by Julia Quinn
“I was perfectly fine until you came along.”
Penelope said to the butler, “He's been acting rather strangely all afternoon.”
Perriwick nodded regally. “Perhaps we ought to leave him be. A bit of rest might be just the thing.”
“Very well.” Penelope followed the butler to the door. “We shall leave you alone. But if I find out you haven't taken a nap, I'm going to be very angry with you.”
“Yes, yes,” Blake said hurriedly, trying to usher them out of the room. “I promise I'll rest. Just don't disturb me. I'm a very light sleeper.”
Perriwick let out a loud snort that was definitely not in keeping with his usual dignified mien.
Blake shut the door behind them and leaned against the wall with a huge sigh of relief. “Good Christ,” he said to himself, “at this rate I'll be a doddering fool before my thirtieth birthday.”
“Hmmph,” came a voice from the washing room. “I'd say you're well on your way already.”
He looked up to see Caroline standing in the doorway, an annoyingly huge grin on her face. “What do you want?” he bit off.
“Oh, nothing,” she said innocently. “I just wanted to tell you that you were right.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
“Let's just say I've discovered the humor in our situation.”
He growled at her and took a menacing step forward.
But she appeared unintimidated. “I can't really remember the last time I laughed so hard,” she said, grabbing the tray of food.
“Caroline, do you value your neck?”
“Yes, I'm rather fond of it. Why?”
“Because if you don't shut up, I'm going to wring it.”
She darted back into the washing room. “Point taken.” Then she shut the door, leaving him fuming in his bedroom.
And if that weren't bad enough, the next sound he heard was a loud click.
The damned woman had locked him out. She'd taken all the food and locked him out.
“You'll pay for this!” he yelled at the door.
“Do be quiet,” came the muffled reply. “I'm eating.”
Chapter 16
ti-ti-vate (verb). To make small alterations or additions to one's toilet.
Stranded as I am in a washing room, at least I have time for titivation—I vow my hair has never looked so smart!
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
It occurred to Blake as he was eating supper later that night that he would very much like to kill Miss Caroline Trent. It also occurred to him that this was not a new emotion. She hadn't just turned his life upside down; she'd flipped it sideways, pulled it inside out, and, at certain unmentionable times, lit a fire under it.
Still, he thought generously, perhaps kill might be slightly too strong a word. He wasn't so proud that he couldn't admit that she'd grown on him just a bit. But he definitely wanted to muzzle her.
Yes, a muzzle would be ideal. Then she couldn't talk.
Or eat.
“I say, Blake,” Penelope said with an apprehensive look on her face, “is this soup?”
He nodded.
She looked at the nearly transparent broth in her bowl. “Truly?”
“It tastes like salty water,” he drawled, “but Mrs. Mickle assures me it's soup.”
Penelope downed a hesitant spoonful, then took a rather long sip of red wine. “I don't suppose you have any of that ham left over from your snack?”
“I can assure you that it would be most impossible for us to partake of that ham.”
If his sister found his wording a trifle odd, she didn't say so. Instead, she put down her spoon and asked, “Did Perriwick bring anything else? A crust of bread, perhaps.”
Blake shook his head.
“Do you always eat so…lightly in the evening?”
Again, he shook his head.
“Oh. So then this is a special occasion?”
He had no idea how to answer that, so he just took another spoonful of the atrocious soup. Surely there had to be some sort of nutritional value in it somewhere.
But then, much to his surprise, Penelope clapped her hand over her mouth, turned beet red, and said, “Oh, I'm so sorry!”
He set his spoon down slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Of course this is a special occasion. I had completely forgotten. I'm so sorry.”
“Penelope, what the devil are you talking about?”
“Marabelle.”
Blake felt an odd sort of clutching feeling in his chest. Why would Penelope bring up his dead fiancée now? “What about Marabelle?” he asked, his voice completely even.
She blinked. “Oh. Oh, then you don't remember. Never mind. Please forget I said anything.”
Blake watched his sister in disbelief as she attacked the bowl of soup as if it were manna from heaven. “For God's sake, Penelope, whatever it was you were thinking about, just say it.”
She bit her lip in indecision. “It's the eleventh of July, Blake.” Her voice was very soft and filled with pity.
He stared at her in one blessed moment of incomprehension until he remembered.
The eleventh of July.
The anniversary of Marabelle's death.
He stood so abruptly that his chair toppled over. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said, his voice clipped.
“Wait, Blake! Don't go!” She rose to her feet and hurried after him as he strode out of the room. “You shouldn't be alone right now.”
He stopped in his tracks but he didn't turn around to face her as he said, “You don't understand, Penelope. I will always be alone.”
Two hours later Blake was good and drunk. He knew it wouldn't make him feel any better, but he'd kept thinking that one more drink might make him feel less.
It didn't work, though.
How had he forgotten? Every year he'd marked her passing with a special token, something to honor her in death the way he had tried and failed to honor her in life. The first year it had been flowers on her grave. Banal, he knew, but his grief was still raw, and he was still young, and he hadn't known what else to do.
The following year he'd planted a tree in her honor at the place she'd been slain. It had somehow seemed fitting; as a young girl Marabelle had been able to climb a tree faster than any boy in the district.
Subsequent years had been marked with a donation to a home for foundlings, a gift of books to her old school, and an anonymous bank draft to her parents, who were always struggling to make ends meet.
But this year…nothing.
He stumbled down the path to the beach, using one arm for balance while the other clutched his bottle of whiskey. When he reached the end of the trail, he plopped inelegantly onto the ground. There was a grassy spot before the hard ground gave way to the delicate sand for which Bournemouth was famous. He sat there, staring out at the Channel, wondering what the hell he was meant to do with himself.
He'd come outside for fresh air and escape. He didn't want Penelope or her well-meaning questions intruding upon his grief. But the salty air did little to ease his guilt. All it did was remind him of Caroline. She'd come home that afternoon with the smell of the sea in her hair and the touch of the sun on her skin.
Caroline. He closed his eyes in anguish. He knew that Caroline was the reason he'd forgotten Marabelle.
He poured more whiskey down his throat, drinking straight from the bottle. It burned a ragged path to his stomach, but Blake welcomed the pain. It felt raw and undignified, and somehow that seemed appropriate. Tonight he didn't feel like much of a gentleman.
He lay back on the grass and gazed up at the sky. The moon was out, but it wasn't bright enough to diminish the light of the stars. They looked almost happy up there, twinkling as if they hadn't a care in the world. He almost felt as if they were mocking him.
He swore. He was growing fanciful. That, or maudlin. Or maybe it was just the drink. He sat up and took another swig.
The li
quor dulled his senses and muddled his mind, which was probably why he didn't hear footsteps until they were nearly on top of him. “Whosh there?” he slurred, awkwardly raising himself up onto his elbows. “Who is it?”
Caroline stepped forward, the starlight glinting off her light brown hair. “It's only me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I saw you from my window.” She smiled wryly. “Excuse me, your window.”
“You should go back up.”
“Probably.”
“I'm not fit company.”
“No,” she agreed, “you're quite drunk. It's not good to drink on an empty stomach.”
He let out a short burst of hollow laughter. “And whose fault is my empty stomach?”
“You do know how to hold a grudge, don't you?”
“Madam, I assure you I have an excruciatingly long memory.” He winced at his words. His memory had always served him well—until this night.
She frowned. “I brought you some food.”
He didn't say anything for a long moment, then said, in a very low voice, “Go back inside.”
“Why are you so upset?”
He didn't say anything, just wiped his mouth with his sleeve after taking another drink of whiskey.
“I've never seen you drunk before.”
“There are a lot of things you don't know about me.”
She took another step forward, her eyes daring him to look away. “I know more than you think I do.”
That got his attention. His eyes flared with momentary anger, then went blank as he said, “Pity for you, then.”
“Here, you should eat something.” She held out something wrapped in a cloth napkin. “It'll soak up the whiskey.”
“That's the last thing I want to do.”
She sat beside him. “This isn't like you, Blake.”
He turned on her, his gray eyes glowing fiercely. “Don't you tell me what is or isn't like me,” he hissed. “You have no right.”
“As your friend,” she said softly, “I have every right.”
“Today,” Blake announced with an off-balance flourish of his arm, “is the eleventh of July.”
Caroline didn't say anything; she didn't know what to say to such an obvious announcement.
“The eleventh of July,” he repeated. “It shall go down in infamy in the saga of Blake Ravenscroft as the day he…as the day I…”
She leaned forward, shocked and moved by the choking sound in his voice. “As what day, Blake?” she whispered.
“As the day I let a woman die.”
She blanched at the pain in his voice. “No. It wasn't your fault.”
“What the hell do you know about it?”
“James told me about Marabelle.”
“Bloody interfering bastard.”
“I'm glad he did. It tells me so much more about you.”
“Why the hell would you want to know more?” he asked caustically.
“Because I lo—” Caroline stopped, horrified by what she'd almost said. “Because I like you. Because you're my friend. I haven't had many in my life, so perhaps I recognize how special friendship is.”
“I can't be your friend,” he said, his voice unbearably harsh.
“Can't you?” She held her breath, waiting for his reply.
“You don't want me to be your friend.”
“Don't you think that's for me to decide?”
“For the love of God, woman, what does it take to get you to listen? For the last time, I cannot be your friend. I could never be your friend.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you.”
She forced herself not to pull away. He'd been so blunt, so bare with his need—it almost frightened her. “That's the whiskey talking,” she said hastily.
“Do you think so? You know very little about men, my sweet.”
“I know about you.”
He laughed. “Not half as much as I know about you, my dear Miss Trent.”
“Don't mock me,” she whispered.
“Ah, but I've been watching you. Shall I prove it? All the things I know, all the little things I've noticed. I could fill one of those books you're so fond of.”
“Blake, I think you should—”
But he cut her off with a finger to her lips. “I'll start here,” he whispered, “with your mouth.”
“My m—”
“Shhh. It's my turn.” His finger traced the delicate arch of her upper lip. “So full. So pink. You've never painted them, have you?”
She shook her head, but the motion brought on the sensual torture of his finger rubbing along her skin.
“No,” he murmured, “you wouldn't have to. I've never seen lips like yours before. Did I ever mention that they were the first thing I noticed about you?”
She sat utterly still, too nervous to shake her head again.
“Your lower lip is lovely, but this one”—he traced her upper lip again—“is exquisite. It begs to be kissed. When I thought you were Carlotta…even then I wanted to cover your lips with mine. God, how I hated myself for that.”
“But I'm not Carlotta,” she whispered.
“I know. It's worse this way. Because now I can almost justify wanting you. I can—”
“Blake?” Her voice was soft, but it was urgent, and she thought she'd die if he didn't complete his thought.
But he just shook his head. “I digress.” He moved his fingers to her eyes, skimming the tips over her eyelids as she closed them. “Here is another thing I know about you.”
She felt her lips part, and her breathing grew ragged.
“Your eyes—such heavenly lashes. Just a touch darker than your hair.” He moved his fingers to her temples. “But I think I like them open better than closed.”
Her eyes flew open.
“Ah, that's better. The most exquisite color in the world. Have you ever been out to sea?”
“Not since I was a very little girl.”
“Here by the coast the water is gray and murky, but once you get away from the taint of the land, it is clear and pure. Do you know what I'm talking about?”
“I—I think so.”
He shrugged rather suddenly and dropped his hand. “It still doesn't hold a candle to your eyes. I've heard the water is even more breathtaking in the tropics. Your eyes must be the exact color of the ocean as it skims along the equator.”
She smiled hesitantly. “I should like to see the equator.”
“My dear girl, don't you think you should at least try to see London first?”
“Now you're being cruel, and you don't really mean it.”
“Don't I?”
“No,” she said, reaching within herself to find the courage she needed to speak to him so plainly. “You're not angry with me. You're angry with yourself, and I'm convenient.”
His head tilted slightly in her direction. “You think you're very observant, don't you?”
“How am I supposed to answer that?”
“You're observant, but not, I think, enough to save yourself from me.” He leaned forward, his smile dangerous. “Do you know how much I want you?”
Her voice lost to her, she shook her head.
“I want you so much I lie awake every night, my body hard and aching with need.”
Her throat went dry.
“I want you so much the scent of you makes my skin tingle with desire.”
Her lips parted.
“I want you so much—” The night air filled with his angry laughter. “I want you so damned much I forgot about Marabelle.”
“Oh, Blake. I'm sorry.”
“Spare me your pity.”
She started to stand up. “I'll go. It's what you want, and you're clearly in no state for conversation.”
But he grabbed her and pulled her back down. “Didn't you hear me?”
“I heard every word,” she whispered.
“I don't want you to go.”
She said nothing.
“I want you.”
“Blake, don't.”
“Don't what? Don't kiss you?” He swooped down and kissed her hard on the mouth. “Too late.”
She stared at him, not certain if she should be scared or elated. She loved him; she was sure of that now. But he wasn't acting like himself.
“Don't touch you?” His hand snaked over her midriff and along her hip. “I'm far too gone for that.”
His lips found her jaw, then her neck, then nibbled on her ear. She tasted sweet and clean, and smelled vaguely like the lather he used to shave. He wondered what she'd been doing with herself up in his bathroom, then decided he didn't much care. There was something wildly satisfying about smelling his scent on her.
“Blake,” she said, her voice lacking conviction, “I'm not certain this is what you really want.”
“Oh, I'm certain,” he said with a masculine laugh. “I'm very certain.” He pressed his hips against her as he worked her hair free of its fastenings. “Can't you feel how certain I am?”
He moved his mouth to hers and devoured her, his tongue skimming first along the line of her teeth, then moving to the soft skin of her inner cheek.
“I want to touch you,” he said, his words a soft breath against her mouth. “Everywhere.”
Her dress was flimsy, with few buttons and bows, and it took mere seconds for him to push it over her head, leaving her clad only in a thin chemise. His body tightened yet again as he hooked his fingers under the thin straps that held up the soft slip of silk.
“Did I buy this for you?” he asked, his voice hoarse beyond recognition.
She nodded, gasping as one of his large hands closed over her breast. “When you got me the dresses. It was in one of the boxes you brought back from town.”
“Good,” he said, then pushed the strap over her shoulder. His lips found the elegantly stitched lace that edged her bodice, and he followed it as he pushed it down, stopping only when he reached the pinkened edge of her nipple.
She whispered his name as he kissed the dusky aureole, then nearly shouted it when he closed his mouth around her nipple and began to suck.
Caroline had never felt anything as wonderfully primitive as the sensations curling in her belly. Pleasure and need were unfolding within her, spreading from the very center of her being to every inch of her skin. She'd thought she'd felt desire when he'd kissed her that morning, but it was nothing compared to what was devouring her now.