Lord of the Rakes by Darcie Wilde Page A

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    Philip took both highly intriguing items, thanked the servant, and waited until the man had withdrawn to carefully unfold the note.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