I Will

by Lisa Kleypas

  “Brother,” Logan Scott murmured, as they exchanged a hearty handshake. It was clear that there was deep affection between the two.

  Andrew introduced Scott to the Hargreaves family, and Caroline was amused to see that the presence of this living legend had reduced her mother to speechlessness once more. Scott’s penetrating gaze moved from one face to another, until he finally focused on Andrew. “Father is here,” he said.

  The brothers exchanged a look that was difficult to interpret, and it was obvious that the two shared an understanding of the man that no one else in the world did.

  “How is he?” Andrew asked.

  “Better today. He didn’t need quite so much of his medicine during the night. At the moment he is conserving his strength for the ball tonight.” Scott paused before adding. “He wanted to see you as soon as you arrived. Shall I take you to his room?”

  Andrew nodded. “No doubt I have committed a hundred offenses he’ll wish to upbraid me for. I should hate to deprive him of such entertainment.”

  “Good,” Scott said sardonically. “Since I’ve already had to run through that particular gauntlet today, there is no reason that you should be spared.”

  Turning to Caroline, Andrew murmured, “Will you excuse me, Miss Hargreaves?”

  “Of course.” She found herself giving him a brief reassuring smile. “I hope it goes well, my lord.”

  As their gazes met, she saw his eyes change, the hard opaqueness softening to warm blue. “Later, then,” he murmured, and bowed before leaving.

  The intimacy of their shared gaze had caused warm flutters in the pit of her stomach, and a sensation of giddy lightness that floated all through her. Slightly bemused, Caroline reflected that Logan Scott was not the only man in the family with acting ability. Andrew was playing his part so convincingly that anyone would believe he had a real interest in her. She could almost believe it herself. Sternly she concentrated on the thought that it was all a pretense. Money, not courtship, was Andrew’s ultimate goal.

  Andrew and Logan entered the house and crossed through the marble hall, its plasterwork ceiling embellished with mythological scenes and a mask-and-ribbon motif. Approaching the grand staircase, which curved in a huge gentle spiral, the brothers made their way upward at a leisurely pace.

  “Your Miss Hargreaves seems a charming girl,” Logan remarked.

  Andrew smiled sardonically. “She is not my Miss Hargreaves.”

  “She’s a pretty sort,” Logan said. “Delicate in appearance, but she seems to possess a certain liveliness of spirit.”

  “Spirit,” Andrew repeated wryly. “Yes … she has plenty of that.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What is interesting?” Andrew asked warily, disliking his half brother’s speculative tone.

  “To my knowledge, you’ve never courted a lady before.”

  “It’s not a real courtship,” Andrew informed him. “It’s merely a ruse to fool Father.”

  “What?” Logan stopped on the stairs and stared at him in surprise. “Would you care to explain, Andrew?”

  “As you know, I’ve been cut out of the will. To be reinstated I’ve got to convince Father that I’ve changed my wicked ways, or he’ll die without leaving me a damned shilling.” Andrew proceeded to explain his bargain with Caroline, and the terms they had struck.

  Logan listened intently, finally giving a gruff laugh. “Well, if you wish to change Father’s mind about his will, I suppose your involvement with a woman like Miss Hargreaves is a good idea.”

  “It’s not an ‘involvement,’” Andrew said, feeling unaccountably defensive. “As I told you, it’s merely a charade.”

  Logan slid a speculative glance his way. “I have a suspicion, Andrew, that your relationship with Miss Hargreaves is something more than a charade, whether you are willing to admit it or not.”

  “It’s all for Father’s benefit,” Andrew said swiftly. “I am telling you, Scott, I have no designs on her. And even if I did, believe me, I would be the last man on earth whom she would take an interest in.”

  Chapter Three

  “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 eye
s 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.