Lord of the Rakes Read Online Free PDF

gossip to the right newspapermen. It was entirely possible that the enthusiasm burning about the Preston concert was being fanned by Miss Langley and her mother.
    “I will certainly be able to oblige you,” Philip replied. “If.”
    Miss Langley arched her brows. “If, Mr. Montcalm?”
    “If you will favor me with your hand for the next waltz.”
    Rather than her hand, Miss Langley favored him with a long, steady look from behind her gold-rimmed spectacles. Unlike most ladies with poor eyesight, she allowed herself to be seen in public with them, a fact that went a fair way to shocking—if not actually appalling—the more fastidious of London’s beaux. Sometimes, Philip wondered if this was why she did it.
    “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Montcalm,” said Miss Langley. “But as it happens, I am not dancing tonight.”
    “How very distressing. I was counting on you. I hope it was not something I’ve said?”
    That drew a small laugh. “Mr. Montcalm, I have never known you to speak a wrong word. It would be quite out of character. No, I am simply . . . tired.” She spoke this last to the tips of her slippers. Montcalm found himself wondering if she suspected he had been set this task by their hostess, and found he did not at all like that possibility.
    “I understand. I also find myself rather . . . tired. Shall we rest ourselves together?” He gestured toward one of the room’s alcoves where a velveteen sofa waited, amazingly unoccupied.
    A complicated series of calculations flickered across Miss Langley’s face. “Perhaps for a moment,” she said, but her restless gray eyes were already scanning the room. Philip felt something uncomfortably close to a pang of envy. Whatever her circumstances, Miss Langley, at least, had something reliable with which to occupy herself. “I fear I have several acquaintances I must speak to.”
    “You and Mr. Fitzsimmons both. Heigh-ho!” Philip sighed dramatically, and was rewarded by another of Miss Langley’s quiet smiles. “Everyone has someone to speak to but me!”
    “Oh, surely not! This room is full to the brim of women who want to speak with you.” She gestured about with her fan. “I shall soon have to muster a blush for being the object of so much envy.”
    Miss Langley was exaggerating, but not by much. A surreptitious scan of the room showed Philip the bright flash of women’s glances—some shy, or subtle, some bold, some of undisguised desire.
    That was when Philip caught sight of the woman in amber silk.
    His gaze froze. This was the same woman he had noticed climbing the stairs earlier, he was sure of it. In the darkness outside, he had seen an attractive woman—tall, well curved, and dark-haired. Now, in the blazing light of Mrs. Gladwell’s three chandeliers, he saw a rare and stunning beauty. Her complexion glowed with a more robust hue than was the current ideal of fashion, but that warmth sorted well with her darkly glistening curls. He liked the single white flower she had tucked into the band of pearls holding those curls in the Grecian style. It was a fetching bit of summer vibrancy that stood out against the turbans and dyed plumes most of the other ladies sported. Her dramatic gown of amber silk was a slightly old-fashioned cut, but it showed her perfectly curved body to distinct advantage. But what held him was her eyes. They were wide and deep, and slanted dramatically above her high cheekbones. Philip found himself wondering what color those eyes were, and whether they would be shy or bold when a man approached.
    “Who is that, Miss Langley?” The words came out almost as a croak. Philip’s mouth had gone unaccountably dry.
    Miss Langley craned her neck, trying to glimpse which of the women he might be talking about. “Do you mean Miss Fiona Rayburn? I wouldn’t have thought her your sort, and you should know she’s engaged to the Honorable Mr. James Westbrook.”
    Philip had been so absorbed in contemplating the woman in