bared fingertips. She’d touch his wrist, his angled jaw. She’d cup her hand around his knee, which was currently positioned a bare inch from her skirt. She would stroke her naked hand up his thigh, until . . . until . . .

“I thought it would be simple,” she murmured.

“So many think seduction is an easy matter. But like other arts, it requires a certain amount of practice.”

“One hears, however, that gentlemen are extremely susceptible.”

“We are, extremely susceptible. But now you look worried again. You have a little crease. Here.” Philip laid one fingertip at the corner of her brow.

Unreasoning vanity flashed through her. “I do not. You are making excuses to touch me.”

“Why, so I am, Caroline. Do you want me to stop?”

She could have made any of a dozen tart replies at this impertinence, and under other circumstances she might have. Despite the attempts by her male relations to isolate her, Caroline had dealt with rude gentlemen who fancied themselves the second coming of Casanova before. But the effect produced by Philip’s attentions was nothing at all like that created by their sly glances and oily words. They made her long to flee to some other country. Philip drew her closer with each bold glance.

“No,” she breathed. “I would like to continue as we are.”

“Then we will.” He drew his fingertip down her temple to rest against the soft place behind her jaw. “We can talk and you can tell me what was it you had planned for me. Had we not been interrupted by Miss Georgiana and her unfortunate paramour, what would you have done?”

“I can’t remember what I was thinking.” She could hardly remember to breathe anymore. Philip’s fingertip traveled down her throat, across her naked shoulder, to the edge of her silken sleeve. There, his hand paused, but his eyes continued on to the swell of her breast where it was revealed by her gown’s daring neckline.

“Let us see if I can help you recall it,” said Philip. “You sent your note. You made sure I had received it. You descended the stairs. Did you know I followed?”

“Yes.”

“What did you feel then?” His fingers traced their way down her sleeve. She had been so proud of those sleeves, with their new, fashionable cut, and the generous amount of fabric used in their construction. They had quite altered her old-fashioned gown. Now she hated everything about them, because they were yet another barrier between his hand and her skin.

“Were you afraid?” Philip’s question might have been meant to tease, but his face remained entirely serious.

“No,” she answered. His fingers reached the edge of her glove, just below her elbow. She was all confusion about how to respond. Should she touch him? Where? How? She had not thought this far ahead, and she could barely think at all now. Her awareness was entirely focused on the place his fingers lingered. There was none left for decisions. “It was as if . . . as if . . .”