Lord of the Rakes (25 page)

Caroline covered her face with her hands. She must remember the lessons of her mother’s lonely life and keep them close. Love was not for her, and never would be. Especially not with Philip. Never with Philip. He did not want to marry her. He wanted to play with her, to tease her and bind her and take her. Nothing more.

There was a soft scratching at the door. Caroline jerked her head up to see Mrs. Ferriday enter the room.

“I was just coming to see if you needed anything else, my lady. Should I send the girl for the tray?”

“Yes, thank you. No, wait.”

Caroline crossed swiftly to her writing desk. She would send a note asking Philip to join her this afternoon, to talk. A man whose heart was not engaged would not allow himself to be so importuned by a casual lover.

Caroline wrote her brief note, sealed and addressed it. She placed it in Mrs. Ferriday’s hands and tried to ignore the gleam in the older woman’s eyes as she saw the direction. Mrs. Ferriday curtsied and hurried away, clearly thinking she carried a billet-doux, and all too clearly pleased at the prospect.

It did not matter what Mrs. Ferriday thought, Caroline told herself as she sat back down at the paper-covered table. She, Caroline, knew she was only gaining positive proof of Philip’s ultimate indifference. Once she had this proof, her ardor, and all other feeling toward him, would cool, and she would be able to set her mind to finding a way through her present difficulties.

Because Philip would not come in answer to her note. He did not love her and she did not love him. They might be friends, but he was a busy man, and he wanted to keep his distance. Were not all his games with bonds and obedience proof of that? He would not come.

But what if he did?

A
fter his uncomfortable visit with Aunt Judith, Philip found he had no interest in returning home to sit alone with his thoughts. There was no question but that those thoughts would turn to Lady Caroline, and to what his aunt had said about her, and him.

He’d had tempestuous, passionate affairs before, but no other woman had brought so much disorder into his life. No, not even Mrs. Warrick. Those other women had walked at his side and occupied a place in his bed, but their presence had not occasioned anything but the briefest remarks from friends, let alone family. He doubted that his even father—who relished any tale of a new conquest—would remember the name of even one of them.

He certainly did not miss those other women when they left. Oh, the most undisciplined part of himself would remind him it had been long hours, or days, since he’d indulged in a good fuck, but that was a different thing. He never wondered what those other women were doing at any given moment. He didn’t worry if he had taken leave of them properly, or whether they felt they’d waded in too deep and too quickly with him.

He never worried what they might think to hear him described as damaged goods.

Philip lifted his chin. It had sunken to his breast without his realizing, and he’d been walking along looking at the pavement. He glanced about him, and cursed. He’d been so lost in thought, in fact, that he’d begun walking toward Andover Street without even noticing.

He cursed again. He was becoming a mooncalf, and this affair was becoming a farce. Perhaps he’d better break things off.

But even as he formed this eminently sensible thought, Philip’s mind and senses went into a tumult of rebellion that would have done credit to a Paris mob. He seemed to see Caroline in front of him as she was on that first night, clad in shimmering amber silk, with the white lily adorning her chestnut curls. He felt every inch of her body pressed against every inch of his. He was instantly and painfully hard as he remembered the sensation of plunging into her. She moaned and she begged, and she fucked him all the harder when he restrained her. She demanded he give her everything he had, and he did. He could not refuse. Discipline and control fled, and he knew he would give her anything.

Anything.

Because it wasn’t just the sex, and he knew it. At breakfast she talked intelligently and challengingly about affairs of the day. He remembered thinking even then he could indeed introduce her to Aunt Judith without fear.

Philip lifted his hat and ran his hand through his hair. God in heaven, he was falling apart. He had to get control of himself. Taking a firm grip on his thoughts and his walking stick, he turned his steps toward St. James’s Street, and the familiar and wholly masculine confines of his club. He’d find someone there to share a bottle or two with. Gideon might be about. Together, they could surely find some distraction that would drive maunderings about women and family out of his mind.

But try as he might, Philip could not shake his thoughts loose. It was as if Caroline walked beside him, laughing with him, gazing at him, urging him with her phantom presence to accept the feelings she raised in him. To give in to her feminine power. To this once be the one who surrendered absolutely to desire.

Finally, Philip reached the steps of the club. It was like he’d just found an oasis in a desert, but as he started up the steps, the door ahead of him opened, and a tall, lean man emerged, donning a battered hat that was at least four seasons out of date.

Philip stopped, and stared. So did the other man.

It was Owen.

Owen recovered first, and walked down the last few steps until he was level with his brother. “Hello, Philip. I was just leaving you a message.”

They shook hands. Owen was one of the few men tall enough to look Philip in the eye. For all he spent much of his time squirreled away in the recesses of the great house at Innsbrook, Owen’s skin was permanently bronzed by the sun, and his grip as he shook Philip’s hand was as strong as ever. Philip remembered his brother easily outstripping every youth in the village in the footraces run at the garden fetes, He had the Montcalm blue eyes, but his hair was a distinct mix of red and gold inherited from their mother. His clothes were a countryman’s, stout, plain, and a bit worn, but Owen held himself proudly, as if daring any man to care.

“Hello, Owen,” said Philip. “Aunt Judith told me you were in town. You’ve a message for me, you say?”

“It’s Father. He took cold in March, and the cough’s no better. The doctor says there’s danger of pneumonia.”

Philip chuckled. “Ashford’s been predicting father’s death for at least a decade.”

A muscle high in Owen’s cheek twitched. “He wants you to come home for a few days.”

“That would be awkward just now,” Philip said slowly. He didn’t want to go home while his thoughts, and his affairs, were in such disarray. He needed to put things on a sound footing, with Mrs. Warrick, with Aunt Judith, and most especially with Caroline. Only then could he go back and present the figure his father expected to see.

Philip felt his thoughts pull up short. He’d never considered his visits home in quite that way, and he did not like it.

“If that’s how it is, I’ll tell him.” Owen brushed past him. For a single heartbeat, Philip watched his brother walk away. But the echoes of his conversation with Judith, and with Caroline, rose up powerfully in his mind, and he squared his shoulders.

“Wait, Owen,” he said. “Will you . . . will you join me for a drink?”

Owen looked at him like he didn’t understand one word that had been said. “You’re inviting me into your club?”

“It appears so.” Philip’s mouth twisted in an answering smile, acknowledging how unprecedented the situation was.

Owen walked back over and gave Philip a long, careful look. If it had been any other man, Philip would have taken offense at such scrutiny. Even from his brother, it was annoying and he couldn’t help wondering what Owen meant by it.

“All right, then,” Owen said at last. “I’ve some time before my appointment.”

Not quite believing what he was doing, Philip led his brother back up the stairs and into his club.

The primary purpose of a gentleman’s club was to furnish its members with a haven of luxury to which they could retreat at any time, and Philip’s filled that part to perfection. The main room was gilded and pillared, with broad hearths, deep, comfortable chairs, and soaring windows to let in the daylight for those who cared to read from the stock of papers and magazines, or play at cards or billiards. Philip couldn’t help noticing the place felt rather cold after the more casual and crowded atmosphere of Harry Rayburn’s club.

The sitting room was about half full, and Philip crossed it with Owen walking stiff and suspicious at his side. But before the silence between them could grow too awkward, Philip spotted Gideon Fitzsimmons waving to him from one of the tables by the windows. Grateful, he led Owen over to his side.

“Hello, Gideon. Gideon Fitzsimmons, my brother, the honorable Mr. Owen Montcalm. I don’t think you’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t. How do you do?” said Gideon breezily as the men shook hands. “Just ordered coffee and brandy. You’ll join me?”

Owen settled into a chair, and Philip took a seat across from him. His brother kept glancing around, as if uncertain of the company he’d walked into. He seemed incapable of relaxing, but that was Owen to the hilt.

“What brings you to London?” Philip asked him. “Estate business?”

“Some.” The waiter brought the coffee, which Owen accepted, but he waved away the brandy. “And a few personal errands.” His mouth shut like a box.

Philip muffled a curse and tried again. “Aunt Judith is looking well, wouldn’t you say? Apart from the cold, that is.”

“Yes.”

Silence fell. Owen shifted uneasily in his chair and showed every sign of trying to drain his cup as quickly as he could without burning his mouth. Philip sighed. This had been a terrible idea. He and Owen would never be friends. They were too different, and anyway, Owen didn’t want his friendship. Philip had known that for years. It was only talking with Caroline that made him forget for long enough to issue this invitation.

And what did Gideon mean by giving him such a fish-eyed look? The man didn’t know how difficult it was to draw Owen out on any subject.

As if he heard that thought, Gideon turned pointedly toward Owen.

“Philip says you’re a great man for books,” he said. “I expect you’ve heard about the auction at Barstoke’s?”

This remark clearly startled Owen. “As a matter of fact, I was going to look in after I was finished here. I understand they’ve got a translation of Linnaeus on offer.”

“Well, perhaps I’ll see you there. I’ve got my eye on a lovely edition of Vasari’s
Lives
of the artists.”

With that, Gideon and Owen settled into a protracted and energetic conversation about books and auctions, and dealers of all sorts of merchandise, honest and dishonest. With each exchange, Philip felt his eyebrows inching up a little higher. He’d always thought of Owen as a plodder. Except he didn’t sound like a plodder as he bandied words with Gideon about translations and translators, fakes and forgeries, and the prevalence of “lost” manuscripts by various famous figures. Philip could barely follow what they were talking about, but at the same time he felt himself relaxing into the rhythm of the conversation. It was a strangely fine thing to be in his brother’s presence without wishing to be out of it. Owen even laughed at some of Gideon’s dry quips, and showed every sign of enjoying himself. Had Philip ever seen such a thing before?

Had he ever taken the trouble to look?

They’d drained their cups twice before Owen looked at the clock and uttered a blunt oath. “I’ll be late if I don’t hurry.” He stood and offered Gideon his hand. “Very glad to have met you, Fitzsimmons. Philip.” His brother nodded coolly toward him as he called for his hat and gloves.

“Owen.” Philip nodded back, and looked at the bottom of his brandy glass, uncomfortably aware of the difference between the way Owen spoke to Gideon, and then to him. What if . . . what if the distance between them wasn’t simply a result of Owen’s nature?

“Pleasant fellow, your brother,” remarked Gideon blandly. “Not at all what you described.”

Philip reached for the decanter again. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk so much at one sitting.”

“Well.” Gideon shrugged, but at the same time he was watching Philip with his deceptively lazy gaze. “We’re all different men in town.”

“Yes. That’s certainly the truth.” He swirled his brandy, but didn’t drink. “Some of us are different men on different days.”

“Sometimes that’s no bad thing,” replied Gideon. “Sometimes we’ve all got things to learn about ourselves, and those nearest us.”

Which was also the truth. He considered telling Gideon something of what he’d been thinking, about Caroline and the rest of it. Gideon might understand, and he definitely would not laugh.

“Got some news for you, Philip,” said Gideon, before Philip could find his next words. “Banbridge has left town.”

“Has he?”

Gideon nodded. “Early this morning. Nobody knows where he went. All the little birds are saying he’s headed for Calais.” Calais was well known as a retreat for those who could no longer pay their London debts. Even George “the Beau” Brummel had washed up there.

“Well, well,” murmured Philip. “Is that so?”

“Thought you might be interested. You can pass the news on to Lady Caroline,” Gilbert added with studied casualness.

“I may. Thank you.” Philip raised his glass, and tried to ignore the strength of the satisfaction that surged through him. It was unworthy of him to feel any such thing. It was almost like his jealousy had been soothed.

“Excuse me, sir.” A footman appeared at his elbow. “A note for you.”

“Probably the one Owen left before we found each other,” said Philip, taking up the paper. But then he froze. He recognized the handwriting, and it was not Owen’s. It was Caroline’s.