“Not if he were the last man on earth,” Caroline said, glaring at her brother. “I am telling you, Cade, I feel no sort of attraction whatsoever to that . . . that libertine. Don’t be obtuse. You know quite well that it is all a pretense.”

“I thought it was,” Cade said reflectively, “until I watched the two of you during that deuced long carriage ride today. Now I’m not so certain. Drake stared at you like a cat after a mouse. He didn’t take his eyes off you once.”

Caroline sternly suppressed an unwanted twinge of pleasure at her brother’s words. She turned toward the long looking glass, needlessly fluffing the short sleeves of her pale blue evening gown. “The only reason he may have glanced my way was to distract himself from Mother’s babbling,” she said crisply.

“And the way you smiled at him this afternoon, before he left to see his father,” Cade continued. “You looked positively besotted.”

“Besotted?” She let out a burst of disbelieving laughter. “Cade, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard you say. Not only am I not besotted with Lord Drake, I can barely stand to be in the same room with him!”

“Then why the new gown and hairstyle?” he asked. “Are you certain you’re not trying to attract him?”

Caroline surveyed her reflection critically. Her gown was simple but stylish, a thin white muslin underskirt overlaid with transparent blue silk. The bodice was low-cut and square, edged with a row of glinting silver beadwork. Her dark, glossy brown hair had been pulled to the crown of her head with blue ribbons, and left to hang down the back in a mass of ringlets. She knew that she had never looked better in her life. “I am wearing a new gown because I am tired of looking so matronly,” she said. “Just because I am a spinster doesn’t mean I have to appear a complete dowd.”

“Caro,” her brother said affectionately, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her upper arms, “you’re a spinster only by choice. You’ve always been a lovely girl. The only reason you haven’t landed a husband is because you haven’t yet seen fit to set your cap for someone.”

She turned to hug him, heedless of mussing her gown, and smiled at him warmly. “Thank you, Cade. And just to be quite clear, I have not set my cap for Lord Drake. As I have told you a dozen times, we are simply acting. As in a stage performance.”

“All right,” he said, drawing back to look at her skeptically. “But in my opinion, you are both throwing yourself into your roles with a bit more zeal than necessary.”

The sounds of the ball drifted to Caroline’s ears as they went down the grand staircase. The luminous, agile melody of a waltz swirled through the air, undercut by the flow of laughter and chatter as the guests moved through the circuit of rooms that branched off from the central hall. The atmosphere was heavily perfumed from huge arrangements of lilies and roses, while a garden breeze wafted gently through the rows of open windows.

Caroline’s gloved fingertips slid easily over the carved marble balustrade as they descended. She gripped Cade’s arm with her other hand. She was strangely nervous, wondering if her evening spent in Andrew’s company would prove to be a delight or torture. Fanny chattered excitedly as she accompanied them, mentioning the names of several guests she had already seen at the estate, including peers of the realm, politicians, a celebrated artist, and a noted playwright.

As they reached the lower landing, Caroline saw Andrew waiting for them at the nadir of the staircase, his dark hair gleaming in the brilliant light shed by legions of candles. As if he sensed her approach, he turned and glanced upward. His white teeth flashed in a smile as he saw her, and Caroline’s heartbeat hastened to a hard, driving rhythm.

Dressed in a formal, fashionable scheme of black and white, with a starched cravat and a formfitting gray waistcoat, Andrew was so handsome that it was almost unseemly. He was as polished and immaculate as any gentleman present, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with the devil’s charm. When he looked at her like that, his gaze hot and interested, she did not feel as if this entire situation were an obligation. She did not feel as if it were a charade. The lamentable fact was, she felt excited, and glad, and thoroughly beguiled.

“Miss Hargreaves, you look ravishing,” he murmured, after greeting Fanny and Cade. He offered her his arm and guided her toward the ballroom.

“Not matronly?” Caroline asked tartly.

“Not in the least.” He smiled faintly. “You never did, actually. When I made that comment, I was just trying to annoy you.”

“You succeeded,” she said, and paused with a perplexed frown. “Why did you want to annoy me?”

“Because annoying you is safer than—” For some reason he broke off abruptly and clamped his mouth shut.

“Safer than what?” Caroline asked, intensely curious as he led her into the ballroom. “What? What?”

Ignoring her questions, Andrew swept her into a waltz so intoxicating and potent that its melody seemed to throb inside her veins. She was at best a competent dancer, but Andrew was exceptional, and there were few pleasures to equal dancing with a man who was truly accomplished at it. His arm was supportive, his hands gentle but authoritative as he guided her in smooth, sweeping circles.

Caroline was vaguely aware that people were staring at them. No doubt the crowd was amazed by the fact that the dissolute Lord Drake was waltzing with the proper Miss Hargreaves. They were an obvious mismatch . . . and yet, Caroline wondered, was it really so inconceivable that a rake and a spinster could find something alluring in each other?

“You are a wonderful dancer,” she could not help exclaiming.

“Of course I am,” he said. “I’m proficient at all the trivial activities in life. It’s only the meaningful pursuits that present a problem.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“Oh, it does,” he assured her with a self-mocking smile.

An uncomfortable silence ensued until Caroline sought a way to break it. “Has your father come downstairs yet?” she asked. “Surely you will want him to see us dance together.”

“I don’t know where he is,” Andrew returned. “And right now I don’t give a damn if he sees us or not.”

In the upper galleries that overlooked the ballroom, Logan Scott directed a pair of footmen to settle his father’s fragile, tumor-ridden form onto a soft upholstered chaise longue. A maidservant settled into a nearby chair, ready to fetch anything that the earl might require. A light blanket was draped over Rochester’s bony knees, and a goblet of rare Rhenish wine was placed in his clawlike fingers.

Logan watched the man for a moment, inwardly amazed that Rochester, a figure who had loomed over his entire life with such power and malevolence, should have come to this. The once-handsome face, with its hawklike perfection, had shrunk to a mask of skeletal paleness and delicacy. The vigorous, muscular body had deteriorated until he could barely walk without assistance. One might have thought that the imminent approach of death would have softened the cruel earl, and perhaps taught him some regret over the past. But Rochester, true to form, admitted to no shred of remorse.

Not for the first time, Logan felt an acute stab of sympathy for his half brother. Though Logan had been raised by a tenant farmer who had abused him physically, he had fared better than Andrew, whose father had abused his very soul. Surely no man in existence was colder and more unloving than the Earl of Rochester. It was a wonder that Andrew had survived such a childhood.

Tearing his thoughts away from the past, Logan glanced at the assemblage below. His gaze located the tall form of his brother, who was dancing with Miss Caroline Hargreaves. The petite woman seemed to have bewitched Andrew, who for once did not seem bored, bitter, or sullen. In fact, for the first time in his life, it appeared that Andrew was exactly where he wanted to be.

“There,” Logan said, easily adjusting the heavy weight of the chaise longue so that his father could see better. “That is the woman Andrew brought here.”

Rochester’s mouth compressed into a parchment-thin line of disdain. “A girl of no consequence,” he pronounced. “Her looks are adequate, I suppose. However, they say she is a bluestocking. Do not presume to tell me that your brother would have designs on such a creature.”

Logan smiled slightly, long accustomed to the elderly man’s caustic tongue. “Watch them together,” he murmured. “See how he is with her.”

“It’s a ruse,” Rochester said flatly. “I know all about my worthless son and his scheming ways. I could have predicted this from the moment I removed his name from the will. He seeks to deceive me into believing that he can change his ways.” He let out a sour cackle. “Andrew can court a multitude of respectable spinsters if he wishes. But I will go to hell before I reinstate him.”

Logan forbore to reply that such a scenario was quite likely, and bent to wedge a velvet-covered pillow behind the old man’s frail back. Satisfied that his father had a comfortable place from which to view the activities down below, he stood and rested a hand on the carved mahogany railing. “Even if it were a ruse,” he mused aloud, “wouldn’t it be interesting if Andrew were caught in a snare of his own making?”

“What did you say?” The old man stared at him with rheumy, slitted eyes, and raised a goblet of wine to his lips. “What manner of snare is that, pray tell?”

“I mean it is possible that Andrew could fall in love with Miss Hargreaves.”

The earl sneered into his cup. “It’s not in him to love anyone other than himself.”

“You’re wrong, Father,” Logan said quietly. “It’s only that Andrew has had little acquaintance with that emotion—particularly to be on the receiving end of it.”

Understanding the subtle criticism of the cold manner in which he had always treated his sons, the legitimate one and the bastard, Rochester gave him a disdainful smile. “You lay the blame for his selfishness at my door, of course. You’ve always made excuses for him. Take care, my superior fellow, or I will cut you out of my will as well.”

To Rochester’s obvious annoyance, Logan burst out laughing. “I don’t give a damn,” he said. “I don’t need a shilling from you. But have a care when you speak about Andrew. He is the only reason you’re here. For some reason that I’ll never be able to comprehend, Andrew loves you. A miracle, that you could have produced a son who managed to survive your tender mercies and still have the capability to love. I freely admit that I would not.”

“You are fond of making me out to be a monster,” the earl remarked frostily. “When the truth is, I only give people what they deserve. If Andrew had ever done anything to merit my love, I would have accorded it to him. But he will have to earn it first.”

“Good God, man, you’re nearly on your deathbed,” Logan muttered. “Don’t you think you’ve waited long enough? Do you have any damned idea of what Andrew would do for one word of praise or affection from you?”

Rochester did not reply, his face stubbornly set as he drank from his goblet and watched the glittering, whirling mass of couples below.

The rule was that a gentleman should never dance more than three times with any one girl at a ball. Caroline did not know why such a rule had been invented, and she had never resented it as she did now. To her astonishment, she discovered that she liked dancing with Andrew, Lord Drake, and she was more than a little sorry when the waltz was over. She was further surprised to learn that Andrew could be an agreeable companion when he chose.

“I wouldn’t have suspected you to be so well-informed on so many subjects,” she told him, while servants filled their plates at the refreshment tables. “I assumed you had spent most of your time drinking, and yet you are remarkably well-read.”

“I can drink and hold a book at the same time,” he said.

She frowned at him. “Don’t make light of it, when I am trying to express that . . . you are not . . .”

“I am not what?” he prompted softly.

“You are not exactly what you seem.”

He gave her a slightly crooked grin. “Is that a compliment, Miss Hargreaves?”

She was slightly dazed as she stared into the warm blue intensity of his eyes. “I suppose it must be.”

A woman’s voice intruded on the moment, cutting through the spell of intimacy with the exquisite precision of a surgeon’s blade. “Why, Cousin Caroline,” the woman exclaimed, “I am astonished to see how stylish you look. It is a great pity that you cannot rid yourself of the spectacles, dear, and then you would be the toast of the ball.”

The speaker was Julianne, Lady Brenton, the most beautiful and treacherous woman that Caroline had ever known. Even the people who despised her—and there were no end of those—had to concede that she was physically flawless. Julianne was slender, of medium height, with perfectly curved hips and a lavishly endowed bosom. Her features were positively angelic, her nose small and narrow, her lips naturally hued a deep pink, her eyes blue and heavily lashed. Crowning all of this perfection was a heavy swirl of blond hair in a silvery shade that seemed to have been distilled from moonlight. It was difficult, if not impossible, to believe that Caroline and this radiant creature could be related in any way, and yet they were first cousins on her father’s side.

Caroline had grown up in awe of Julianne, who was only a year older than herself. In adulthood, however, admiration had gradually turned to disenchantment as she realized that her cousin’s outward beauty concealed a heart that was monstrously selfish and calculating. When she was seventeen, Julianne had married a man forty years older than herself, a wealthy earl with a penchant for collecting fine objects. There had been frequent rumors that Julianne was unfaithful to her elderly spouse, but she was far too clever to have been caught. Three years ago her husband died in his bed, ostensibly of a weak heart. There were whispered suspicions that his death was not of natural causes, but no proof was ever discovered.

Julianne’s blue eyes sparkled wickedly as she stood before Caroline. Her immaculate blondness was complemented by a shimmering white gown that draped so low in front that the upper halves of her breasts were exposed.

Sliding a flirtatious glance at Andrew, Julianne remarked, “My poor little cousin is quite blind without her spectacles . . . a pity, is it not?”

“She is lovely with or without them,” Andrew replied coldly. “And Miss Hargreaves’s considerable beauty is matched by her interior qualities. It is unfortunate that one cannot say the same of other women.”

Julianne’s entrancing smile dimmed, and she and Andrew regarded each other with cool challenge. Unspoken messages were exchanged between them. Caroline’s pleasure in the evening evaporated as a few things became instantly clear. It was obvious that Julianne and Andrew were well acquainted. There seemed to be some remnant of intimacy, of sexual knowledge between them, that could have resulted only from a past affair.

Of course they had once been lovers, Caroline thought resentfully. Andrew would surely have been intrigued by a woman of such sensuous beauty . . . and there was no doubt that Julianne would have been more than willing to grant her favors to a man who was the heir to a great fortune.

“Lord Drake,” Julianne said lightly, “you are more handsome than ever . . . why, you seem quite reinvigorated. To whom do we owe our gratitude for such a pleasing transformation?”

“My father,” Andrew replied bluntly, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “He cut me out of his will—indeed a transforming experience.”

“Yes, I had heard about that.” Julianne’s bow-shaped lips pursed in a little moue of disappointment. “Your inheritance was one of your most agreeable attributes, dear. A pity that you’ve lost it.” She shot Caroline a snide smile before adding, “Clearly your prospects have dwindled considerably.”

“Don’t let us keep you, Julianne,” Caroline said. “No doubt you have much to accomplish tonight, with so many wealthy men present.”

Julianne’s blue eyes narrowed at the veiled insult. “Very well. Good evening, Cousin Caroline. And pray do show Lord Drake more of your ‘interior beauty’—it may be your only chance of retaining his attention.” A catlike smile spread across her face as she murmured, “If you can manage to lure Drake to your bed, cousin, you will find him a most exciting and talented partner. I can give you my personal assurance on that point.” Julianne departed with a luscious swaying of her hips that caused her skirts to swish silkily.

Scores of male gazes followed her movement across the room, but Andrew’s was not one of them. Instead he focused on Caroline, who met his scowling gaze with an accusing glare. “Despite my cousin’s subtlety and discretion,” Caroline said coolly, “I managed to receive the impression that you and she were once lovers. Is that true?”

Until Lady Brenton’s interruption, Andrew had actually been enjoying himself. He had always disliked attending balls and soirees, at which one was expected to make dull conversation with matrimonially minded girls and their even duller chaperones. But Caroline Hargreaves, with her quick wit and spirit, was surprisingly entertaining. For the last half hour he had felt a peculiar sense of well-being, a glow that had nothing to do with alcohol.

Then Julianne had appeared, reminding him of all his past debauchery, and the fragile sensation of happiness had abruptly vanished. Andrew had always tried to emulate his father in having no regrets over the past . . . but there it was, the unmistakable stab of rue, of embarrassment, over the affair with Julianne. And the hell of it was, the liaison hadn’t even been worth the trouble. Julianne was like those elaborate French desserts that never tasted as good as they looked, and certainly never satisfied the palate.

Andrew forced himself to return Caroline’s gaze as he answered her question. “It is true,” he said gruffly. “We had an affair two years ago . . . brief and not worth remembering.”

He resented the way Caroline stared at him, as if she were so flawless that she had never done anything worthy of regret. Damn her, he had never lied to her, or pretended to be anything other than what he was. She knew he was a scoundrel, a villain . . . for God’s sake, he’d nearly resorted to blackmail to get her to attend the weekend party in the first place.

Grimly he wondered why the hell Logan and Madeline had invited Julianne here in the first place. Well, he couldn’t object to her presence here merely because he’d once had an affair with her. If he tried to get her booted off the estate for that reason, there were at least half a dozen other women present who would have to be thrown out on the same grounds.

As if she had followed the turn of his thoughts, Caroline scowled at him. “I am not surprised that you’ve slept with my cousin,” she said. “No doubt you’ve slept with at least half the women here.”

“What if I have? What difference does it make to you?”

“No difference at all. It only serves to confirm my low opinion of you. How inconvenient it must be to have all the self-control of a March hare.”

“It’s better than being an ice maiden,” he said with a sneer.

Her brown eyes widened behind the spectacles, and a flush spread over her face. “What? What did you call me?”

The edge in her tone alerted a couple nearby to the fact that a quarrel was brewing, and Andrew became aware that they were the focus of a few speculative stares. “Outside,” he ground out. “We’ll continue this in the rose garden.”

“By all means,” Caroline agreed in a vengeful tone, struggling to keep her face impassive.

Ten minutes later they had each managed to slip outside.

The rose garden, referred to by Madeline Scott as her “rose room,” was a southwest section of the garden delineated by posts and rope swags covered with climbing roses. White gravel covered the ground, and fragrant lavender hedges led to the arch at the entrance. There was a massive stone urn on a pedestal in the center of the rose room, surrounded by a velvety blue bed of catmint.

The exotic perfumed air did nothing to soothe Andrew’s frustration. As he saw Caroline’s slight figure enter the rustling garden, he could barely restrain himself from pouncing on her. He kept still and silent instead, his jaw set as he watched her approach.

She stopped within arm’s length of him, her head tilted back so that she could meet his gaze directly. “I have only one thing to say, my lord.” Agitation pulled her voice taut and high. “Unlike you, I have a high regard for the truth. And while I would never take exception to an honest remark, no matter how unflattering, I do resent what you said back there. Because it is not true! You are categorically wrong, and I will not go back inside that house until you admit it!”

“Wrong about what?” he asked. “That you’re an ice maiden?”

For some reason the term had incensed her. He saw her chin quiver with indignation. “Yes, that,” she said in a hiss.

He gave her a smile designed to heighten her fury. “I can prove it,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “What is your age . . . twenty-six?”

“Yes.”

“And despite the fact that you’re far prettier than average, and you possess good blood and a respected family name, you’ve never accepted a proposal of marriage from any man.”

“Correct,” she said, looking briefly bemused at the compliment.

He paced around her, giving her an insultingly thorough inspection. “And you’re a virgin . . . aren’t you?”

It was obvious that the question affronted her. He could easily read the outrage in her expression, and her blush was evident even in the starlit darkness. No proper young woman should even think of answering such an inquiry. After a long, silent struggle, she gave a brief nod.

That small confirmation did something to his insides, made them tighten and throb with savage frustration. Damn her, he had never found a virgin desirable before. And yet he wanted her with volcanic intensity . . . he wanted to possess and kiss every inch of her innocent body . . . he wanted to make her cry and moan for him. He wanted the lazy minutes afterward when they would lie together, sweaty and peaceful in the aftermath of passion. The right to touch her intimately, however and whenever he wanted, seemed worth any price. And yet he would never have her. He had relinquished any chance of that long ago, before they had ever met. Perhaps if he had led his life in a completely different manner . . . But he could not escape the consequences of his past.

Covering his yearning with a mocking smile, Andrew gestured with his hands to indicate that the facts spoke for themselves. “Pretty, unmarried, twenty-six, and a virgin. That leads to only one conclusion . . . ice maiden.”

“I am not! I have far more passion, more honest feeling, than you’ll ever possess!” Her eyes narrowed as she saw his amusement. “Don’t you dare laugh at me!” She launched herself at him, her hands raised as if to attack.

With a smothered laugh, Andrew grabbed her upper arms and held her at bay . . . until he realized that she was not trying to claw his face, but rather to put her hands around his neck. Startled, he loosened his hold, and she immediately seized his nape. She exerted as much pressure as she was able, using her full weight to try to pull his head down. He resisted her easily, staring into her small face with a baffled smile. He was so much larger than she that any attempt on her part to physically coerce him was laughable. “Caroline,” he said, his voice unsteady with equal parts of amusement and desire, “are you by chance trying to kiss me?”

She continued to tug at him furiously, wrathful and determined. She was saying something beneath her breath, spitting like an irate kitten. “. . . show you . . . make you sorry . . . I am not made of ice, you arrogant, presumptuous libertine . . .”

Andrew could not stand it any longer. As he viewed the tiny, indignant female in his arms, he lost the capability of rational thought. All he could think of was how much he desired her, and how a few stolen moments in the rose garden would not matter in the great scheme of things. He was nearly mad with the need to taste her, to touch her, to drag her body full-length against his, and the rest of the world could go to hell. And so he let it happen. He relaxed his neck and lowered his head, and let her tug his mouth down to hers.

Something unexpected happened with that first sweet pressure of her lips—innocently closed lips because she did not know how to kiss properly. He felt a terrible aching pressure around his heart, squeezing and clenching until he felt the hard wall around it crack, and heat came rushing inside. She was so light and soft in his arms, the smell of her skin a hundred times more alluring than roses, the fragile line of her spine arching as she tried to press closer to him. The sensation came too hard, too fast, and he froze in sudden paralysis, not knowing where to put his hands, afraid that if he moved at all, he would crush her.

He fumbled with his gloves, ripped them off, and dropped them to the ground. Carefully he touched Caroline’s back and slid his palm to her waist. His other hand shook as he gently grasped the nape of her neck. Oh, God, she was exquisite, a bundle of muslin and silk in his hands, too luscious to be real. His breath rushed from his lungs in hard bursts, and he fought to keep his movements gentle as he urged her closer against his fiercely aroused body. Increasing the pressure of the kiss, he coaxed her lips to part, touched his tongue to hers, found the intoxicating taste of her. She started slightly at the unfamiliar intimacy. He knew it was wrong to kiss a virgin that way, but he couldn’t help himself. A soothing sound came from deep in his throat, and he licked deeper, searching the sweet, dark heat of her mouth. To his astonishment, Caroline moaned and relaxed in his arms, her lips parting, her tongue sliding hotly against his.

Andrew had not expected her to be so ardent, so receptive. She should have been repelled by him. But she yielded herself with a terrible trust that devastated him. He couldn’t stop his hands from wandering over her hungrily, reaching over the curves of her buttocks to hitch her higher against his body. He pulled her upward, nestling her closer into the huge ridge of his sex until she fit exactly the way he wanted. The thin layers of her clothes—and his—did nothing to muffle the sensation. She gasped and wriggled deliciously, and tightened her arms around his neck until her toes nearly left the ground.

“Caroline,” he said hoarsely, his mouth stealing down the tender line of her throat, “you’re making me insane. We have to stop now. I shouldn’t be doing this—”

“Yes. Yes.” Her breath puffed in rapid, hot expulsions, and she twined herself around him, rubbing herself against the rock-hard protrusion of his loins. They kissed again, her mouth clinging to his with frantic sweetness, and Andrew made a quiet, despairing sound.

“Stop me,” he muttered, clamping his hand over her writhing bottom. “Tell me to let go of you. . . . Slap me. . . .”

She tilted her head back, purring like a kitten as he nuzzled the soft space beneath her ear. “Where should I slap you?” she asked throatily.

She was too innocent to fully comprehend the sexual connotations of her question. Even so, Andrew felt himself turn impossibly hard, and he suppressed a low groan of desire. “Caroline,” he whispered harshly, “you win. I was wrong when I called you a . . . No, don’t do that anymore; I can’t bear it. You win.” He eased her away from his aching body. “Now stay back,” he added curtly, “or you’re going to lose your virginity in this damned garden.”

Recognizing the vehemence in his tone, Caroline prudently kept a few feet of distance between them. She wrapped her slender arms around herself, trembling. For a while there was no sound other than their labored breathing.

“We should go back,” she finally said. “People will notice that we’re both absent. I . . . I have no wish to be compromised . . . that is, my reputation . . .” Her voice trailed into an awkward silence, and she risked a glance at him. “Andrew,” she confessed shakily, “I’ve never felt this way bef—”

“Don’t say it,” he interrupted. “For your sake, and mine, we are not going to let this happen again. We are going to keep to our bargain—I don’t want complications.”

“But don’t you want to—”

“No,” he said tersely. “I want only the pretense of a relationship with you, nothing more. If I truly became involved with you, I would have to transform my life completely. And it’s too bloody late for that. I am beyond redemption, and no one, not even you, is worth changing my ways for.”

She was quiet for a long moment, her dazed eyes focused on his set face. “I know someone who is worth it,” she finally said.

“Who?”

“You.” Her stare was direct and guileless. “You are worth saving, Andrew.”

With just a few words, she demolished him. Andrew shook his head, unable to speak. He wanted to seize her in his arms again . . . worship her . . . ravish her. No woman had ever expressed the slightest hint of faith in him, in his worthless soul, and though he wanted to respond with utter scorn, he could not. One impossible wish consumed him in a great purifying blaze—that somehow he could become worthy of her. He yearned to tell her how he felt. Instead he averted his face and managed a few rasping words. “You go inside first.”

For the rest of the weekend party, and for the next three months, Andrew was a perfect gentleman. He was attentive, thoughtful, and good-humored, prompting jokes from all who knew him that somehow the wicked Lord Drake had been abducted and replaced by an identical stranger. Those who were aware of the Earl of Rochester’s poor health surmised that Andrew was making an effort to court his father’s favor before the old man died and left him bereft of the family fortune. It was a transparent effort, the gossips snickered, and very much in character for the devious Lord Drake.

The strange thing was, the longer that Andrew’s pretend reformation lasted, the more it seemed to Caroline that he was changing in reality. He met with the Rochester estate agents and developed a plan to improve the land in ways that would help the tenants immeasurably. Then to the perplexity of all who knew him, Andrew sold much of his personal property, including a prize string of thoroughbreds, in order to finance the improvements.

It was not in character for Andrew to take such a risk, especially when there was no guarantee that he would inherit the Rochester fortune. But when Caroline asked him why he seemed determined to help the Rochester tenants, he laughed and shrugged as if it were a matter of no consequence. “The changes would have to be made whether or not I get the earl’s money,” he said. “And I was tired of maintaining all those damned horses—too expensive by half.”

“Then what about your properties in town?” Caroline asked. “I’ve heard that your father planned to evict some poor tenants from a slum in Whitefriars rather than repair it—and you are letting them stay, and are renovating the entire building besides.”

Andrew’s face was carefully expressionless as he replied. “Unlike my father, I have no desire to be known as a slum lord. But don’t mistake my motives as altruistic—it is merely a business decision. Any money I spend on the property will increase its value.”

Caroline smiled at him and leaned close as if to confide a secret. “I think, my lord, that you actually care about those people.”

“I’m practically a saint,” he agreed sardonically, with a derisive arch of his brow.

She continued to smile, however, realizing that Andrew was not nearly as blackhearted as he pretended to be.

Just why Andrew should have begun to care about the people whose existence he had never bothered to notice before was a mystery. Perhaps it had something to do with his father’s imminent demise . . . perhaps it had finally dawned on Andrew that the weight of responsibility would soon be transferred to his own shoulders. But he could easily have let things go on just as they were, allowing his father’s managers and estate agents to make the decisions. Instead he took the reins in his own hands, tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence.

In accordance with their bargain, Andrew took Caroline riding in the park, and escorted her to musical evenings and soirees and the theater. Since Fanny was required to act as chaperon, there were few occasions for Caroline to talk privately with Andrew. They were forced instead to discuss seemly subjects such as literature or gardening, and their physical contact was limited to the occasional brush of their fingertips, or the pressure of his shoulder against hers as they sat next to each other. And yet these fleeting moments of closeness—a wordless stare, a stolen caress of her arm or hand—were impossibly exciting.

Caroline’s awareness of Andrew was so excruciating that she sometimes thought she would burst into flames. She could not stop thinking about their impassioned embrace in the Scotts’ rose garden, the pleasure of Andrew’s mouth on hers. But he was so unrelentingly courteous now that she began to wonder if the episode had perhaps been some torrid dream conjured by her own fevered imagination.

Andrew, Lord Drake, was a fascinating puzzle. It seemed to Caroline that he was two different men—the arrogant, self-indulgent libertine, and the attractive stranger who was stumbling uncertainly on his way to becoming a gentleman. The first man had not appealed to her in the least. The second one . . . well, he was a far different matter. She saw that he was struggling, torn between the easy pleasures of the past and the duties that loomed before him. He still had not resumed his drinking and skirt chasing—he would have admitted it to her freely if he had. And according to Cade, Andrew seldom visited their club these days. Instead he spent his time fencing, boxing, or riding until he nearly dropped from exhaustion. He lost weight, perhaps a stone, until his trousers hung unfashionably loose and had to be altered. Although Andrew had always been a well-formed man, his body was now lean and impossibly hard, the muscles of his arms and back straining the seams of his coat.

“Why do you keep so active?” Caroline could not resist asking one day, as she pruned a lush bed of purple penstemons in her garden. Andrew lounged nearby on a small bench as he watched her carefully snip the dried heads of each stem. “My brother says that you were at the Pugilistic Club almost every day last week.”

When Andrew took too long in answering, Caroline paused in her gardening and glanced over her shoulder. It was a cool November day, and a breeze caught a lock of her sable hair that had escaped her bonnet, and blew it across her cheek. She used her gloved hand to push away the errant lock, inadvertently smudging her face with dirt. Her heart lurched in sudden anticipation as she saw the expression in Andrew’s searching blue eyes.

“Keeping active serves to distract me from . . . things.” Andrew stood and came to her slowly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here, hold still.” He gently wiped away the dirt streak, then reached for her spectacles to clean them in a gesture that had become habitual.

Deprived of the corrective lenses, Caroline stared up at his dark, blurred face with myopic attentiveness. “What things?” she asked, breathless at his nearness. “I presume that you must mean your drinking and gaming. . . .”

“No, it’s not that.” He replaced her spectacles with great care, and used a fingertip to stroke the silky tendril of hair behind her ear. “Can’t you guess what is bothering me?” he asked softly. “What keeps me awake unless I exhaust myself before going to bed each night?”

He stood very close, his gaze holding hers intimately. Even though he was not touching her, Caroline felt surrounded by his virile presence. The shears dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, falling to the earth with a soft thud. “Oh, I . . .” She paused to moisten her dry lips. “I suppose you miss h-having a woman. But there is no reason that you could not . . . that is, with so many who would be willing . . .” Flushing, she caught her bottom lip with her teeth and floundered into silence.

“I’ve become too damned particular.” He leaned closer, and his breath fell gently against her ear, sending a pleasurable thrill down her spine. “Caroline, look at me. There is something I have no right to ask . . . but . . .”

“Yes?” she whispered.

“I’ve been considering my situation,” he said carefully. “Caroline . . . even if my father doesn’t leave me a shilling, I could manage to provide a comfortable existence for someone. I have a few investments, as well as the estate. It wouldn’t be a grand mode of living, but . . .”

“Yes?” Caroline managed to say, her heart hammering madly in her chest. “Go on.”

“You see—”

“Caroline!” came her mother’s shrill voice from the French doors that opened onto the garden from the parlor. “Caroline, I insist that you come inside and act as a proper hostess, rather than make poor Lord Drake stand outside and watch you dig holes in the dirt! I suspect you have offered him no manner of refreshment, and . . . Why, this wind is intolerable, you will cause him to catch his death of cold. Come in at once, I bid you both!”

“Yes, Mother,” Caroline said grimly, filled with frustration. She glanced at Andrew, who had lost his serious intensity, and was regarding her with a sudden smile. “Before we go inside,” she suggested, “you may finish what you were going to say—”

“Later,” he said, bending to retrieve her fallen shears.

Her fists clenched, and she nearly stamped her foot in annoyance. She wanted to strangle her mother for breaking into what was undoubtedly the most supremely interesting moment of her life. What if Andrew had been trying to propose? Her heart turned over at the thought. Would she have decided to accept such a risk . . . would she be able to trust that he would remain the way he was now, instead of changing back into the rake he had always been?

Yes, she thought in a rush of giddy wonder. Yes, I would take that chance.

Because she had fallen in love with him, imperfect as he was. She loved every handsome, tarnished inch of him, inside and out. She wanted to help him in his quest to become a better man. And if a little bit of the scoundrel remained . . . An irresistible smile tugged at her lips. Well, she would enjoy that part of him too.

A fortnight later, at the beginning of December, Caroline received word that the Earl of Rochester was on his deathbed. The brief message from Andrew also included a surprising request. The earl wanted to see her, for reasons that he would explain to no one, not even Andrew. I humbly ask for your indulgence in this matter, Andrew had written, as your presence may bring the earl some peace in his last hours. My carriage will convey you to the estate if you wish to come . . . and if you do not, I understand and respect your decision. Your servant.

And he had signed his name Andrew, with a familiarity that was improper and yet touching, bespeaking his distracted turn of mind. Or perhaps it betrayed his feelings for her.

“Miss Hargreaves?” the liveried footman murmured, evidently having been informed of the possibility that she might return with them. “Shall we convey you to the Rochester estate?”

“Yes,” Caroline said instantly. “I will need but a few minutes to be ready. I will bring a maidservant with me.”

“Yes, miss.”

Caroline was consumed with thoughts of Andrew as the carriage traveled to Rochester Hall in Buckinghamshire, where the earl had chosen to spend his last days. Although Caroline had never seen the place, Andrew had described it to her. The Rochesters owned fifteen hundred acres, including the local village, the woods surrounding it, and some of the most fertile farmland in England. It had been granted to the family by Henry II in the twelfth century, Andrew had said, and he had gone on to make a sarcastic comment about the fact that the family’s proud and ancient heritage would soon pass to a complete reprobate. Caroline understood that Andrew did not feel at all worthy of the title and the responsibilities that he would inherit. She felt an aching need to comfort him, to somehow find a way to convince him that he was a much better man than he believed himself to be.

With her thoughts in turmoil, Caroline kept her gaze focused on the scenery outside the window, the land covered with woods and vineyards, the villages filled with cottages made of flint garnered from the Chiltern hills. Finally they came to the massive structure of Rochester Hall, constructed of honey yellow ironstone and gray sandstone, hewn with stalwart medieval masonry. A gate centered in the entrance gave the carriage access to an open courtyard.

Caroline was escorted by a footman to the central great hall, which was large, drafty, and ornamented with dull-colored tapestries. Rochester Hall had once been a fortress, its roof studded with parapets and crenellation, the windows long and narrow to allow archers to defend the building. Now it was merely a cold, vast home that seemed badly in need of a woman’s hand to soften the place and make it more comfortable.

“Miss Hargreaves.” Andrew’s deep voice echoed against the polished sandstone walls as he approached her.

She felt a thrill of gladness as he came to her and took her hands. The heat of his fingers penetrated the barrier of her gloves as he held her hands in a secure clasp. “Caro,” he said softly, and nodded to the footman to leave them.

She stared up at him with a searching gaze. His emotions were held in tight rein . . . it was impossible to read the thoughts behind the expressionless mask of his face. But somehow she sensed his hidden anguish, and she longed to put her arms around him and comfort him.

“How was the carriage ride?” he asked, still retaining her hands. “I hope it didn’t make you too uncomfortable.”

Caroline smiled slightly, realizing that he had remembered how the motion of a long carriage ride made her sick. “No, I was perfectly fine. I stared out the window the entire way.”

“Thank you for coming,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had refused. God knows why Rochester asked for you—it’s because of some whim that he won’t explain—”

“I am glad to be here,” she interrupted gently. “Not for his sake, but for yours. To be here as your friend, as your . . .” Her voice trailed away as she fumbled for an appropriate word.

Her consternation elicited a brief smile from Andrew, and his blue eyes were suddenly tender. “Darling little friend,” he whispered, bringing her gloved hand to his mouth.

Emotion welled up inside her, a singular deep joy that seemed to fill her chest and throat with sweet warmth. The happiness of being needed by him, welcomed by him, was almost too much to be borne.

Caroline glanced at the heavy oak staircase that led to the second floor, its openwork balustrade casting long, jagged shadows across the great hall. What a cavernous, sterile place for a little boy to grow up in, she thought. Andrew had told her that his mother had died a few weeks after giving birth to him. He had spent his childhood here, at the mercy of a father whose heart was as warm and soft as a glacier. “Shall we go up to him?” she asked, referring to the earl.

“In a minute,” Andrew replied. “Logan and his wife are with him now. The doctor says it is only a matter of hours before he—” He stopped, his throat seeming to close, and he gave her a look that was filled with baffled fury, most of it directed at himself. “My God, all the times that I’ve wished him dead. But now I feel . . .”

“Regret?” Caroline suggested softly, removing her glove and laying her fingers against the hard, smooth-shaven line of his cheek. The muscles of his jaw worked tensely against the delicate palm of her hand. “And perhaps sorrow,” she said, “for all that could have been, and for all the disappointment you caused each other.”

He could not bring himself to reply, only gave a short nod.

“And maybe just a little fear?” she asked, daring to caress his cheek softly. “Because soon you will be Lord Rochester . . . something you’ve hated and dreaded all your life.”

Andrew began to breathe in deep surges, his eyes locked with hers as if his very survival depended on it. “If only I could stop it from happening,” he said hoarsely.

“You are a better man than your father,” she whispered. “You will take care of the people who depend on you. There is nothing to fear. I know that you will not fall back into your old ways. You are a good man, even if you don’t believe it.”

He was very still, giving her a look that burned all through her. Although he did not move to embrace her, she had the sense of being possessed, captured by his gaze and his potent will beyond any hope of release. “Caro,” he finally said, his voice tightly controlled, “I can’t ever be without you.”

She smiled faintly. “You won’t have to.”

They were interrupted by the approach of a housemaid who had been dispatched from upstairs. “M’lord,” the tall, rather ungainly girl murmured, bobbing in an awkward curtsy, “Mr. Scott sent me to ask if Miss Hargreaves is here, and if she would please attend the earl—”

“I will bring her to Rochester,” Andrew replied grimly.

“Yes, m’lord.” The maid hurried upstairs ahead of them, while Andrew carefully placed Caroline’s small hand on his arm.

He looked down at her with concern. “You don’t have to see him if you don’t wish it.”

“Of course I will see the earl,” Caroline replied. “I am extremely curious about what he will say.”

The Earl of Rochester was attended by two physicians, as well as Mr. Scott and his wife Madeline. The atmosphere in the bedroom was oppressively somber and stifling, with all the windows closed and the heavy velvet drapes pulled shut. A dismal end for an unhappy man, Caroline reflected silently. In her opinion the earl was extremely fortunate to have his two sons with him, considering the appalling way he had always treated them.

The earl was propped to a semireclining position with a pile of pillows behind his back. His head turned as Caroline entered the room, and his rheumy gaze fastened on her. “The Hargreaves chit,” he said softly. It seemed to take great effort for him to speak. He addressed the other occupants of the room while still staring at Caroline. “Leave, all of you. I wish . . . to speak to Miss Hargreaves . . . in private.”

They complied en masse except for Andrew, who lingered to stare into Caroline’s face. She gave him a reassuring smile and motioned for him to leave the room. “I’ll be waiting just outside,” he murmured. “Call for me if you wish.”

When the door closed, Caroline went to the chair by the bedside and sat, folding her hands in her lap. Her face was nearly level with the earl’s, and she did not bother to conceal her curiosity as she stared at him. He must have been handsome at one time, she thought, although he wore the innate arrogance of a man who had always taken himself far too seriously.

“My lord,” she said, “I have come, as you requested. May I ask why you wished to see me?”

Rochester ignored her question for a moment, his slitted gaze moving over her speculatively. “Attractive, but . . . hardly a great beauty,” he observed. “What does . . . he see in you, I wonder?”

“Perhaps you should ask Lord Drake,” Caroline suggested calmly.

“He will not discuss you,” he replied with frowning contemplation. “I sent for you because . . . I want the answer to one question. When my son proposes . . . will you accept?”

Startled, Caroline stared at him without blinking. “He has not proposed marriage to me, my lord, nor has he given any indication that he is considering such a proposition—”

“He will,” Rochester assured her, his face twisting with a spasm of pain. Fumbling, he reached for a small glass on the bedside table. Automatically Caroline moved to help him, catching the noxious fragrance of spirits mixed with medicinal tonic as she brought the edge of the glass to his withered lips. Reclining back on the pillows, the earl viewed her speculatively. “You appear to have wrought . . . a miracle, Miss Hargreaves. Somehow you . . . have drawn my son out of his remarkable self-absorption. I know him . . . quite well, you see. I suspect your liaison began as a plan to deceive me, yet . . . he seems to have changed. He seems to love you, although . . . one never would have believed him capable of it.”

“Perhaps you do not know Lord Drake as well as you think you do,” Caroline said, unable to keep the edge from her tone. “He only needs someone to believe in him, and to encourage him. He is a good man, a caring one—”

“Please,” he murmured, lifting a gnarled hand in a gesture of self-defense. “Do not waste. . . . what little time I have left . . . with rapturous descriptions of my . . . good-for-naught progeny.”

“Then I will answer your question,” Caroline returned evenly. “Yes, my lord, if your son proposes to me, I will accept gladly. And if you do not leave him your fortune, I will not care one whit . . . and neither will he. Some things are more precious than money, although I am certain you will mock me for saying so.”

Rochester surprised her by smiling thinly, relaxing more deeply against the pillows. “I will not mock you,” he murmured, seeming exhausted but oddly serene. “I believe . . . you might be the saving of him. Go now, Miss Hargreaves. . . . Tell Andrew to come.”

“Yes, my lord.”

She left the room quickly, her emotions in chaos, feeling chilly and anxious and wanting to feel the comfort of Andrew’s arms around her.