by Julia Quinn
Blake felt like the worst sort of brute. “What did you think, Caroline?” he asked gently.
She shook her head and started to walk away.
He watched her for just a moment, tempted to let her go. After all, she'd been a thorn in his side—not to mention other parts of his anatomy—all morning. The only way he was going to get any peace was to keep her out of his sight.
But her lower lip had quivered, and her eyes had looked a little wet, and—
“Damn,” he muttered. “Caroline, come back here.”
She didn't listen, so he strode down the hall, catching up with her just as she was heading down the stairs. With quick steps he positioned himself between her and the staircase. “Stop, Caroline. Now.”
He heard her sniffle, and then she turned around. “What is it, Blake? I really should go. I'm sure you can take care of yourself. You said so, and you certainly don't need me to—”
“Why do you suddenly look as if you're going to cry?”
She swallowed. “I'm not going to cry.”
He crossed his arms and gave her a look that said he didn't believe her for one second.
“I said it was nothing,” she mumbled.
“I'm not going to let you go down these stairs until you tell me what is wrong.”
“Fine. Then I'll go up to my room.” She turned around and took one step away, but he caught a handful of the fabric of her skirt and pulled her back to him. “I suppose that now you're going to say you're not going to let me go until I tell you,” she growled.
“You're growing perceptive in your old age.”
She crossed her arms mutinously. “Oh, for goodness sake. You're being quite ridiculous.”
“I told you once that you are my responsibility, Caroline. And I don't take my responsibilities lightly.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that if you're crying, I want to put a stop to it.”
“I'm not crying,” she muttered.
“You were about to.”
“Oh!” she burst out, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “Has anyone ever told you that you're as stubborn as…as…”
“As you?” he said helpfully.
Her lips clamped into a firm and slightly twisted line as she glared daggers at him.
“Spit it out, Caroline. I'm not letting you pass until you do.”
“Fine! Do you want to know why I was upset? Fine. I'll tell you.” She swallowed, summoning courage she didn't feel. “Did you happen to notice that you compared me to the plague?”
“Oh, for the love of—” He bit his lip, presumably to keep himself from cursing in her presence.
Not, Caroline thought caustically, that that had ever stopped him before.
“You must know,” he said, “that I did not mean that literally.”
“It still hurt my feelings.”
He stared at her intently. “I will allow that that wasn't the nicest comment I have ever made, and I do apologize for it, but I know you well enough to know that that alone wouldn't make you cry.”
“I wasn't crying,” she said, quite automatically.
“Almost cry,” he corrected, “and I would like you to tell me the full story.”
“Oh very well. Percy used to call me pestilence and plague all the time. It was his very favorite insult.”
“You mentioned that. And I will take that as yet another sign that I spoke stupidly.”
She swallowed and looked away. “I never put any stock into his words. It was Percy, after all, and he is a dozen different kinds of fool. But then you said it, and—”
Blake closed his eyes for a long second, knowing what was coming next and dreading it.
A slightly choked sound emerged from Caroline's throat before she said, “And then I thought it might possibly be true.”
“Caroline, I—”
“Because you're not a fool, and I know that even better than I knew Percy was one.”
“Caroline,” he said firmly, “I am a fool. A bloody, stupid fool for referring to you with anything but the highest of praise.”
“You needn't lie to make me feel better.”
He scowled at her. Or rather, at the top of her head, since she was looking at her feet. “I told you I never lie.”
She looked up suspiciously. “You told me you rarely lie.”
“I lie when the security of Great Britain is at stake, not your feelings.”
“I'm not certain if that is an insult or not.”
“It is definitely not an insult, Caroline. And why would you think I was lying?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “You were less than cordial to me last evening.”
“Last evening I bloody well wanted to strangle you,” he admitted. “You put your life in danger for no good reason.”
“I thought saving your life was a rather good reason myself,” she shot back.
“I don't want to argue about that right now. Do you accept my apology?”
“For what?”
He raised a brow. “Is that meant to imply that I have more than one transgression for which I must apologize?”
“Mr. Ravenscroft, I cannot count high enough…”
He grinned. “Now I know you've forgiven me, if you're making jokes.”
This time she raised a brow, and he noted that she managed to look every bit as arrogant as he did. She said, “And what makes you think that was a joke?” But then she laughed, which quite broke the effect.
“I am forgiven?”
She nodded. “Percy never apologized.”
“Percy is clearly an idiot.”
She smiled then—a small, wistful smile that very nearly melted his heart. “Caroline,” he said, barely recognizing his voice.
“Yes?”
“Oh, hell.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against hers in the most feathery light of kisses. It wasn't that he wanted to kiss her. He needed to kiss her. He needed it the way he needed air, and water, and the afternoon sunshine on his face. The kiss was almost spiritual; his entire body trembled just from the barest touch of their lips.
“Oh, Blake,” she sighed, sounding as bewildered as he felt.
“Caroline,” he murmured, trailing his lips along the elegant line of her neck. “I don't know why…I don't understand it, but—”
“I don't care,” she said, sounding quite determined for one whose breathing had gone way past erratic. She threw her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with artless abandon.
The warm press of her body against his was more than Blake could bear, and he swept her into his arms and carried her through the upstairs hall to his room. He kicked the door shut, and they tumbled onto the bed, his body covering hers with a possessiveness he'd never dreamed he could feel again.
“I want you,” he murmured. “I want you now, in every way.” Her soft heat beckoned him, and his fingers flew along the buttons of her frock, slipping them through their buttonholes with ease and haste.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispered.
But she just shook her head. “I don't know. I don't know what I want.”
“Yes,” he said, pushing her dress down to bare one silky shoulder, “you do.”
Instantly, her eyes flew to his face. “You know I've never—”
He put a gentle finger to her lips. “I know. But it doesn't matter. You still know what feels right.”
“Blake, I—”
“Hush.” He closed her lips with a searing kiss, then opened them again with a hot flick of his tongue. “For example,” he said against her mouth, “do you want more of this?”
She didn't move for a moment, and then he felt her lips move up and down as she nodded.
“Then you shall have it.” He kissed her fiercely, savoring the subtle minty taste of her.
She moaned beneath him, and tentatively placed her hand on his cheek. “Do you like that?” she asked shyly.
He growled as he tore off his cravat. “You may touch me anywhere. You may kiss me
anywhere. I burn just for the sight of you. Can you imagine what your touch does?”
With sweet hesitation she slid down and kissed his smooth-shaven jaw. Then she moved to his ear, then his neck, and Blake thought he would surely die in her arms if his passion remained unfulfilled. He pushed her dress even lower, revealing one small but, in his opinion, perfectly shaped breast.
He bent his head to her and took the nipple in his mouth, the rosy bud tightening between his lips. She was moaning beneath him, calling out his name, and he knew she wanted him.
And the knowledge thrilled him.
“Oh Blake oh Blake oh Blake,” she groaned. “Can you do that?”
“I assure you I can,” he said with a low chuckle.
She gasped as he sucked a touch harder. “No, but is it allowed?”
His chuckle turned into a throaty laugh. “Anything is allowed, my sweet.”
“Yes, but I—ooooooohhhhhh.”
Blake grinned with a very masculine smugness as her words lost their coherence. “And now,” he said with a wicked leer, “I can do it to the other one.”
His hands went to work pushing her dress off her other shoulder, but just before he revealed his prize, he heard the most awful sound.
Perriwick.
“Sir? Sir? Sir!!!” This, accompanied by the most annoyingly persistent knocking.
“Blake!” Caroline gasped.
“Shhh.” He clamped his hand over her mouth. “He'll go away.”
“Mr. Ravenscroft! It's most urgent!”
“I don't think he's going to go away,” she whispered, her words getting muffled under his palm.
“Perriwick!” Blake bellowed. “I'm busy. Go away. Now!”
“Yes, I thought as much,” the butler said through the door. “It's what I most feared.”
“He knows I'm here,” Caroline hissed. Then, quite suddenly, she turned red as a raspberry. “Oh, dear Lord, he knows I'm here. What have I done?”
Blake cursed under his breath. Caroline had clearly just regained her senses and remembered that no lady of her consequence did the sort of things she'd been doing. And, damn it, that made him remember as well, and he was quite unable to take advantage of her while his conscience was in full working order.
“I can't let Perriwick see me,” she said frantically.
“He's just the butler,” Blake replied, knowing that wasn't the point but a little too frustrated to care.
“He's my friend. And his opinion of me matters.”
“To whom?”
“To me, you nodcock.” She was trying to right her appearance with such haste that her fingers kept slipping over the buttons of her dress.
“Here,” Blake said, giving her a shove. “Into the washing room.”
Caroline dashed into the smaller chamber with alacrity, grabbing her slippers at the very last minute. As soon as the door clicked behind her, she heard Blake yank open the door to his room and say, rather nastily, “What do you want, Perriwick?”
“If I may be so bold, sir—”
“Perriwick.” Blake's voice was laced with heavy warning. Caroline feared for the butler's safety if he didn't get to the point with all possible haste. At this rate, Blake was likely to boot him right out the window.
“Right, sir. It's Miss Trent. I can't find her anywhere.”
“I wasn't aware that Miss Trent was required to apprise you of her whereabouts at every given moment.”
“No, of course not, Mr. Ravenscroft, but I found this at the top of the stairs, and—”
Caroline instinctively leaned closer to the door, wondering what “this” was.
“I'm sure she just dropped it,” Blake said. “Ribbons fall from ladies' hair all the time.”
Her hand flew up to her head. When had she lost her ribbon? Had Blake run his hands through her hair when he was kissing her in the hall?
“I realize that,” Perriwick replied, “but I am worried nonetheless. If I knew where she was, I am certain I could allay my fears.”
“As it happens,” came Blake's voice, “I know exactly where Miss Trent is.”
Caroline gasped. Surely he wouldn't give her away.
Blake said, “She decided to take advantage of the fine weather and has gone for a stroll in the countryside.”
“But I thought you said her presence here at Sea-crest Manor was a secret.”
“It is, but there is no reason she can't go outside as long as she doesn't wander too far from the grounds. There are very few conveyances traveling this road. No one is likely to see her.”
“I see. I shall keep an eye out for her, then. Perhaps she would like something to eat when she returns.”
“I'm sure she would like that above all else.”
Caroline touched her stomach. She was a little hungry. And to be completely truthful, the thought of a walk along the beach sounded quite nice. Just the sort of thing to clear her head, which the Lord certainly knew needed clearing.
She took a step away from the door, and Blake's and Perriwick's voices faded. Then she noticed another door on the opposite side of the washing room. She tested the doorknob gingerly, and was pleasantly surprised to note that it let her out in the side stairwell—the one usually used by servants. She looked over her shoulder, toward Blake, even though she couldn't see him.
He'd said she could go for a walk, even if it had been part of an elaborate fabrication designed to fool poor Perriwick. Caroline couldn't see any reason not to go ahead and do just that.
Within a few seconds she had dashed down the stairs and was outside. A minute later she was out of sight of the house and striding along the edge of the cliff that overlooked the blue-gray English Channel. The sea air was invigorating, but not nearly as much as the knowledge that Blake was going to be completely confused when he peered into the washing room and found her missing.
Bother the man, anyway. He could use some confusion in his life.
Chapter 14
nic-tate (verb). To wink.
I have found that nervous situations often cause me to nictate or stutter.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
An hour later Caroline was feeling quite refreshed—at least in the physical sense. The crisp salty air held remarkable restorative properties for the lungs. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite as effective with the heart and the head.
Did she love Blake Ravenscroft? She certainly hoped so. She'd like to think that she wouldn't have behaved in such a wanton manner with a man for whom she didn't feel a deep and abiding affection.
She smiled wryly. What she ought to be considering was whether Blake cared for her. She thought he did, at least a little bit. His concern for her welfare the night before had been obvious, and when he kissed her…well, she didn't know very much about kissing, but she could sense a hunger in him, and she instinctively knew that that hunger was reserved solely for her.
And she could make him laugh. That had to count for something.
Then, just as she was beginning to rationalize her entire situation, she heard a tremendous crash, followed by the sound of splintering wood, followed by some decidedly feminine shrieking.
Caroline's eyebrows shot up. What had happened? She wanted to investigate, but she wasn't supposed to make her presence here in Bournemouth known. It wasn't likely that one of Oliver's friends would be traveling this little-used road, but if she were recognized it would be nothing short of disaster. Still, someone might be in trouble…
Curiosity won out over prudence, and she trotted toward the sound of the crash, slowing her pace as she drew close just in case she changed her mind and wanted to remain hidden.
Concealing herself behind a tree, she peered out at the road. A splendid carriage lay drunkenly in the dirt, one wheel completely splintered. Three men and two ladies were milling about. No one seemed injured, so Caroline decided to remain behind the tree until she could assess the situation.
The scenario quickly became a fascinating puzzle. Who were thes
e people and what had happened? Caroline quickly figured out who was in charge—it was the better dressed of the two ladies. She was quite lovely, with black curls that spilled out from under her bonnet, and was giving orders in a manner that revealed that she had been dealing with servants her entire life. Caroline judged her age to be about thirty, perhaps a bit older.
The other lady was probably her maid, and the gentlemen—Caroline guessed that one was the driver and two were outriders. All three men were dressed in matching dark blue livery. Whoever these people were, they came from an extremely wealthy household.
After a minute of discussion, the lady in charge sent the driver and one of the outriders off to the north, presumably to fetch some help. Then she looked at the trunks which had fallen off the carriage and said, “We might as well use them as seats,” and the three remaining travelers plopped down to wait.
After about a minute of sitting around and doing nothing, the lady turned to her maid and said, “I don't suppose my embroidery is packed anywhere accessible?”
The maid shook her head. “It's in the middle of the largest trunk, my lady.”
“Ah, that would be the one that is miraculously still fastened to the top of the carriage.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The lady let out a long breath. “I suppose we ought to be thankful that it isn't overly hot.”
“Or raining,” the outrider put in.
“Or snowing,” said the maid.
The lady speared her with an annoyed glance. “Really, Sally, that's hardly likely at this time of year.”
The maid shrugged. “Stranger things have happened. After all, who would have thought we'd have lost a wheel the way we did. And this being the most expensive carriage money can buy.”
Caroline smiled and edged away. Clearly these people were unhurt, and the rest of their traveling party would be back soon with help. Better to keep her presence a secret. The fewer people who knew she was here in Bournemouth the better. After all, what if this lady was a friend of Oliver's? It wasn't likely, of course. The lady seemed to have a sense of humor and a modicum of taste, which would immediately eliminate Oliver Prewitt from her circle of friends. Still, one couldn't be too careful.