Lord of the Rakes (14 page)

T
hanks to her recent shopping trip with Fiona, when Caroline arrived at Lady Preston’s charity concert, her formerly plain gown of
café au lait
satin was freshly trimmed with ribbons of garnet velvet and contrasting white rosettes. She carried a Belgian lace fan with gilded staves in her hands, which were now gloved with a deep red silk that matched both the ribbons and her delicately embroidered slippers. She wore her hair once more in the simple Grecian style, with several curls artfully trailing along the nape of her neck. It had the unusual blessing of being both attractive and comfortable, requiring, as it did, only a few more of the velvet ribbons and some pearl pins to hold it in place. There was only one additional ornament, which she had sent Mrs. Ferriday after at the last moment. Her maid had managed to find a florist’s shop still open near Covent Garden and procured a single white lily. Philip had said nothing about being at this concert, so she assumed he was haunting more fashionable gatherings. She wanted the flower all the same. She wanted to think of him, of his voice, his knowing hands, and wicked, satisfying commands. She enjoyed nursing her heated secret, even as she entered Lady Preston’s receiving room on the left arm of James Westbrook, Fiona’s intended. Fiona had his right arm, but she was the only member of her family to attend the concert. Her brother Harry had a separate engagement, and Mrs. Rayburn had stayed home to nurse Mr. Rayburn, who was laid up with a low fever.

“Oh, Fiona, there you are at last!” Deirdre Preston, Lady Preston’s oldest daughter broke from the receiving line and hurried forward to greet them. “You look splendid. Really, Mr. Westbrook, I’ve never seen her so vivacious. I’m sure it is all down to you.”

“On the contrary, Lady Deirdre.” James bowed over Deirdre’s hand. “She owes it to nothing but her own generous spirits.” Even as he spoke these words, James’s eyes slipped sideways toward Fiona, in a look of such tenderness and heat that for a moment Caroline’s heart constricted with unfamiliar jealousy. She banished the emotion at once. She truly was delighted for Fiona. Now that she’d had an opportunity to meet the Honorable Mr. James Westbrook, Caroline knew he was just the man for her friend. He was not tall man, but he had a trim, athletic build, sandy hair, and a pair of sparkling green eyes set in a lean, attractive face. He carried himself with confidence and spoke clearly and to the point without any affected stuffiness. She could leave London after the wedding secure in the knowledge that her best friend would be made very happy.

“Oh, stop it, or I’m going to turn positively green with envy.” Deirdre Preston tapped James lightly on the knuckles with her fan. “There’s not a beau in London can turn a prettier phrase. Hello, Caroline!” Deirdre pressed her cheek against Caroline’s. They had met a few times at the Rayburns’ country house, and if not exactly friends, they had at least always gotten along. “I’m so delighted you’ve finally come to us.
And
there’s a friend here who’s been especially asking for you.”

Philip!
His name sang through Caroline’s thoughts. He had come after all.

Deirdre had already tucked her arm through Caroline’s to lead her away from Fiona and James. She carried on chatting as she steered them through the crowd, but Caroline heard nothing. She kept her eyes pointed toward the floor just in front of her slippers, and all her attention was focused inward, trying to calm her beating heart and smooth her flustered demeanor.

“There!” Lady Deirdre brought them to a halt. “Isn’t this lovely?”

“Why, Lady Caroline. How good it is to see you again.”

Caroline’s eyes jerked up. The man in front of her was not Philip Montcalm.

“Mr. Banbridge.”

“Good evening, Lady Caroline.” Lewis smiled at her all-too-evident shock. He took her hand, although she did not offer it, and bowed. “How lovely to see you again so soon. We did not have nearly as much time to speak at Mrs. Gladwell’s ball as I would have liked.”

If Deirdre noticed anything was amiss with Caroline’s response to Lewis Banbridge’s presence, she did not show it. She simply beamed and touched Caroline’s arm. “You must excuse me. There’s Mama waving me over. Probably something about Signor Marizetti. You can’t imagine what trouble these tenors are!” Lady Deirdre hurried away. Caroline rallied herself, and fixed a suitably polite smile on her face for Mr. Banbridge.

“Can I fetch you a drink, Lady Caroline?” Lewis nodded toward the footmen circulating through the crowd with trays and bottles at the ready. “Lord Preston has laid on some excellent champagne.”

“I do not care for any, thank you.”

Awkward silence fell between them, but Mr. Banbridge did not seem to feel it. As usual, Lewis was dressed at the extreme height of fashion. His collar points stood up nearly to eye level and his black cravat was a complex confection of loops and folds with an emerald pin glittering at its center. The dark blue of his coat was relatively modest, but his waistcoat more than made up for this with its violent purple-and-red-striped pattern shot through with gold thread.

If the carriage lanterns go out, he’ll be able to find his way home by the glow of his attire,
thought Caroline, although she knew she ought to concentrate on making conversation. That, and getting away from Mr. Banbridge as quickly as possible.

“Have you been long in town?” Lewis inquired.

“A few weeks. I’m here for Miss Rayburn’s wedding.” She let her gaze drift about the room, a clearly understood signal in society, town and country both, that she did not wish to continue the conversation. Mr. Banbridge ignored this also.

“Ah, yes, the wedding. You must convey to her my congratulations. I understand it is an excellent and profitable match on both sides.”

“They are both very much in love, Mr. Banbridge,” replied Caroline tartly. “And the families favor the arrangement. Surely that is what matters.”

“Of course, of course,” he agreed hastily, but with a smile that said he enjoyed humoring her. “If love is what one prizes.”

“What else should be prized in a marriage?”

“Oh, you know me, Lady Caroline,” he said breezily. “I’m an old-fashioned man. Give me a marriage built on practical matters. Let both parties be useful to one another, that’s what I say.”

“Useful? You mean rich.”

“Rich, connected, titled, advancing.” He waved his heavily ringed hand. “Any or all of these.”

“Well, Mr. Banbridge.” Caroline permitted herself a tight smile. “I begin to understand why you yourself are still unmarried.”

Lewis attempted a shrug in the French style, which was hampered by the need to avoid stabbing himself in the eye with a needle-sharp collar point. “These things have an amazing way of organizing themselves. One must simply remain alert for opportunity.”

Caroline fluttered her fan a few more times. She wanted to move away, but the crowd in the domed foyer had swelled to the point where she couldn’t see James or Fiona anymore. She was just about to resort to the excuse of the retiring room, when Lewis, again carefully, cocked his head toward her.

“How is your brother, Lady Caroline?”

Caroline had to work to suppress the chill that ran through her at the mention of Jarrett. “He was very well when I left.”

“I was surprised he allowed you to come to town at all. His views are even more old-fashioned than mine.” Mr. Banbridge laughed, but there was an edge to it. Caroline only managed a wan smile in return. “Will he be present at the wedding?”

“No, no. Jarrett has no taste for London.” She had readied that remark even before she left Keenesford Hall. It was not possible she could avoid meeting country acquaintances in town. She knew she would have to keep their curiosity to a minimum.

“No taste for London?” Lewis pulled a wry face. “That’s something I’ve never been able to understand. It’s like lacking a taste for fine brandy, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Banbridge.”

“Well, you may take it from me. A taste for all the finest is what gives one a full measure of satisfaction in life.” He fingered the chains on his waistcoat.

“That’s a very modern sentiment for a man who considers himself old-fashioned.”

“On the contrary, Lady Caroline. It’s about as old-fashioned a sentiment as exists, especially when the ladies are included.” Banbridge made no effort to disguise the way his eyes wandered up and down her dress. Another man might have been ogling her figure, but Caroline felt certain Lewis was calculating the value of her gown and its new trimmings. “You are stopping with the Rayburns, I imagine,” he went on.

“No. I’m staying with relatives.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware you had any relations in town.”

What possible business is this of yours?
Caroline thought exasperatedly, but of course, she could not say it out loud. She must smile and remain poised. “A few. On my mother’s side.”

“Well, I am glad you are here.” He might almost have meant those words, but then he had to spoil the effect by letting his eyes linger once more on her ribbons, and her pearls. “While we were in the country you were always so attached to Fiona Rayburn it was difficult to have any conversation with you. I hope to be able to remedy that now that you are here with us in town, where everything is so much more free and easy.”

Caroline lifted her chin. “I daresay we shall see each other from time to time.”

“Excellent. We can discuss . . . practical matters.”

Caroline blanched. Lewis surely saw it, but this time when he smiled, there was nothing mirthful in the expression. It was the look of a swordsman who knew he’d scored a hit.

Just then, the gong sounded and the footmen drew open the doors to the conservatory. Lewis held out his arm. “May I have the honor of escorting you in, Lady Caroline?”

Caroline bit her lip. She could not walk into the other room alone, but she did not want to walk in with Lewis Banbridge. It would make it that much harder to get away from him the rest of the evening.

“Ah, Caroline, there you are.”

Caroline whirled around to see James Westbrook edging through the crowd.

“Mr. Westbrook.” She tried to keep the relief out of her voice. “Do you know Mr. Banbridge?”

“Banbridge.” James nodded his greeting. Despite being the shorter of the two, he managed to give the impression of looking down on Lewis. “Sorry to steal you away, Caroline, but it’s on Fiona’s orders. She needs her maid of honor at once. Something to do with flowers or some urgent matter of the kind. You’ll excuse us of course?” Deftly, James intercepted Caroline’s hand where it had hesitated over Banbridge’s arm and laid it on his own. Then he steered her away, as easily as if the whole awkward moment had been nothing more than a figure in the middle of a country dance.

“You are going to have to teach me how you accomplished that maneuver, sir,” whispered Caroline gratefully as the crowd closed around them.

“An entire season of keeping Fiona away from the wolves,” he whispered back. “Please do call me James. Fiona informs me if I treat you as anything less than her beloved sister, our engagement is quite off.”

“Well, I shall give her a good report. With extra marks for alert and timely intervention.”

“It’s quite another person you have to thank for that, I’m afraid.” James winked.

“Really? Who?”

James did not need to answer. They had reached the conservatory doors with their miniature grove of potted orange trees. There, looking over the crowd and giving no sign he noticed her at all, stood Philip Montcalm.

W
hat am I to do with you, Lady Caroline?
Philip stood at the back of Lady Preston’s airy conservatory, not paying any attention to the magnificent lament being sung by the Italian tenor. All his attention was on Caroline, where she sat, six rows from the front, ten rows from the back. Four locks of chestnut hair curled across the back of her graceful neck, and they seemed to him more arresting than all the soaring notes the man beside the pianoforte could muster.

He had not meant to be here at all. When he left Gideon’s carriage and entered his club, Philip had every intention of dividing his idle day between the club’s sitting room and the park, finishing off with a visit to the gaming tables after dark.

But as the evening settled down, he could muster no enthusiasm to start for Crockburn’s, or any other gambling establishment. All he could think about was Lady Caroline—her beautiful smiling face, her magnificent body, and, most vividly, their tempestuous lovemaking. The more the heated memory of her filled him, the less able he was to throw himself into preparations for a night out among the sporting set. He wanted to be with Caroline. His cock was making him aware how very much he wanted it.

He decided he would just stop in at Lady Preston’s. He would see Caroline across the room and let her see him. It would, he told himself, create a pleasant sense of anticipation for their next encounter. But what he saw in Lady Preston’s crowded foyer was not merely Caroline, but Caroline being importuned by none other than Lewis Banbridge.

The strength of his reaction caught Philip entirely off guard. The anger was dizzying. He was entirely possessed by the urge to march across the room and plant his fist in Banbridge’s smug face. Where had it come from? Banbridge was only talking to her, and boring her to tears, to judge by the way her gaze wandered about the room. And yet there it was—raw, red, and primitive, burning in the middle of his chest.

Fortunately, Philip spied Miss Rayburn’s fiancé, James Westbrook, with whom he had an acquaintance. He was able to pass the man a quiet word so he could go rescue Caroline and thus preserve the discretion Philip himself had said was necessary.

But never had the need for discretion weighed so heavily on him. He wanted to be the one to help her. He wanted to lay her hand on his arm and see her smile up at him. He wanted to look into her wide eyes with a glance that made it clear he had every intention of taking her home, stripping her bare, and fucking her into magnificent exhaustion.

Then and there, Philip knew he would not be satisfied with a look or a glance. He had to have Lady Caroline again. Already his member was stirring, anxious for a fresh taste of her sweetness and heat. He watched her lean over toward Miss Rayburn and whisper something. He wondered what she said. How pleasant it would be to sit next to her, hearing her thoughts. He could whisper into her ear, make her laugh and smile and tease. There would be dancing later in the evening. Waltzing with Lady Caroline would be a revelatory experience.

You need to get out of here,
he told himself sternly.
You’re beginning to obsess over the woman. She’s luscious, passionate, and original, but still, she’s not so very different from any other.

Even as he allowed himself that base thought, Philip knew it to be untrue. There was something different about Lady Caroline. The devil take him if he didn’t want to explore the breadth and the depth of that difference. He’d heard of love at first sight, of course, and of course he’d rejected the notion. He wasn’t a schoolboy or a simple countryman like his brother. As a sensible man, he knew such dramatic emotions belonged in fashionable novels, not in the real world of London society. Whatever was happening to him, it was not that.

The problem was, Philip had no idea what else it could be.

Philip felt the weight of someone’s gaze upon him. Slowly, so as to appear natural, he slipped his own eyes left, and right, and found, much to his disgust, that Lewis Banbridge had turned to look at him. Banbridge faced away quickly, but not before Philip saw his frown.

A fresh knot of anger tightened itself inside Philip. Was it possible Banbridge meant to make a serious play for Caroline’s affections? Not that he had any chance of it. She was far too intelligent to be taken in by a fortune hunter’s shallow charms and obvious flattery. But Philip’s mind was already racing ahead of him. He pictured Banbridge dancing with Caroline, fetching her punch, drawing her into conversation, perhaps making her laugh.

No. That was not permissible. As a response, this was not rational, or civilized, but Philip also knew it would not be shifted. He needed to make it quite clear to Caroline that she had no need of Banbridge’s company or his protection.

Carefully, he slipped out of the conservatory. He had a few slight preparations to make.

 • • • 

Caroline heard not one note of music that evening. All her thoughts were occupied by the fact that Philip Montcalm was somewhere close by. He had seen her. Indeed, he had been paying attention to her, and had arranged for her rescue from Lewis Banbridge. She would have to find a way to thank him. Which meant she would come close to him again.

She knew, without knowing how she knew, that he had left the conservatory. She was also absolutely and utterly certain he remained in Lord Preston’s house somewhere, waiting for her. Why she knew and how she knew she could not have said, but she did not doubt it.

She could leave this crowd, held in rapt attention by the music she could barely hear. She could walk out and find him, just to thank him for his quiet assistance earlier, of course. She would look into his storm-blue eyes, as she had in the garden, and then in her bedroom. He would take her hand in his, and he would smile. She would get to watch him remembering the passion they had shared, how she had feasted her eyes on his naked chest, his taut body, and his exquisitely erect member. He would see that she remembered how delicious it felt to clasp his thighs between hers, to have him thrust into her.

Caroline opened her fan once more and applied it vigorously, even though she knew it would do no good. The flush burning across her cheeks and throat had nothing to do at all with the heat of the room. Fiona gave her a sideways glance. Caroline tried once more to focus on Signor Marizetti’s clear, soaring voice. He was singing in German now, something light and airy about roses. Doubtlessly dew, spring, and maiden’s blush would enter into the conversation shortly. All chaste and publicly acceptable sentiments, and suddenly Caroline wanted nothing more to do with any of them.

She nudged Fiona’s foot and flicked her eye sideways, a discreet signal for needing the retiring room. Fiona nodded in reply, but added another, much sharper glance that said she knew this was an excuse. How could she not know? If Fiona hadn’t seen Philip for herself, James had surely whispered something in her ear. It didn’t matter. Thoughts of Philip had stirred Caroline to a fever pitch. She had to at least see him once more.

Signor Marizetti sang the last, trilling notes of his light German song and bowed to the general applause. Several other ladies got up from their places, providing Caroline with the cover she needed for her own retreat.

The foyer was several degrees cooler than the conservatory, which made it easier to breathe, and to think. A number of guests strolled about the space, stretching their legs and looking at Lord Preston’s extensive art collection arranged on the curving walls.

And there was Philip. He stood in front of a life-size grouping of Preston ancestors adorned by the frills and wigs fashionable in the era of George I. He was waiting for her, just as she had known he would be.

Summoning every ounce of control available to her, Caroline walked calmly about the edge of the foyer. She paused now and then to cast a critical glance over some canvas—a Dutch landscape, a French still life, an Italian piazza, until at last she arrived at the far edge of the massive family portrait.

“Mr. Montcalm,” she said to the canvas.

“Lady Caroline,” he murmured in reply without letting his gaze once flicker from the painted Prestons.

The gulf between them seemed a thousand feet wide, but Caroline could still feel the warmth and energy flowing from him. It surrounded her and embraced her, even though his arms could not.

“You did not say you would be attending tonight.” She took a step back to examine the truly incredible dress on the middle Preston girl.

“I had an invitation. I had not been planning to use it.”

“What changed your mind?” How on earth did one expect a child to stand up under such massive panniers, let alone move?

“Thoughts of you,” said Philip in an entirely casual tone. “And of us.”

“Well, I am grateful to you. You saved me from an evening beside Mr. Banbridge.”

Philip’s smile was the barest ghost of an expression, but Caroline felt the force of it as strongly as if he’d kissed her. “I am entirely at your service, my lady.”

“You make that sound so wicked, sir.”

“Do I?” Philip crossed behind her, so close his motion stirred her hems, making the satin caress her ankles ever so lightly. Now he stood in front of the next painting, which showed a man in the straight tunic and velvet cap of the Italian Renaissance. They were closer now, less than a foot apart.

“Entirely wicked.”

As soon as she spoke those words, Caroline realized the severity of her mistake. Her words shifted the lazy indulgence she felt from him. They brought back that heady air of mischief, of fire and sensual understanding she both desired and feared.

“Perhaps”—Philip drew the word out slowly—“you would rather be entirely at my service.”

She should not answer. She should end this. Already, her body ached for him. It would only grow worse the longer she stayed.

“If only we could,” she breathed. “You have no idea . . .”

“Oh, but I do.” His expression remained quite bland as he gazed at the paintings. “You’ve been thinking of us, too. Us in your bed. You’ve been thinking of kisses and touches, of my hands on your—”

“Stop. Someone will hear.”

He did not even bother to glance around. “There’s no one to hear. Not even if I ask you if you’re warm now, just from remembering.”

Caroline knew she should remain silent but she did not want to. She wanted him to know what he did to her. “Yes. Yes, I am.” She was, in fact, not just warm but fevered. The whole of her body was responding to just the memory of his touch, and there seemed to be nothing she could do about it. “Now, please, no more.”

“Why not?” Philip leaned forward to more closely examine the brushwork of the gloomy portrait in front of him.

“Because I shall go mad from wanting you, that’s why not.”

“Will you, my dear? Perhaps we should do something about that.”

Oh, she was lost. Where was her proper lady’s command of the situation? If she’d ever had such command, it had fled. All she wanted now was to turn toward Philip and beg him to fondle her, to suck her, to bring some relief to her aching, her urgency, even if somebody saw. Even if everybody saw.

“I’ll be missed.” Caroline cursed her own vacillation. Hadn’t she come to London to claim a life of freedom? Yet here she was, worrying about appearances. She despised it, but she could not ignore it, especially as it concerned Fi. Lewis Banbridge would be on watch for her, too, and he was in no way her friend.

That ghost of a smile passed across Philip’s mouth again. He reached into his pocket to bring out a copy of the printed program Lady Preston had produced. “If you’d read your program, you would know we have at least another half hour before the final aria.” He held it out. “No one will notice as long as you’re back by then. There is a closed room at the end of the left-hand corridor, three doors beyond the ladies’ retiring room.”

She slowly took the program from his hand. Philip had planned this. He’d reviewed the house and picked the spot, and waited, confident she would not be able to resist his presence. Impertinent man! Caroline searched inside herself for some trace of wounded pride, but found only longing. He’d been thinking of her pleasure, of their pleasure together. He wanted more, just as she did.

“I don’t dare,” she murmured to the program.

“Dare,” Philip breathed. “I will not let you come to harm. But I will be waiting.”

With that, he turned slowly on his heel and strolled away.