by Julia Quinn
“Yes,” Caroline said slowly, horror beginning to dawn in her eyes. “Oh, no…not her.”
James nodded. “I'm not certain why, but you do.”
She bit her lip and stared at her feet. Dear God, was that why Blake had kissed her? Because she somehow resembled his dead fiancée? She suddenly felt very small and very insignificant. And very undesirable.
“It's really nothing,” James said, clearly concerned by her unhappy expression.
“I would never take a risk like that,” Caroline said firmly. “Not if I had someone to love.” She swallowed. “Not if I had someone who loved me.”
James touched her hand. “It's been a lonely time for you these past few years, hasn't it?”
But Caroline wasn't ready for sympathetic comments. “What happened to Blake?” she asked sharply. “After she died.”
“He was devastated. Drunk for three months. He blamed himself.”
“Yes, I'm sure he would. He's the sort to take responsibility for everyone, isn't he?”
James nodded.
“But surely he realizes now that it wasn't his fault.”
“In his head, perhaps, but not in his heart.”
There was a long pause while they both stared at the ground. When Caroline finally spoke, her voice was soft and unnaturally tentative. “Do you really think he thinks I look like her?”
James shook his head. “No. And you don't look like her. Marabelle was quite blond, actually, with pale blue eyes and—”
“Then why did you say—”
“Because it's rare to meet a woman of such spirit.” When Caroline didn't say anything, James grinned and added, “That was a compliment, by the way.”
Caroline twisted her lips into something that was halfway between a grimace and a wry smile.
“Thank you, then. But I still don't see why he's being such a beast.”
“Consider the situation from his view. First he thought you were a traitor, the very breed of vermin who'd killed Marabelle. Then he found himself in the position of your protector, which can only remind him of how he failed his fiancée.”
“But he didn't fail her!”
“Of course he didn't,” James replied. “But he doesn't know that. And furthermore, it's quite obvious he finds you rather fetching.”
Caroline blushed and was immediately furious with herself for doing so.
“That, I think,” James said, “is what scares him the most. What if, horror of horrors, he were to fall in love with you?”
Caroline didn't see that as the worst horror in the world, but she kept the thought to herself.
“Can you even count how many ways he'd think he was betraying Marabelle? He could never live with himself.”
She didn't know what to say in reply, so she just pointed to a hole in the ground and said, “Put the plant there.”
James nodded. “You won't tell him of our little chat?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” Then he did as she asked.
Chapter 7
di-a-crit-i-cal (adjective). Distinguishing, distinctive.
One cannot deny that a complete lack of order is the diacritical mark of Mr. Ravenscroft's garden.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
By the end of the day, Caroline had the garden looking the way she thought a garden ought. James agreed with her, complimenting her on her excellent sense of landscape design. Blake, on the other hand, couldn't be prodded into uttering even the most grudging words of praise. In fact, the only noise he'd made at all was a rather strangled groan that sounded a bit like: “My roses.”
“Your roses had gone wild,” she'd returned, thoroughly exasperated with this man.
“I liked them wild,” he'd shot back.
And that had been that. But he'd surprised her by ordering two new dresses to replace the one she'd brought from Prewitt Hall. That poor rag had been through enough, what with being kidnapped, slept in for days, and dragged through the mud. Caroline wasn't sure when or where he'd managed to get two ready-to-wear dresses, but they seemed to fit her reasonably well, so she thanked him prettily and didn't complain that the hem dragged just a touch on the floor.
She took her supper in her room, not feeling up to another battle of wills with her somewhat cranky host. And besides, she'd obtained a needle and thread from Mrs. Mickle, and she wanted to get to work shortening her new dresses.
Since it was high summer, the sun hung in the sky well past the time she ate her evening meal, and when her fingers grew tired she put her sewing down and walked to the window. The hedges were neat and the roses were trimmed to perfection; she and James had clearly done an excellent job with the gardens. Caroline felt a sense of pride in herself that she hadn't experienced in a long time. It had been much too long since she had had the pleasure of starting and completing a task that interested her.
But she wasn't convinced that Blake had come to appreciate her worth as a helpful and courteous houseguest yet; in fact, she was rather certain he had not. So tomorrow she would have to find herself another task, preferably one that would take a bit more time.
He had told her that she could remain at Seacrest Manor until her twenty-first birthday, and she was damned if she was going to let him find a way to escape his promise.
The next morning found Caroline exploring Seacrest Manor on a full stomach. Mrs. Mickle, who was now her greatest champion, had met her in the breakfast room and fed her no end of delicacies and treats. Omelettes, sausages, kidney pie—Caroline didn't even recognize some of the dishes that graced the sideboard. Mrs. Mickle seemed to have prepared food for an entire army.
After breakfast she set about finding a new project to keep her busy while in residence. She peered into this room and that, finally ending up in the library. It wasn't as large as those in some of the grander estates, but it boasted several hundred volumes. The leather spines gleamed in the early morning light, and the room held the lemony smell of freshly cleaned wood. But a closer inspection of the shelves revealed that they had been filed in no order whatsoever.
Voilà!
“Clearly,” Caroline said to the empty room, “he needs his books alphabetized.”
She pulled down a stack of books, plunked them on the floor, and idly examined the titles. “I don't know how he has managed this long in such chaos.”
More books found their way to the floor. “Of course,” she said with an expansive wave of her hand, “there is no need for me to try to order these piles now. I'll have plenty of time to do that after I finish unloading all of the shelves. I'll be here for five more weeks, after all.”
She paused to look at a random volume. It was a mathematical treatise. “Fascinating,” she murmured, flipping through the pages so that she could glance at the incomprehensible prose. “My father always told me I should learn more arithmetic.”
She giggled. It was amazing how slowly one could work when one really put one's mind to it.
When Blake came down for breakfast that morning he found a feast the likes of which he'd never seen since taking up residence at Seacrest Manor. His morning meal usually consisted of a platter of fried eggs, a slice or two of ham, and some cold toast. Those items were all in evidence, but they were accompanied by roast beef, Dover sole, and a variety of pastries and tarts that boggled the mind.
Mrs. Mickle had clearly found new culinary inspiration, and Blake had no doubt that her name was Caroline Trent.
He resolved not to let himself grow irritated at the way his housekeeper was playing favorites and instead decided simply to fill his plate and enjoy the bounty. He was munching on the most delicious strawberry tart when James strolled into the room.
“Good morning to you,” the marquis said. “Where is Caroline?”
“Damned if I know, but half the ham is missing, so I imagine she's come and gone.”
James whistled. “Mrs. Mickle certainly outdid herself this morning, didn't she? You should have had Caroline move in s
ooner.”
Blake shot him an irritated glance.
“Well, you must admit that your housekeeper has never gone to such lengths to keep you so well-fed.”
Blake liked to think that he would have responded with something utterly wry and cutting, but before he could think of anything the least bit witty, they heard a tremendous crash, followed by a feminine shriek of—was it surprise? Or was it pain? Whatever it was, it definitely came from Caroline, and Blake's heart pounded in his chest as he dashed toward the library and threw open the door.
He'd thought he'd been shocked by his dug-up garden the day before. This was worse.
“What the hell?” he whispered, too shocked to manage a normal speaking voice.
“What happened?” James demanded, skidding to a halt behind him. “Oh my good Lord. What on earth?”
Caroline was sitting in the center of the library, surrounded by books. Or perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that she was sprawled on the library floor, covered with books. An over-turned stepstool lay next to her, and tall piles of books were stacked up on every table and a good portion of the rug.
In fact, not a single volume remained on the shelves. It looked as if Blake's houseguest had somehow managed to conjure a whirlwind for the sole purpose of tearing his library to pieces.
Caroline looked up at them and blinked. “I suppose you're both a bit curious.”
“Er…yes,” Blake replied, thinking that he ought to be yelling at her about something, but not sure what, and still a bit too surprised to come up with a good tirade.
“I thought to put your books in order.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, trying to take in the scope of the mess. “They look very well-ordered.”
Behind him, James let out a snort of laughter, and Caroline planted her hands on her hips and said, “Don't tease!”
“Ravenscroft here wouldn't dream of teasing you,” James said. “Would he?”
Blake shook his head. “Wouldn't dream of it.”
Caroline scowled at them both. “One of you might offer to help me up.”
Blake was about to move aside to let Riverdale pass, but the marquis shoved him forward until he had to lend the girl his hand or seem insufferably rude.
“Thank you,” she said, awkwardly rising to her feet. “I'm sorry about the—Ow!” She pitched forward into Blake's arms, and for a moment he was able to forget who he was, and what he'd done, and simply savor the feel of her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked gruffly, oddly reluctant to let her go.
“My ankle. I must have twisted it when I fell.”
He looked down at her with an amused expression. “This isn't another ill-conceived attempt to force us to let you remain here, now is it?”
“Of course not!” she replied, clearly offended. “As if I would deliberately injure myself to—” She looked up sheepishly. “Oh, yes, I did quite destroy my throat the other day, didn't I?”
He nodded, the corners of his mouth quivering toward a smile.
“Yes, well, I had a very good reason…Oh, you were teasing me, weren't you?”
He nodded again.
“It's hard to tell, you know.”
“Hard to tell what?”
“When you're teasing,” she replied. “You're very serious most of the time.”
“You're going to have to stay off of that ankle,” Blake said abruptly. “At least until the swelling subsides.”
Her voice was soft when she said, “You didn't answer my question.”
“You didn't ask a question.”
“Didn't I? I suppose I didn't. But you did change the subject.”
“A gentleman doesn't like to talk about how serious he is.”
“Yes, I know.” She sighed. “You like to talk of cards and hounds and horses and how much money you lost at the faro table the night before. I've yet to meet a truly responsible gentleman. Aside from my dear father, of course.”
“We're not all so bad as that,” he said, turning around to press James to help defend their gender. But James had disappeared.
“What happened to the marquis?” Caroline inquired, craning her neck.
“Damned if I know.” His face colored as he remembered his manners. “Pardon my language.”
“You didn't seem to have a problem cursing in front of Carlotta De Leon.”
“The real Carlotta De Leon, I imagine, could teach me a thing or two about cursing.”
“I'm not as delicate as I look,” she said with a shrug. “My ears aren't going to burn up at the occasional use of the word damn. Lord knows my tongue hasn't fallen off for saying it.”
His lips reluctantly curved into an honest smile. “Are you saying, Miss Caroline Trent, that you are not every inch a lady?”
“Not at all,” she said archly. “I am very much a lady. Simply one who…ah…occasionally uses less than proper language.”
He burst out in unexpected laughter.
“My guardians weren't always the most circumspect of men,” she explained.
“I see.”
She cocked her head and stared at him thoughtfully. “You should laugh more often.”
“There are a lot of things I should do,” he said simply.
Caroline didn't know what to make of that comment. “Er…should we try to find the marquis?”
“Clearly, he doesn't want to be found.”
“Why not?”
“I haven't the slightest idea,” he said, in a tone that said he had a very good idea. “Riverdale rather excels at disappearing when he's of a mind to do so.”
“I suppose that comes in handy in your line of work.”
Blake didn't reply. He had no wish to discuss his work for the War Office with her. Women tended to find his exploits dashing and glamorous, and he knew that they were anything but. There was nothing dashing or glamorous about death.
Caroline finally broke the long silence. “I'm sure you can let go of me now.”
“Can you walk?”
“Of course I—Ow!”
She'd barely taken a step before she howled in pain again. Blake immediately swept her into his arms and said, “I'll carry you to the drawing room.”
“But my books!” she protested.
“I believe they are my books,” he said with a small smile, “and I'll have one of the servants come and put them back.”
“No, no, please don't do that. I'll put them back myself.”
“If you'll pardon my saying so, Miss Trent, you cannot even walk. How do you plan to rearrange a library?”
Caroline twisted her head to view the chaos she'd inflicted as he carried her out of the room. “Couldn't you leave them this way for a few days? I promise I'll take care of the mess once my ankle heals. I have grand plans for the library, you see.”
“Do you?” he asked doubtfully.
“Yes, I thought to put all of your scientific treatises together, and to group the biographies onto one shelf, and, well, I'm sure you see my idea. It will be ever so much easier to find your books.”
“It certainly has to be easier than it is now, with everything on the floor.”
Caroline scowled at him. “I'm doing you a tremendous favor. If you cannot be grateful, at the very least you could contrive not to be quite so un-grateful.”
“Very well, I profess my undying and eternal gratitude.”
“That didn't sound terribly sincere,” she muttered.
“It wasn't,” he admitted, “but it will have to do. Here we are.” He set her down on a sofa. “Shall we elevate your leg?”
“I don't know. I've never twisted an ankle before. Is that what one is meant to do?”
He nodded and piled soft pillows under her leg. “It reduces the swelling.”
“Bother the swelling. It's the pain I'd like to reduce.”
“They go hand in hand.”
“Oh. How long will I have to remain like this?”
“At least for the rest of the day, I should think. Perhaps
tomorrow as well.”
“Hmmph. That is perfectly dreadful. I don't suppose you could fetch me a spot of tea.”
Blake drew himself back and looked at her. “Do I look like a nursemaid?”
“Not at all,” she replied, clearly holding back a giggle. “It's just that Mrs. Mickle has gone to the village after preparing that lovely breakfast, heaven only knows where your butler is, and I don't think your valet fetches tea.”
“If I can fetch it, he damned well can, too,” Blake muttered.
“Oh, good!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Then you'll get some for me?”
“I suppose I must. And how the devil have you come to be on such good terms with my servants in only one day?”
She shrugged. “Actually, I've only met Mrs. Mickle. Did you know she has a nine-year-old granddaughter who lives in the village? She bought her the loveliest doll for her birthday. I should have loved a doll like that when I was a girl.”
Blake shook his head in amazement. Mrs. Mickle had been working for him for nearly three years, and she'd never mentioned that she had a grand-daughter. “I'll be right back with that tea,” he said.
“Thank you. And don't forget to make enough for yourself as well.”
He stopped in the doorway. “I won't be joining you.”
Caroline's face fell. “You won't?”
“No, I…” He groaned. He'd done battle against some of the world's most devious criminals, but he was powerless in the face of her frown. “Very well, I'll join you, but only for a short while.”
“Wonderful. I'm sure you'll have a lovely time. And you'll find that tea does wonders for your disposition.”
“My disposition!”
“Forget I mentioned it,” she mumbled.
Mrs. Mickle was nowhere to be found when Blake reached the kitchen. After hollering for the house-keeper for a minute or so, he remembered that Caroline had said she had gone to town.
“Dratted female,” he muttered, not sure whether he was referring to Caroline or Mrs. Mickle.