Philip stood at the back of Lady Preston’s airy conservatory, not paying any attention to the magnificent lament being sung by the Italian tenor. All his attention was on Caroline, where she sat, six rows from the front, ten rows from the back. Four locks of chestnut hair curled across the back of her graceful neck, and they seemed to him more arresting than all the soaring notes the man beside the pianoforte could muster. He had not meant to be here at all. When he left Gideon’s carriage and entered his club, Philip had every intention of dividing his idle day between the club’s sitting room and the park, finishing off with a visit to the gaming tables after dark. But as the evening settled down, he could muster no enthusiasm to start for Crockburn’s, or any other gambling establishment. All he could think about was Lady Caroline—her beautiful smiling face, her magnificent body, and, most vividly, their tempestuous lovemaking. The more the heated memory of her filled him, the less able he was to throw himself into preparations for a night out among the sporting set.
