by Julia Quinn
Caroline remained silent.
After a moment Blake clearly lost patience with her lack of response, so he demanded, “Well? Don't you have a reply?”
“I do, but you wouldn't like it.”
“Goddamn it, Caroline!” he exploded. “Don't you give even a thought to your own safety?”
“Of course I do. Do you think I had fun risking my neck for you this evening? I could have been killed. Or worse, you could have been killed. Or Oliver could have captured me and forced me to marry Percy.” She shuddered. “Good God, I'll probably have nightmares about that last scenario for weeks.”
“You certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
“Well, I wasn't. I felt sick the entire time, knowing that we were in danger.”
“If you were so petrified, why weren't you crying and carrying on like a normal woman?”
“A normal woman? Sir, you insult me. You insult my entire gender.”
“You must admit that most women would have needed smelling salts tonight.”
She glared at him, her entire body shaking with fury. “Am I expected to apologize because I didn't fall apart and simper and cry and ruin the entire operation? I was scared—no, I was petrified, but what good would I have been if I hadn't kept up a brave front? Besides,” she added, her expression growing sullen, “I was so angry with you most of the time I forgot how scared I was.”
Blake looked away. Hearing her admit her fear made him feel even worse. If anything had happened to her that night it would have been his fault. “Caroline,” he said in a low voice, “I won't have you endangering yourself. I forbid it.”
“You have no right to forbid me anything.”
A muscle started to twitch in his neck. “As long as you are living in my house—”
“Oh, for goodness sake, you sound like one of my guardians.”
“Now you insult me.”
She let out a frustrated exhale. “I don't know how you bear it, living constantly in such danger. I don't know how your family bears it. They must worry terribly about you.”
“My family doesn't know.”
“What?” she screeched. “How is that possible?”
“I've never told them.”
“That is abominable,” she said with great feeling. “Truly abominable. If I had a family I should never treat them with such disrespect.”
“We are not here to discuss my family,” he ground out. “We are here to discuss your foolhardy behavior.”
“I refuse to acknowledge my behavior as fool-hardy. You would have done the exact same thing were you in my shoes.”
“But I wasn't in your shoes, as you so delicately put it, and furthermore, I have nearly a decade of experience with these matters. You do not.”
“What do you want from me? Do you want me to promise I shall never interfere again?”
“That would be an excellent beginning.”
Caroline planted her hands on her hips and jutted her chin forward. “Well, I won't. I should like nothing more than to keep myself out of peril for the rest of my life, but if you are in danger, and I can do something to help, I certainly will not remain idle. How could I have lived with myself if you'd been hurt?”
“You are the most muleheaded woman I have ever had the misfortune to meet.” He raked his hand through his hair and muttered something under his breath before saying, “Can't you see I'm trying to protect you?”
Caroline felt something rather warm tickling within her, and tears formed in her eyes. “Yes,” she said, “but can't you see I'm trying to do the same?”
“Don't.” His word was cold, clipped, and hard, so hard that Caroline actually took a step back.
“Why are you being so cruel?” she whispered.
“The last time a woman thought to protect me…”
His voice faded away, but Caroline needed no words to understand the stark grief etched on his face. “Blake,” she said softly, “I don't want to argue about this.”
“Then promise me something.”
She swallowed, knowing that he was going to ask something to which she couldn't agree.
“Don't put yourself in danger again. If something happened to you, I—I couldn't bear it, Caroline.”
She turned away. Her eyes were growing teary, and she didn't want him to see her emotional response to his plea. There was something in his voice that touched her heart, something about the way his lips moved for a moment before he spoke, as if he were searching in vain for the right words.
But then he said, “I can't let another woman die,” and she knew this wasn't about her. It was about him, and the overwhelming guilt he felt over the death of his fiancée. She didn't know all of the details surrounding Marabelle's demise, but James had said enough for her to know that Blake still blamed himself for her death.
Caroline choked down a sob. How could she compete with a dead woman?
Without looking at him, she stumbled toward the door. “I'm going upstairs. If you have anything more to say to me you can say it in the morning.”
But before she could wrap her hand around the doorknob she heard him say, “Wait.”
Just one word and she was helpless to resist. Slowly, she turned around.
Blake stared at her, unable to take his eyes from her face. He wanted to say something; a thousand words crashed through his mind, but he couldn't think of a single sentence. And then, without realizing what he was doing, he took a step toward her, and then another, and then another, and then she was in his arms.
“Don't scare me again,” he murmured into her hair.
She didn't reply, but he felt her body growing warm and softening against him. Then he heard her sigh. It was a soft sound, barely audible, but it was sweet and it told him she wanted him. Maybe not the way he wanted her—hell, he doubted that was possible; he couldn't remember ever wanting a woman with this white-hot brand of need. But still, she wanted him. He was sure of it.
His lips found hers and he devoured her with all the fear and desire he'd been feeling all evening. She tasted like his every dream and felt like pure heaven.
And Blake knew he was damned.
He could never have her, never love her in the ways she deserved to be loved, but he was too selfish to let her go. Just for this moment he could—and would—pretend that he was hers, and she was his, and that his heart was whole.
They tumbled onto the sofa, Caroline landing softly on top of him, and he wasted no time in exchanging positions with her. He wanted to feel her squirming beneath him, writhing with the same force of desire that was consuming him. He wanted to watch her eyes as they darkened and smoldered with need.
His hands stole under the hem of her skirt, daringly squeezing her supple calf before sliding up to her soft thigh. She moaned beneath him, a delectable sound that might have been his name, or it might have just been a moan, but Blake didn't care. All he wanted was her.
All of her.
“God help me, Caroline,” he said, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice. “I need you. To-night. Right now. I need you.”
His hand went to the fastening of his breeches, moving frantically to free himself. He had to sit up to get them undone, though, and that was just enough time for her to look at him, to really look at him. And in that split second her haze of passion cleared and she lurched up off the sofa.
“No,” she gasped. “Not like this. Not without—No.”
Blake just watched her go, hating himself for coming at her like such an animal. But she surprised him by pausing at the door.
“Go,” he said hoarsely. If she didn't leave the room that instant, he knew he would go after her, and then there would be no escape.
“Will you be all right?”
He stared at her in shock. He had very nearly dishonored her. He would have taken her virginity without a backward glance. “Why are you asking?”
“Will you be all right?”
She wasn't going to leave without a response, so he nodded.
“Good. I'll see you tomorrow.”
And then she was gone.
Chapter 13
dith-er (noun). A state of tremulous excitement or apprehension; also, vacillation; a state of confusion.
Just a word from him sets me in a dither, and I vow I do not like it one bit.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
It was Caroline's fiercest desire to avoid Blake for the next fifteen years, but as luck would have it, she quite literally bumped into him the following morning. Unfortunately for the sake of her dignity, this “bump” involved her spilling about a half-dozen rather thick books onto the floor, several of which hit Blake's legs and feet on the way down.
He howled in pain, and she wanted nothing more than to howl in embarrassment, but instead she just mumbled her apologies and dropped to the carpet so that she could gather her books. At least that way he wouldn't see the bright blush that had stained her cheeks the moment she'd collided with him.
“I thought you were limiting your redecorating endeavors to the library,” he said. “What the devil are you doing with those books out here in the hall?”
She looked straight up into his clear gray eyes. Drat. If she had to see him this morning, why did she have to be on her hands and knees? “I'm not redecorating,” she said in her haughtiest voice, “I'm bringing these books back to my room to read.”
“Six of them?” he asked doubtfully.
“I'm quite literate.”
“I never doubted that.”
She pursed her lips, wanting to say that she was electing to read so that she might remain in her chamber and never have to see him again, but she had a feeling that would lead to a long, drawn-out argument, which was the last thing she wanted. “Was there anything else you desired, Mr. Ravenscroft?”
Then she blushed, really blushed. He'd made it quite clear the night before what he desired.
He waved his hand expansively—a motion she found annoyingly condescending. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. If you want to read, be my guest. Read the whole bloody library if it suits you. If nothing else, it will keep you out of trouble.”
She bit back another retort, but it was growing difficult to maintain such a circumspect mouth. Hugging her books to her chest, she asked, “Has the marquis risen yet this morning?”
Blake's expression darkened before he said, “He's gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone.” And then, as if she couldn't grasp the meaning of the word, he added, “Quite gone.”
“But where would he go?”
“I imagine he would go just about anywhere that would remove him from our company. But as it happens, he went to London.”
Her lips parted in shock. “But that leaves us alone.”
“Quite alone,” he agreed, holding out a sheet of paper. “Would you like to read his note?”
She nodded, took the note into her hands, and read:
Ravenscroft—
I have gone to London for the purpose of alerting Moreton to our plans. I have brought with me the copy of Prewitt's file. I realize this leaves you alone with Caroline, but truly, that is no more improper than her residing at Seacrest Manor with the both of us.
Besides which, the two of you were driving me mad.
—Riverdale
Caroline looked up at him with a wary expression. “You can't like this situation.”
Blake pondered her statement. No, he didn't “like” this situation. He didn't “like” having her under his roof, just an arm's reach away. He didn't “like” knowing that the object of his desire was his for the taking. James hadn't been much of a chaperone—certainly no one who could have salvaged her reputation should word of their uncommon living arrangements get out—but he'd at least created a buffer between Blake and Caroline. All that was now standing between him and the end of this damned frustration and lust was his own conscience.
And his body was starting to get rather frustrated with his conscience.
He knew that should he make a concerted effort to seduce Caroline, she would be helpless to stop him. The little innocent had never even been kissed; she'd never know what hit her if Blake used all the sensual weapons in his arsenal.
Of course one couldn't discount the presence of Perriwick and Mrs. Mickle. The pair of servants had taken to Caroline like clotted cream to scones, and Blake had no doubt that they would guard her virtue with their very lives.
He looked back at Caroline, who also appeared lost in her thoughts. Then suddenly her chin lifted and she said, “We were acting rather juvenile, weren't we?”
Before Blake even had a chance to nod, she added, “Of course, it was nothing that should require the marquis to feel the need to put a hundred miles between us, or however long it is to London. I say, how far is it to London?”
He stared at her in amazement. She had the most remarkable talent of making the most serious topics rather mundane. “Actually, a hundred miles is about right,” he answered.
“Is it? I've never been to London. I've been shuttled about between Kent and Hampshire, with a brief spell in Gloucestershire, but never London.”
“Caroline, what are you talking about?”
“I am trying to be polite,” she replied, using much the same condescending tone he had. “You, however, are making it extremely difficult.”
He let out a frustrated sigh. “Caroline, we are going to be living in the same house together for the next five weeks.”
“I am well aware of that, Mr. Ravenscroft.”
“We are going to have to make the best of a rather uncomfortable situation.”
“I see no reason why it should be uncomfortable.”
Blake disagreed. In fact his body was disagreeing rather strongly that very second. He was quite uncomfortable, and he could only give thanks to the current fashions for hiding it from her so well. But he wasn't about to go into all that, so he just flayed her with his most supercilious stare and said, “Don't you?”
“Not at all,” she replied, clearly unintimidated. “There is no reason why we should be uncomfortable if we simply take pains to avoid one another's company.”
“You really think we can avoid one another for three weeks?”
“Is that how long the marquis plans to be gone?”
“From the tone of his letter, I'd venture to guess that he plans to stay away as long as possible.”
“Well, I suppose we can do it. It's a big enough house.”
Blake closed his eyes. The entire county of Dorset wasn't big enough.
“Blake? Blake? Are you feeling quite all right? You look a bit flushed.”
“I'm fine,” he said.
“It's really quite remarkable how well you can enunciate even when you talk through your teeth. But still, you don't look at all the thing. Perhaps I ought to put you to bed.”
The room suddenly felt stiflingly hot, and Blake blurted out, “That is a very bad idea, Caroline.”
“I know, I know. Men make the worst patients. Can you imagine if you had to deliver babies? The human race should never have made it so far.”
He turned on his heel. “I'm going to my room.”
“Oh, good. You should. You'll feel much better, I'm sure, if you get some rest.”
Blake didn't answer her, just strode toward the stairs. When he reached the first step, however, he realized that she was still right behind him. “What are you doing here?” he snapped.
“I'm following you to your room.”
“Are you doing this for any particular reason?”
“I'm seeing to your welfare.”
“See to it elsewhere.”
“That,” she said firmly, “is quite impossible.”
“Caroline,” he ground out, thinking his jaw was going to snap in two at any moment, “you are trying my nerves. Severely.”
“Of course I am. Anyone would in your condition. You are clearly suffering from some sort of illness.”
He stomped
up two steps. “I am not ill.”
She stomped up one step. “Of course you are. You could have a fever, or perhaps a putrid throat.”
He whirled around. “I repeat: I am not ill.”
“Don't make me repeat my statement as well. We're starting to sound rather childish. And if you don't allow me to tend to you, you'll only grow sicker.”
Blake felt a pressure rising within him—something he was quite powerless to contain. “I am not ill.”
She let out a frustrated sigh. “Blake, I—”
He grabbed her under her arms and hauled her up until they were nose to nose, her feet dangling helplessly in the air. “I am not ill, Caroline,” he said, his words clipped and even. “I don't have a fever, I don't have a putrid throat, and I damned well don't need you to take care of me. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “Could you possibly put me down?”
“Good.” He set her down on the floor with surprising gentleness, then turned and marched back up the stairs.
Caroline, however, was right behind him.
“I thought you wanted to avoid me,” he snapped, whirling around to face her once he reached the landing.
“I did. I mean, I do. But you're ill, and—”
“I'm not ill!” he thundered.
She didn't say anything, and it was quite clear she didn't believe him.
He planted his hands on his hips and leaned forward until their noses were scant inches apart. “I will say this slowly so that you will understand me. I am going to my room now. Don't follow.”
She didn't listen.
“My God, woman!” he burst out, not two seconds later when she collided with him rounding the corner, “what does it take to get a command through your skull? You are like the plague, you—Oh, Christ, now what is the matter?”
Caroline's face, which had been so militant and determined in her efforts to nurse him, had positively crumpled. “It's nothing,” she said with a sniffle.
“Obviously it's something.”
Her shoulders rose and fell in a self-deprecating shrug. “Percy said the same thing to me. He's a fool, and I know that, but it still hurt. It was just that I thought…”