"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 claw-like 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.