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 chaperone, 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.”