Lord of the Rakes (29 page)

Owen was looking at his tabletop and all its array of notebooks and instruments. Philip watched as a whole range of emotion passed across his brother’s face.

“Have you told Father?” Owen asked quietly.

“Not yet,” Philip admitted. “I was going to see him as soon as I changed.”

Cynicism settled into Owen’s expression. “And you’re using me to try out the sound of it all?”

Resentment, entirely unwelcome but completely familiar, bristled inside him. Philip did not let himself answer until he was sure he’d reined it in. Dammit, this was going to be harder than he had hoped. But he had built this maze for himself, and he now had no way to get out of it, except by taking one step at a time. “I want Father’s approval, if I can get it. But it’s your help I need, Owen,” he said. “I had to find out if I had it before I went any further.”

Owen looked at him a long time. Philip remembered how free and easy Owen had been with Gideon at the club, and how he realized then how much intelligence and strength of character waited behind his brother’s eyes. He’d seen something like it in Harry Rayburn. There were plenty of similarities between the two of them, he realized. They were both quiet men, underestimated by the sort of person Philip had surrounded himself with, and yet deeper than any of the dandies and sporting bloods suspected. They were also both men he wanted to know better.

“If you need my help, you have it,” said Owen. “On the condition that you make a clean breast of things to our father.”

Philip nodded and stood up. It was time to go to the lion’s den.

I
t was Mrs. Ferriday who convinced Caroline she must be “at home” the day Philip left.

“After all the invitations,” Mrs. Ferriday said, brandishing a new stack of cards that had just arrived, “the ladies will be looking to pay calls on you. It will seem very strange if you are not receiving today, especially when you said at the ball, and the concert, that you would be.”

Caroline had the distinct feeling Mrs. Ferriday was managing her. Nonetheless, she made sense. Receiving and paying calls was entirely expected. Even if she was only to be part of London life for a short time, there would be questions if she did not participate in that society ritual.

So Caroline gave the orders for tea and light refreshments to be prepared. Fresh flowers were placed in the front parlor and the fire built to an acceptable level against the day’s pervasive chill. She put on her new tea dress of sprigged rose, and waited.

She did not have to wait long. First came Mrs. Carmichael and her sister Mrs. Benton. Then came the two Miss Debusseys and Lady Wells with Lady Margaret Shalesford. Caroline found her afternoon delightfully filled with talk and company. Because she was the hostess, she had the power to direct conversation away from purely idle gossip and toward pleasant, even edifying subjects. She found a number of the ladies to be loyal readers of
The Woman’s Window,
and its articles sparked any number of lively discussions. She was pressed to return calls and received cards enough to keep even Mrs. Ferriday happy.

By the time the clock chimed four, she was pleasantly tired and was able to look at the remains of her latest cup of tea disinterestedly. She was supposed to be receiving until five, but perhaps she was done for the afternoon. She could have a nap.

If only she could anticipate seeing Philip that evening, everything would be perfect.

Caroline sighed. She had promised herself she would not waste time worrying about what Philip was doing, or why he had left for home so suddenly. She had been able to keep that promise for perhaps five minutes. Last night had been almost entirely sleepless. She tossed and turned in her lonely bed, her mind filled with fruitless guesses. Worse, she found herself worrying over what she might have said or done to drive him away. But her emotional anxiety was nothing compared with her physical unease. She wanted him, again. Always. When she finally did drift into sleep, a fever-hot dream rose within her. Philip had lashed her facedown to the bed so he could enter her from behind. She had felt him inside her, the rough friction of his powerful thrusts. He took her relentlessly, sparing her nothing, the way she liked best. She ordered him to thrust faster, thrust harder, to not stop, to never stop.

“Yes, mistress!” he cried. “Yes, mistress!”

She woke with her folds and nub throbbing, and her thighs as drenched as if Philip’s seed had truly been spent across them. Caroline cried out in pure need and thrust her hand between her legs to rub and rub until desire burst free and sent her body into a spasm of pleasure.

But although it had been release, it provided no relief from the desire that plagued her. Only Philip could bring that.

Mrs. Ferriday opened the door again, breaking Caroline’s heated reverie. Caroline set her cup down hastily. Good. Another visitor. Whoever it was would distract her, and she very clearly needed the distraction.

But Mrs. Ferriday’s face was grave as she curtsied. Caroline had barely time to wonder what was wrong before her attendant made her announcement.

“A Mrs. Warrick to see you, my lady.”

Caroline started. “Did you say Mrs.
Warrick
?”

“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Ferriday held out the card for Caroline to take. It was an elaborate creation, with a wreath of red roses surrounding the name embossed in gold.

Mrs. Eugenia Warrick
, Caroline read. At the same time she could not make her mind believe it. It was not possible. What could Mrs. Warrick want here?

Caroline’s distress must have shown on her face because Mrs. Ferriday frowned. “Should I say you are not at home, my lady?”

Yes,
thought Caroline. No good could come from such a meeting. But before she could speak the word, she thought about the woman she had seen hanging on Lewis’s arm. Mrs. Warrick had tried so hard to force Philip to go with her. If Caroline turned Mrs. Warrick away now, she had no way of finding out what the woman might do next. She did not need to be dogged by the schemes of anyone who sought to wheedle or force Philip away. It would only cause her to wear herself out with additional pointless worrying when there were plenty of more important concerns requiring her attentions.

Caroline set the card down on the coffee table. “You may show her in, Mrs. Ferriday.”

“Very good, my lady.”

Mrs. Ferriday left the room. Caroline assumed the polite expression she had seen on so many women’s faces when she went visiting in the country. Inside, however, fear grated against her nerves.

Fortunately, she only had to endure a few moments before Mrs. Warrick breezed into the room.

“Lady Caroline!” Mrs. Warrick cried. “How very kind of you to agree to see me!” She held out her hand, and Caroline took it, briefly.

Today, Mrs. Warrick had dressed in black and burgundy with a black, embroidered shawl about her shoulders. It was a dramatic combination, and a less sophisticated woman would have had difficulty pulling it off, especially in the afternoon. But Mrs. Warrick wore the striking dress as if she had been born to it.

“What a delightful house!” Mrs. Warrick looked about her with bright, hard eyes. “I was expecting to find you in Dobbson Square. But this neighborhood is so charming and out of the way. You must live in perfect peace here.”

“Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Warrick?” said Caroline. She knew exactly what was expected of her in this situation. She must pretend not to hear the veiled slight about her choice of residence. She must let the woman speak her piece and go away. She must not under any circumstances give her additional food for gossip.

Mrs. Warrick sat on the edge of the chair Caroline indicated, and set about removing her gloves, indicating she fully intended to stay.

“I was so very surprised to see you at the opera,” Mrs. Warrick said. “I had been given to understand you were not much in society. Trust Philip to have found you out.” She laughed gaily. “Always an eye for the newest face, our Philip.”

She laughed again, and Caroline gritted her teeth. She must wait. She must let the woman chatter on, no matter what. She must not give way to her anger. That was society’s game and she must play.

The memory of Philip sitting across from her at the breakfast table came flooding back, along with the memory of her own voice.

Why must we play?

It was an excellent question, she realized. Especially now.

“It’s always so amusing to watch Philip at the start of the season,” Mrs. Warrick was saying. “I should not tell you this, but since I know we are to be friends, I will whisper that some of us keep a little betting book, you know, on who the Lord of the Rakes will pick out first . . .”

Caroline took her understanding of societal politeness and ladylike behavior in both hands, and threw it behind her.

“What do you want, Mrs. Warrick?” she asked abruptly.

Mrs. Warrick blinked, and pulled back. “Why, nothing at all, my dear Lady Caroline, except to make your better acquaintance.”

“Nonsense. You came here to quiz me about Philip Montcalm, just as you came up to my party at the opera last night to cut him out. Why?”

The other woman’s eyes narrowed, but Caroline did not permit herself to back down.

“Why, Lady Caroline, can it be you do not know Mr. Montcalm’s reputation—”

“You are wrong, Mrs. Warrick. I am fully informed on that subject. What could it matter to you?”

“I doubt you are
fully
—”

Caroline cut her off with a sharp gesture. “You mean that I could not know that you were his paramour until recently. But I do know it. He told me himself, including how you asked him to return to you. As you have begun this conversation by dancing about the subject of his promiscuity, I must assume you wish to tempt me into ending our relationship. Preferably, I should imagine, after an unpleasant and jealous scene.”

“You go too far, Lady Caroline.” Mrs. Warrick’s high, light voice turned stone cold. Caroline felt no fear, and she was a little amazed by that. They had left all of society’s confining rules behind. She might say anything, she might do anything. Either of them might.

“Yes, I go too far, and I am not the only one. I ask you again, Mrs. Warrick. What is your concern with Philip Montcalm and myself?”

Because they were so far beyond the boundaries of the kind of duel ladies were supposed to fight, Mrs. Warrick clearly found herself at a loss. “Because I am not finished with him yet.”

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do, Lady Caroline.” Mrs. Warrick smirked and lifted her chin. From this angle, Caroline could see how heavily she had applied her cosmetics—how carefully she had rouged her cheeks and powdered beneath her eyes to try to hide the shadows there. “You don’t understand yet what it is to have to keep up with society. You have no comprehension of the sheer level of work required, day after day, to retain your cachet with your set. You must stay ahead of fashion and gossip, and create just the right kind of show so you will always be sought after and admired. Just wait until you’ve lived through a few seasons. Then you will see how easily everyone forgets the elderly spinster, no matter how rich she is. The girls who come to the ballrooms are forever younger, prettier, and more lively. The fear will come creeping in then. You know that one day, you will stumble. Your set will begin to laugh and you’ll begin your fall. And once you do fall, you will become nothing but a ridiculous old woman alone in her house whom no one will admit to knowing.”

Mrs. Warrick’s words struck Caroline like so many blows. But not one hit home so hard as the hollow ring of the woman’s voice, or the exhaustion in her eyes.

“True friends . . .” Caroline began.

Mrs. Warrick laughed once, a hard, harsh sound. “What friends? There is no friendship in society. There is only one’s set, and one must keep out front of them.”

“And if you were to conquer the Lord of the Rakes,” said Caroline slowly, “that would be a great coup. Your set could not fail to see it as such.”

“Of course. It has never been done.”

Caroline found her anger had all melted away into a profound sense of pity. Mrs. Warrick believed what she was saying. She had been so long adrift in society that she could not see beyond its dictates. They had consumed her entirely.

“I know you will not believe this, Mrs. Warrick, but I do understand you.”

Mrs. Warrick leaned forward, a terrible, sharp-edged hope gleaming in her tired eyes. “Then you will leave Philip to me?”

“To you? No.” Caroline shook her head. “That I will not do.”

“But you just said you understand!”

“I do. You are a sad, lonely woman who has been too long shut away from your better nature. You are like a child who has made herself sick on sweets, and yet still cries for more.” Caroline stood, the unmistakable signal for the other woman to take her leave. “I will most assuredly tell Philip you called. I will relay this conversation to him, and if he decides to return to you because of it, then he is not the man I believe him to be, and it will be better for us all.”

Mrs. Warrick shot to her feet. “I will ruin you!” she screamed. “Everyone will know who and what you are.
Exactly
who and what you are. I will see to it personally! Your little shop-born friend—”

“Is right here, you know.”

The door swung back and two ladies glided into the room.

“Fiona!” cried Caroline. “Miss Westbrook!”

“Hello, Lady Caroline.” Emma Westbrook came straight up to her and pressed her cheek to Caroline’s, as if they were confirmed friends. “I’m so sorry if we’re intruding. Mrs. Ferriday said you were at home, and Fiona assured me it would be all right if we came in directly.” Emma looked very pointedly at Mrs. Warrick. “Mrs. Warrick, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Warrick curtsied. Miss Westbrook did not.

“She was just leaving, I think,” said Fiona in an icy tone quite unlike her own. This was more than enough to tell Caroline they had overheard at least some of the previous conversation.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Warrick. “I was.”

She took her leave, sweeping out with her chin high, and without looking back. Fiona shut the door, and Caroline sank onto the sofa. Mrs. Warrick, she noted vaguely, had left behind her new black gloves.

Fiona ran to Caroline and grasped both her hands. “Oh, Caro! What did that awful woman say to you?”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Caroline. “I never meant for you to hear it.” She looked up at Fiona’s future sister-in-law. “Miss Westbrook, I beg you, do not let this color your opinion of—”

But Miss Westbrook only smiled. “Of who? Of you? For standing up to Eugenia Warrick, my opinion of you has only improved. Or are you worried we Westbooks are so high in the instep we’ll suddenly call off the engagement between Fiona and James because you quarreled with that harridan?”