Lord of the Rakes by Darcie Wilde Page A

returned to the ball last night. She only complained of an entirely fictitious sick headache and asked Fiona to make her excuses to Mrs. Gladwell. Fortunately, they’d taken Caroline’s carriage to the ball, and Fiona had numerous acquaintances there with whom she could take a ride home.
    Caroline had fully intended to stay at Mrs. Gladwell’s, if only to deflect the exact sort of concern Fiona was showing now. But the moment she’d stepped back into the heat and the noise, she knew she could not bear to stand and smile at the gentlemen who were not Philip. She could not dance with them, or make meaningless conversation. Her mind was filled with the image of Philip Montcalm. Her blood was filled with the heat of his touch.
    And the fact that when he asked to come to her, she said yes. Against custom, propriety, reason, and even the expected course of the most frantic of whirlwind romances, she’d said yes.
    Caroline took a long breath, and let it out again. There really was no short answer to Fiona’s question. Or, perhaps there was.
    “I’m well, Fi.” Caro squeezed her friend’s hand. “Truly.”
    “You look it. I was afraid, after last night, that Philip Montcalm’s . . . company had not agreed with you.”
    Caroline was actually glad her face had enough decency left to muster a blush. Considering that she had agreed to an assignation with a man she had scarcely met, she’d begun to wonder if her sense of propriety had completely abandoned her. Yes, she’d vowed to live freely, but her willingness to open her door to the Lord of the Rakes went far beyond anything even she had before imagined.
    Best not dwell on that now,
Caroline instructed herself. She had always thought she could tell Fi everything. But not this. Certainly not yet, and especially because in the bright light of morning, with Mr. Montcalm safely in some other neighborhood, she did not know if she meant to follow through on that rash agreement.
    Caroline poured Fi a cup of coffee, adding the generous dollop of milk she knew her friend enjoyed. She pushed the cup forward, along with the basket of fresh muffins Cook had baked.
    Fiona ignored both offerings. “I really was worried, Caro.”
    “Oh, Fi. I’m sorry. Honestly, nothing much happened.” Nothing but searing kisses and featherlight touches that left a trail of blazing heat in the depths of her body. Nothing but Philip binding her to him with her own silk glove, and extracting her promise to open her door to him tonight.
    Caroline felt fresh color rising in her cheeks, and she knew Fiona saw. Eternally tactful, Fi turned her attention to the muffins, selecting one, breaking it open, and slathering on fresh butter from the silver dish.
    “Are you going to see him again?” Fiona asked quietly.
    How to answer that? Caroline wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, although she did not feel the least bit chilled. Yes? No? Which would be the truth? Her whole body yearned to feel Philip’s mouth and his hands on her skin. Her whole mind shouted this was too dangerous. She did not know what would happen next, how very far this burning madness would take her.
    “I don’t know.”
    Fiona sat in silence for a moment, letting what this answer meant sink in. Then she took a sip of coffee and set the cup down, very obviously steeling herself. “He did ask you to see him again, didn’t he?”
    Caroline nodded.
    “And you want to?” Fi said, much more slowly this time.
    “Very much,” admitted Caroline softly. This was not as reassuring as other things she might have said, and Caroline knew it. But it was impossible for her to lie to Fiona, even when the truth made her friend sigh and look away.
    “Perhaps you would be better off if you didn’t want it so much.”
    “I know. But, Fiona, you’ve found exactly what you want, and what your family’s always wanted. I always knew that if I was to have any sort of happiness, I’d have to make my own way.”
    “You’re not going to