Lord of the Rakes (30 page)

“Well . . .”

Emma gave a merry peal of laughter. “Oh, dear heavens, Fiona! What your friend must think of us!”

“I did try to tell her, Emma. Truly.”

Miss Westbrook plopped herself comfortably down into the chair nearest the fire and smoothed her skirts. “My dear Caroline . . . I may call you Caroline, mayn’t I?” Caroline nodded. “Caroline, I understand there are those families who dread the possibility of a marriage outside the first circles. Ours has never been one of them. I cannot express how glad I will be to have Fiona for a sister. There is nothing Mrs. Warrick could say that will change that. I defy her to make the attempt. She will only make herself look ridiculous.”

Caroline stared into the woman’s frank, friendly eyes. She wanted to believe, but her confidence was too rattled by Mrs. Warrick’s parting shouts. “You might perhaps think differently . . .”

“She knows, Caroline,” said Fiona softly.

“What?
”

“About you and Mr. Montcalm?” Miss Westbrook waved her words away. “Goodness, you can’t believe we were so blind.”

Caroline clapped her hand over her mouth, smothering the laugh that threatened to escape. “And I thought we were being so careful!”

But Emma simply shook her head. “No one could be that careful. It was obvious from the first instant there was something serious between you.”

“This is what I came to tell you, Caroline,” said Fiona earnestly. “I wanted to speak privately, but Emma insisted on joining me.”

Caroline looked from one girl to the other. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”

“I wanted you to know that if you are hiding your relationship with Philip Montcalm to preserve my reputation by association, there is no need for it,” Fiona told her. “It is all out in the open to those who matter, and it makes no difference at all.”

Entirely unreasonable outrage flashed through Caroline. “You told!” she exclaimed to Fiona.

“You are not to be angry with her,” said Emma at once. “I pressed her. In the end, she only relented because she was so very concerned about sparing you unnecessary awkwardness.”

Caroline bowed her head, a flush of shame rising in her cheeks. But Fiona dipped her head, trying so hard to catch her eye that Caroline had to meet her gaze. She looked at the sweetly understanding countenance of her best friend and her throat tightened. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.” She spoke the words to include both young women. “But . . . thank you.”

“Oh, Caroline, you’re very welcome.” Fiona reached forward and hugged her tightly. “Now I will tell you the great secret. The old saying is true. Honesty
is
always the best policy, especially in society. You find that people like Mrs. Warrick have absolutely no defense against it.”

At these words, Caroline felt herself go rigid. Fiona released her embrace slowly and sat back, plainly confused by Caroline’s reaction to these simple words. But for all she knew, Fiona could have no comprehension of the implications to Caroline of what she’d said.

Society had no defense against honesty. Was it true? Could a scandal openly acknowledged truly cease to be a scandal?

What if she made only a beginning today? What if she began to live openly? She could acknowledge all the aspects of her life that she had hidden for shame, from her mother’s exile to her break with her brother. What if she let those who were outside the circle of her true friends go their own way? What if she took her own advice and stopped playing society’s game?

Fiona’s judgment as to society had always proven sound, as sound as Mr. Upton’s had proven regarding the trust. What if she decided simply to trust them? Trust them, and trust Philip. Trust to honesty, of feeling and action.

It was possible she did not have to leave London.

Caroline felt like she’d been struck by lightning. She could not bring herself to believe it. She had been so certain she had to leave. It was breaking her heart, and yet there had seemed no way to escape from it. Now here was Fiona saying that there was no bar to her being seen in society with Philip. There was Mr. Upton, who swore there was no breaking the trust. And there was Philip himself. There had been so much in his eyes, so much in his heart, when he asked for that simple thing, that she trust him. Their lovemaking before he left had not been like any of the rest. They had come together, simply and, yes, honestly. They had needed each other’s love and each other’s passion, and each had trusted the other to give freely. Trusted, as they had trusted from the beginning, because that was truly what the games had been about. About trust at the extreme edges of feeling.

Could she bring that trust from the edges to the center? Could it possibly be true that this world of love and desire she and Philip had built was not destined to vanish in the course of weeks?

“Could it be so simple?” Caroline murmured. “Could trust and honesty be all that is required?”

“I cannot say, my dear,” replied Miss Westbrook. “But it is always the best place to start.”

The reality of her situation blossomed in Caroline with all the brilliance of an epiphany. She did trust Philip. From that first instant in Mrs. Gladwell’s garden she had trusted him, and been honest with him. He, in return, had never been less than honest with her. He said he would come back to her, and he would. When he did, they would talk. Talk, and touch, and later they would walk out in the world, together. They would be together freely and openly, and if it ended in heartbreak . . . at least that heartbreak would not come because of fear, or secrecy. It would not come because society’s games and expectations were stronger than love. Caroline drew in a deep breath. Because whether it was wise or not, she did love Philip Montcalm. Wickedly, wantonly, passionately.

Freely.

Both girls were watching Caroline expectantly, and with more than a little concern. But Caroline let herself smile, and they both relaxed at once. She got to her feet and took both Miss Westbrook’s hands.

“I would very much like to be your friend, Emma, if you’ll let me.”

Emma laughed and shook her hands with energy. “Of course we are friends! Now, Caroline. I came here with an entirely more serious purpose in mind. You must help me persuade poor, dear, deluded Fiona that she cannot call her trousseau complete without one of the new cashmere shawls!”

A
s events transpired, Philip did not see his father until the next day. By the time he had washed and changed, Father’s valet informed him the marquis was asleep. This was not, the valet hastened to inform him, entirely unusual, especially since his illness had been dragging on. Philip, however, happened to see the number of empty decanters being carried from the marquis’s room. By this, he strongly suspected that drink had as much to do with the situation as illness.

Because of this, Philip and Owen dined alone. It was not an entirely comfortable meal. Long gaps punctuated the conversation. Each time a fresh pause descended, Philip could sense the two of them struggling not to fall back into the old ways of seeing each other. For his part, Philip tried to allow both himself and Owen some measure of slack. The habits of years would not be thrown off in a matter of hours. He mustered his experience with making pleasant small talk and turned it to, he prayed, good account. He asked Owen about his studies, and tried his best to follow what was said. Owen, for his part, asked Philip about Caroline, and Philip became very conscious of talking too much, and yet somehow not saying enough.

He was restless after dinner. He thought to take a ride down to the village pub for a pint of the excellent local beer. The rain had returned, though, and Philip had to settle for walking through the rooms of the house. Each one was as well known to him as his own in London. Still, like the lands outside, Philip now saw them all with fresh eyes. In his imagination, Caroline walked with him. He imagined her in the sitting room, writing a letter at the ornately inlaid desk. He thought about showing her the gallery and them laughing together over the depictions of his stern and stuffy ancestors. As an earl’s daughter, she would have plenty of her own ancestors, but he doubted she had anyone who could match old Tobias “Balls to the Wall” Montcalm. He thought of them standing together in a receiving line, welcoming guests at a New Year’s ball, and of her occupying the hostess’s chair at his table.

Of course he saw her in the bedroom. He saw her stretched out beneath the velvet canopy, her luscious body flushed pink with excitement. She would beckon him with her eyes, beg him with her mouth. He would take her slowly. They would together explore every aspect of her body and their passion. He would drive her to the brink of ecstasy, again, and yet again, before satisfying her. It would be the work of his lifetime to discover all her desires, and satisfy them one by one.

The work of his lifetime
—Philip let the phrase play over again in his thoughts—to become husband to Lady Caroline, and not just in the bedroom. It was then that another thought came to Philip, one that stopped him dead in his tracks. In his mind’s eye, he saw Caroline at the top of the gallery stairs. But she was not alone. She was surrounded by children. His children. Their children. As the vision filled him, Philip’s heart swelled until he was certain it would burst.

He did not sleep much. He spent the night staring up at his own ceiling, trying to wrap his thoughts around the changes he meant to bring to his life. Could he really do it? Could he really be a husband, be a father, a worthy, upright, steady man? What if he could not? He was no longer young. What if it was too late for him to change? He might bind Caroline to him, only to desert her nightly for the gaming tables, or other pleasures. God, could he risk her life to his inconstant, rakish heart?

That question haunted Philip until dawn, when he finally fell into a fitful sleep. In dreams he walked through the house again, looking for Caroline. But Caroline was not there.

Philip rose late, annoyed with himself for the doubts that would not be banished. He sat down to breakfast alone. Owen was already out on the estate somewhere. That did not improve his mood. He wanted to be out with his brother, proving how he intended to make good on his end of their bargain. This was not an auspicious beginning.

Then Simmons, the valet, came in to say that the marquis was awake, and asking for him.

Philip folded his paper, finished his coffee, and stood. He let the man lead him down the corridor as if he were a mere guest in this, his boyhood home. He was supremely conscious that he would have one chance at this. He must speak clearly and finally to his father. If he did not, Owen would not trust that Philip really did mean to change, and he would withdraw his willingness to help.

But it was more than that, and Philip knew it. If he hesitated now, he would only continue to doubt himself. He would never be able to present himself to Caroline as he wished to—as the man who wanted to be her husband and would dare all the world for the privilege.

Simmons opened the door to the marquis’s private study and stood aside. Philip straightened his shoulders and walked in to hear his father welcome him home.

“Ha! Come back, have you? Good! Sit down! Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

The marquis’s private study was so relentlessly masculine, it was almost a parody. The walls were hung with antlers and animal heads. A brown bearskin stretched in front of the fireplace. The sideboard was covered with an array of bottles and decanters that would have done any club proud. In the middle of this display sat Philip’s father.

The twelfth Marquis of Innsbrook had once been a tall man with dark gold hair. But now that hair had gone entirely gray. His shoulders had hunched up and his neck was drawn in, which gave him a perpetually wary appearance. His crooked legs were stick thin from lack of use, and he kept them covered with a blanket. Despite this, the fire had been built up high and the room was sweltering. Father’s pale blue eyes were still bright, but they stared out at the world in habitual resentment. They did, however, gleam in eager welcome as Philip crossed the room to shake the gnarled hand the marquis held out.

“Good to see you again, sir,” said Philip, trying to suppress the feeling of having transformed back into a stripling youth simply by crossing this threshold. “I trust you’ve been well.”

“I’m never well.” The marquis glowered at the small bottles and basins waiting on the tray beside his chair. “But never mind that. I want to hear what you’ve been up to. How’s that Mrs. Warrick, now?” The marquis folded his gnarled hands over his stomach. He gazed on Philip with undisguised pride, and more than a little bit of greed. “From what you’ve said, she’s quite the juicy tidbit.”

“Oh, that’s long over.” Philip sat in the leather armchair at his father’s side and crooked his elbow over the back.

“That’s right, that’s right.” The old man bobbed his head energetically. “Leave ’em before they get their hooks in. That’s the way. Good crop of women on the town this year?”

Philip shrugged. “There is one . . .”

“Of course there is, of course there is! They’re always ready and willing for a Montcalm!” Father laughed, but that laughter turned quickly into a loud cough forceful enough to shake his whole frame. Philip leaped to his feet. He grabbed up one of the towels from the pile on the medicine tray and leaned his father forward. The old man snatched the towel and waved him back angrily.

“Leave off, leave off! I don’t need any more fuss!”

Philip settled back into his chair. “Owen says the doctors are worried it might be pneumonia.”

“Doctors! Ha! Rogues the lot of them. They’re just saying that because they know it’s what he”—Father jerked his chin toward the door—“wants to hear.”

Philip’s brow furrowed. “Sir, that is unfair.”

“Eh?” The marquis wiped his mouth. “What do you mean? It’s the truth. Oh, I hear him up there, skulking about in his attic. He’s just waiting for me to die. He’s lucky the estate’s entailed, otherwise I’d leave it to the one of my sons who knows how to live!”

It was nothing Father hadn’t said before, but this time it struck Philip as a completely false note. He couldn’t stop his eyes from traveling down to the brown blanket, and the pitifully thin outline of his father’s legs.

“Do you know,” Philip said, uncomfortably aware of how carefully he was speaking, “I’ve come to see it’s Owen who knows how to live.”

“What?” Father lowered his shaggy brows. “What are you on about?”

“Owen. I’ve been thinking lately. It’s not fair he does all the work back here. It’s time I started lending a hand. I need to pull my weight.”

“What? Don’t be a fool. It’s not in you. You’re no plodder. You’re a town man. You’d only make a mess of things.”

Philip felt a familiar sense of shame welling up in him. It always did when his father pointed out how useless he was. And hadn’t Philip himself simply confirmed this view in Caroline’s sitting room when he looked over those legal papers without understanding one of them.

“Never too old to learn,” Philip made himself say, and he tried to force some conviction into the statement. Dammit, why was this so hard? He was a grown man, why couldn’t he face his father as that man?

Father’s jaw jutted out suspiciously. “What’s happened, Philip? You in trouble in town? Somebody call you out? No, no, can’t be.” The marquis muttered the answer to his own question. “You’d never run. Is it moneylenders? Play too deep, did you? Never mind it. We can pay them off . . .”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just . . . it’s time I grew up.” Why couldn’t he speak straight out? Philip looked at his father, propped up in his chair. He thought of all the hours he’d sat beside him, regaling him with tales of London, his pranks and his winnings. Father had always praised him, and the more outrageous Philip’s stories were, the better the marquis had liked them. Father had always seemed happier and stronger afterward, and, of course, more generous. How Philip had basked in his proud affection, as well as the envy of his friends when he came back flush with cash.

Philip thought about Caroline and how she spoke of trying to cheer up her ailing mother. Well, what else had he been doing? He’d had reinforcement, of course. All the men he knew, all the fellows at university, and later in town, were of one accord with his father on how to be a man. They all told him there was only the one way to live. They taught him how much to drink, how much to flirt and fuck, and that money was never wasted when spent on clothes and horses. It was what all men did, all real men at any rate.

It is what all men do when they never bother to look around them
. The thought rang through Philip with startling clarity.

“Who is she?” demanded his father suddenly.

Philip didn’t answer.

“Who is she?” The marquis thumped his fist on the chair arm. “It’s got to be a woman. Some skirt’s finally weaseled her way under your hide, hasn’t she?”

And it was over. The feelings of shame, the sensation of reverting to a young boy, the doubts of his ability to face his father proudly—all were wiped away in a single instant. Philip rose to his feet, feeling himself to be just as he was—a man, with a man’s honor, and a man’s heart.

“Sir,” he said. “You are my father, and I owe you my duty, but I will not let you refer to my lady that way.”

“My God!” gasped the marquis. “That I should live to see the day that you, Philip Montcalm, would become some girl’s lapdog.”

“That’s enough!” roared Philip.

His father’s mouth snapped shut.

Anger filled Philip, and it was a strangely comfortable thing. It was as if he had been living with the emotion for a long time, but had never been able to acknowledge it. “I’ve listened to you for years,” he told his father. “I’ve believed every word you preached about how a real man doesn’t care for anything beyond his own pleasure. I have come home to tell you, sir, that you are wrong.”

He waited for Father to shout back, but he didn’t. He just pushed himself up a little higher in his chair. “Well, well,” the marquis drawled, his mouth bent in a sly imitation of a friendly grin. “Whoever she is, she must have some impressive wiles. What’s she doing for you, boy? She—”

“Don’t.” Philip cut him off. “Not one more word.”

Father chuckled. “All right, all right. You’re in love. What of it? It’ll pass soon enough. You go right on.” The marquis waved his hand. “You spend a few days out here following Owen about and a few weeks playing the loyal lover. You’ll be bored out of your mind in no time.”

“You’re wrong in that, too.”

“I’m right.” A knowing, cheerful light burned in the marquis’s eye. “You’re
my
son, Philip. I’m the one who taught you how to live. You’ll come round.” His jaw worked back and forth a few times. “And just to make sure you do, your allowance is suspended, as of now. Let’s see how much the chit loves you once the money runs out.”

Philip turned and he strode out of the room. He had to. If he had stayed he might have raised his hand to his own father.

 • • • 

Philip found Owen, unsurprisingly, in the library.

“You told him, then?” Owen looked up from his book as Philip entered.

Philip walked right past him to the sideboard and, despite the early hour, poured out two very generous glasses of whiskey.

“How’d he take it?”

By way of answer, Philip handed Owen one whiskey and tossed back the other, letting the liquor burn some of the doubt and anger out of him. The sympathetic look on Owen’s face hurt almost as much as realizing exactly how much of his life he’d given over to indulging their damaged father, and being indulged by him.