Lord of the Rakes by Darcie Wilde Page B

backed into its shadows to wait, watch, and wonder.
    The early June night was cool but not chill, and heavily overcast. It would rain again before much longer. Despite this, a number of guests had come out to enjoy the gardens. The gusting wind played with the torches, making the light uncertain, but Caroline was positive the man who now stepped off the staircase was Mr. Montcalm. She would not mistake those broad shoulders, tapered waist, and well-shaped legs. No other man she had seen at this ball possessed such an arresting form. Even though he was now standing still and surveying the gardens, she could easily discern the strength of the man. The knowledge that he was looking for her set Caroline’s heart racing. She wished he would turn. Not that she wanted him to see her, yet. Rather, she wanted time to get used to his handsome visage and the brilliance of his smile. She could not become breathless when she walked out to meet him. She must be poised when they spoke. She must remember that she had seen him recently with Lewis Banbridge. She needed to keep her composure and find out what he’d heard, and what he thought of her because of it. A real lady mast always be composed and rational, even when she was choosing a paramour. Especially when she was choosing a paramour.
    But part of her would not be calmed. Part of her wanted to retreat to the ballroom and tell Fiona they had to leave. That part wanted to forget she’d ever sent a note and a flower to the Lord of the Rakes.
    Yet another part of her wanted to walk out to Mr. Montcalm at once—never mind poise, never mind the control and dignity required of a lady under all circumstances. That unruly part of her wanted to take Philip Montcalm by the hand and draw him into this private bit of darkness, and find out precisely what would happen once she did.
    “Now that you’ve called me out here, is it your pleasure to keep me waiting?”
    Startled by the question that so neatly matched her hesitations, Caroline stifled a gasp. But evidently Mr. Montcalm heard that slight sound, because he turned, just a little, just enough so that she could see one bright eye, its brow raised in mocking inquiry.
    “Good evening,” he said. He possessed a deep, strong voice that suited his powerful appearance perfectly. Fresh butterflies flitted through Caroline’s nerves.
    He wore her lily in his buttonhole.
    Now that she’d been discovered, Caroline had no choice but to step from the alcove into the light. She felt oddly as if she was shedding a cloak and laying herself bare to Philip Montcalm’s arresting gaze.
    “Good evening,” she said. “I fear I make a rather dull quarry, if I am so easily detected.”
    She was not at all ready to be so near him. She had not collected herself. She did not move with the necessary poise, or speak with cool reserve. And yet she could not resist the chance of approaching this man, to stand beside him, to see him clearly and be seen just as clearly by him.
    “When you truly wish to hide, you should choose a less vibrant color for your gown,” Mr. Montcalm replied. “Although that would be a shame.” He reached out one hand, as if he meant to touch her sleeve, but stopped with his fingertips just a hairbreadth from the silk that covered her upper arm. Just a hairbreadth from impropriety. “This one suits you so perfectly.”
    Caroline felt her blush rising. She strove to find some cool, tart reply.
    Then, in the darkness of the gardens, a woman screamed.
    The blood rushed from Caroline’s cheeks. Her gaze met Mr. Montcalm’s. Agreement flowed between them without a word being spoken, and both turned to run toward the sound. Montcalm, with his long legs, easily outpaced her at first. But Caroline hiked up her skirts and, with the strength born of a country life, followed hard at his heels.
    Just as they reached one of Mrs. Gladwell’s carefully sculpted rose beds, another, deeper scream exploded from the greenery. A stout man stumbled