by Lisa Kleypas
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 t
he 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.
