To Catch an Heiress

by Julia Quinn

  She pursed her lips and suppressed a sigh, not wanting to show any signs of weakness. Oliver shouldn't have learned of her connection to Blake until after his arrest, but there was nothing to be done about it now. “I asked you once to leave,” she said, trying to be patient. “Don't make me repeat myself.”

  “I'm not going anywhere until I'm good and ready. You owe me, girl.”

  “I owe you nothing except a slap in the face. Now, leave.”

  He closed the remaining distance between them and grabbed her arm in a painful grasp. “I want what's mine.”

  She gaped at him while she tried to free herself from his grip. “What are you talking about?”

  “You're going to sign half your fortune to me. As payment for my tender care in raising you to womanhood.”

  She laughed in his face.

  “You little whore,” he hissed. And then before she had any time to react, he picked up his free hand and smacked her across the face.

  She jerked backward, and would have probably fallen to the ground if he weren't holding her arm so tightly. She said nothing; she didn't trust herself to speak. And her cheek stung. Oliver had been wearing a ring, and she feared she was now bleeding.

  “Did you trick him into marriage?” he taunted. “Did you sleep with him?”

  Fury gave her the strength to wrench her arm away, and she stumbled against a chair. “Get out of my house.”

  “Not until you sign this.”

  “I couldn't even if I wanted to,” she said with a self-satisfied smirk. “When I married Mr. Ravenscroft, my fortune became his. You know the laws of England as well as I do.”

  Oliver started to shake with fury, and Caroline grew bold. “You're welcome to ask my husband for the money, but I warn you, he's the devil's own temper, and”—she let her eyes travel up and down Oliver's thin frame in an insulting manner—“he's quite larger than you.”

  Oliver seethed at her implication. “You will pay for what you've done to me.” He advanced upon her again, but before his arm descended to hit her, they heard a roar from the doorway.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  Caroline looked over and breathed a sigh of relief. Blake.

  Oliver appeared not to know what to say, and he simply froze, his arm still raised to strike her.

  “Were you planning to hit my wife?” Blake's voice was low and deadly. He sounded calm, too calm.

  Oliver said nothing.

  Blake's gaze zeroed in on the welt on Caroline's cheek. “Did you hit her already, Prewitt? Caroline, did he strike you?”

  She nodded, mesmerized by the barely leashed fury in him.

  “I see,” Blake said mildly, pulling off his gloves as he walked into the room. He handed them to Caroline, who took them wordlessly.

  Blake turned back to Oliver. “That, I'm afraid, was a mistake.”

  Oliver's eyes bugged out. It was clear he was terrified. “I beg your pardon?”

  Blake shrugged. “I really hate to have to touch you, but…”

  WHAM! Blake's fist connected with Oliver's eye socket. The older man went tumbling to the ground.

  Caroline's mouth fell open. Her head swung to Blake, down to Oliver, and back to Blake. “You looked so calm.”

  Her husband just stared at her. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Did he—No, well, yes, just a little bit.” Her hand went to her cheek.

  THUNK. Blake kicked Oliver in the ribs. He looked back at her. “That's for hurting my wife.”

  She swallowed. “It was really more the shock than anything else, Blake. Maybe you shouldn't—”

  THWAK. Blake kicked Oliver in the hip. “That,” he spat, “is for shocking her.”

  Caroline clapped her hand over her mouth to hold in nervous laughter.

  “Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

  She shook her head, afraid that if she opened her mouth one more time he would kill Oliver. Not that the world wouldn't be a finer place for it, but she had no wish for Blake to go to the gallows.

  Blake cocked his head slightly to the side as he looked at her a little more closely. “You're bleeding,” he whispered.

  She lifted her hand from her cheek and looked at it. There was blood on her fingers. Not much, but enough to make her instinctively press her hand back up against the wound.

  Blake pulled out a handkerchief. She reached out to take it, but he dodged her hand and instead dabbed the snowy white linen to her cheek murmuring, “Let me.”

  Caroline had never before had anyone to tend to her wounds, minor or otherwise, and she found his touch oddly soothing.

  “I should get some water to clean this off,” he said gruffly.

  “I'm sure it will be fine. It's a shallow cut.”

  He nodded. “For a second I thought he'd scarred you. I would have killed him for that.”

  From the floor, Oliver emitted a groan.

  Blake stared at Caroline. “If you ask me to, I will kill him.”

  “Oh, no, Blake. No. Not like this.”

  “What the hell do you mean, not like this?” Oliver snapped.

  Caroline looked down. Obviously, he'd regained consciousness. Or perhaps he'd never lost it. She said, “I wouldn't mind, however, if you booted him out of the house.”

  Blake nodded. “Gladly.” He picked Oliver up by his collar and the seat of his pants and strode out into the hall. Caroline scurried after him, wincing when Oliver bellowed, “I will summon the magistrate! See if I don't! You'll pay for this!”

  “I am the magistrate,” Blake bit out. “And if you trespass on my land again, I'll arrest you myself.” With that, he tossed him out onto the front steps and slammed the door.

  He turned around and regarded his wife, who was standing in the hall, staring at him openmouthed. There was still a bit of blood on her cheek, and some on the tips of her fingers. His heart clenched. He knew she hadn't suffered a serious injury, but somehow that didn't matter. Prewitt had hurt her and he hadn't been there to prevent it.

  “I'm so sorry,” he said, his voice somewhere between a whisper and a murmur.

  She blinked. “But why?”

  “I should have been here. I should never have let you see him alone.”

  “But you didn't even know he was here.”

  “That's not the point. You are my wife. I swore to protect you.”

  “Blake,” she said gently, “you can't save the entire world.”

  He stepped toward her, knowing his heart was in his eyes, but somehow not minding this weakness. “I know that. I only want to save you.”

  “Oh, Blake.”

  He gathered her into his arms and pulled her close, heedless of the blood on her cheek. “I won't fail you again,” he vowed.

  “You could never fail me.”

  He stiffened. “I failed Marabelle.”

  “You told me you'd finally accepted that her death wasn't your fault,” she said, wiggling free.

  “I did. I do.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It still haunts me. If you could have seen her…”

  “Oh, no,” she gasped. “I didn't know you were there. I didn't know you'd seen her be killed.”

  “I didn't,” he said flatly. “I was in bed with a putrid throat. But when she didn't return on schedule, Riverdale and I went out looking for her.”

  “I'm so sorry.”

  His voice grew hollow as the memories overtook him. “There was so much blood. She'd been shot four times.”

  Caroline thought about how much blood had gushed from Percy's flesh wound. She couldn't even imagine how awful it must be to see a loved one fatally injured. “I wish I knew what to say, Blake. I wish there was something to say.”

  He turned to face her abruptly. “Do you hate her?”

  “Marabelle?” she asked, startled.

  He nodded.

  “Of course not!”

  “You once told me you didn't want to compete with a dead woman.”

  “Well, I was jealous,” she
said sheepishly. “I don't hate her. That would be rather narrow-minded of me, don't you think?”

  He shook his head, as if to dismiss the subject. “I was just wondering. I wouldn't have been angry if you did.”

  “Marabelle is a part of who you are,” she said. “How can I hate her when she was so important in making you the man you are today?”

  He watched her face, his eyes searching for something. Caroline felt naked under his gaze. She said softly, “If it weren't for Marabelle you might not be the man I—” She swallowed, summoning her courage. “You might not be the man I love.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then took her hand. “That is the most generous emotion anyone has ever shown to me.”

  She stared at him through moist eyes, waiting, hoping, praying that he'd return the sentiment. He looked as if he wanted to say something important, but after a few moments he merely cleared his throat and said, “Were you working in the garden?”

  She nodded, swallowing down the lump of disappointment that had just formed in her throat.

  He offered her his arm. “I'll escort you back. I should like to see what you've done.”

  Patience, Caroline told herself. Remember, patience.

  But that was far easier said than done when one was courting a broken heart.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Blake was sitting in the dark in his study, staring out the window.

  She had said that she loved him. It was an awesome responsibility, that.

  Deep down, he had known that she cared for him deeply, but it had been so long since he'd even thought about the concept of love, he hadn't thought he'd recognize it when it arose.

  But it had, and he did, and he knew that Caroline's feelings were true.

  “Blake?”

  He looked up. Caroline was standing in the doorway, her hand raised to knock again on the doorjamb.

  “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

  “I'm just thinking.”

  “Oh.” He could tell she wanted to ask more. Instead, she smiled hesitantly and said, “Would you like me to light a candle?”

  He shook his head, slowly rising to his feet. He had the oddest desire to kiss her.

  It wasn't odd that he wanted to kiss her in and of itself. He always wanted to kiss her. What was odd was the intensity of the need. It was almost as if he positively, definitively knew that if he didn't kiss her that very minute, his life would be forever changed, and not for the better.

  He had to kiss her. That was all there was to it.

  He walked across the room as if in a trance. She said something to him, but he didn't hear the words. He just kept moving slowly, inexorably to her side.

  Caroline's lips parted slightly in surprise. Blake was acting most oddly. It was as if his mind were somewhere else, and yet he was staring at her with the strangest intensity.

  She whispered his name for what must have been the third time, but he made no response, and then he was right in front of her.

  “Blake?”

  He touched her cheek with a reverence that made her tremble.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” he murmured. “No.”

  “Then what—”

  Whatever she'd meant to say was lost as he crushed her to him, his mouth capturing hers with ferocious tenderness. She felt one of his hands sink into her hair as the other roamed the length of her back before settling on the curve of her hip.

  Then he moved to the small of her back, pulling her against his body until she could feel the force of his arousal. Her head lolled back as she moaned his name, and his lips moved to the line of her throat, kissing their way to the bodice of her gown.

  She let out a little squeal when his hand slipped from her hip to her buttocks and squeezed, and the sound must have jolted him out of whatever spell he was under, because he suddenly froze, shook his head a little, and stepped back.

  “I'm sorry,” he said, blinking. “I don't know what came over me.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You're sorry?” He kissed her until she could barely stand and then he stopped and said he was sorry?

  “It was the strangest thing,” he said, more to himself than to her.

  “I didn't think it was that strange,” she muttered.

  “I had to kiss you.”

  “That's all?” she blurted out.

  He smiled slowly. “Well, at first, yes, but now…”

  “Now what?” she demanded.

  “You're an impatient wench.”

  She stamped her foot. “Blake, if you don't—”

  “If I don't what?” he asked, his grin positively devilish.

  “Don't make me say it,” she muttered, turning a rather bright shade of red.

  “I think we'll save that for next week,” he murmured. “After all, you're still something of an innocent. But for now I think you'd better run.”

  “Run?”

  He nodded. “Fast.”

  “Why?”

  “You're about to find out.”

  She skidded toward the door. “What if I want to get caught?”

  “Oh, you definitely want to get caught,” he replied, advancing on her with the lithe grace of a born predator.

  “Then why should I run?” she asked, breathless.

  “It's really more fun that way.”

  “It is?”

  He nodded. “Trust me.”

  “Hmmph. Famous last words.” But even as she said that, she was already in the hall, walking backward toward the stairs with remarkable speed.

  He licked his lips.

  “Oh. Then I had better…I should…”

  He started moving faster.

  “Oh, dear.” She took off at a sprint, laughing all the way up the stairs.

  Blake caught up with her on the landing, heaved her over his shoulder, and carried her, unconvincing protests and all, to their bedroom.

  Then he kicked the door shut and proceeded to show her why getting caught was oftentimes even more fun than the chase.

  Chapter 22

  con-tu-ma-cious (adjective). Obstinately resisting authority; stubbornly perverse.

  There are times when one must act in a contumacious manner, even if one's husband is extensively displeased.

  —From the personal dictionary of Caroline Ravenscroft

  In a few short days, the honeymoon was over. It was time to capture Oliver.

  Never had Blake so resented his work for the War Office. He didn't want to hunt down criminals; he wanted to walk along the beach with his wife. He didn't want to dodge bullets, he wanted to laugh as he pretended to dodge Caroline's kisses.

  Most of all, he wanted to trade the prickly fear of discovery for the heady sensation of falling in love.

  It felt good to finally admit it to himself. He was falling in love with his wife.

  He felt as if he were going over a cliff, grinning as he watched the ground rushing to meet him. He smiled at the oddest times, laughed inappropriately, and found himself oddly desolate when he didn't know where she was. It was like being crowned king of the world, inventing a cure for cancer, and discovering one could fly—all in one day.

  He had never dreamed he could be this fascinated by another human being. He loved to watch the play of emotion on her face—the soft curve of her lips when she was amused, the scrunch of her brow when she was perplexed.

  He even liked to watch her when she slept, her soft brown hair spread like a fan on her pillow. Her chest rose and fell in the even rhythm of her breath, and she looked so gentle and at peace. He'd once asked her if her demons disappeared when she was asleep.

  Her answer had melted his heart.

  “I don't have demons any longer,” she'd replied.

  And Blake had realized that his demons were finally disappearing, as well. It was the laughter that was driving them out, he decided. Caroline had the most amazing ability to find humor in the most mundane of topics. He was also discovering that she prided her
self on being something of a mimic. What she lacked in talent, she made up for in enthusiasm, and Blake often found himself doubled over with laughter.

  She was getting ready for bed right then, humming to herself in the washing room, her washing room, she'd dubbed it, since she'd lived there for nearly a week. Already her feminine accouterments—not that she'd had any before Penelope had taken her shopping—were crowding his belongings, pushing his shaving kit to the side.

  And Blake loved it. He loved every intrusion she'd made upon his life, from the rearrangement of his furniture to the vague scent of her that wafted through the house, catching him off guard and making him ache with wanting her.

  He was already in bed that night, leaning against the pillows as he listened to her perform her ablutions. It was the thirtieth of July. Tomorrow he and James would capture Oliver Prewitt and his fellow traitors. They had planned the mission out to the last detail, but Blake was still uncomfortable. And nervous. Very, very nervous. He felt prepared for the following day's work, but there were still too many variables, too many things that could go wrong.

  And never before had Blake felt he had this much to lose.

  When Marabelle had been alive, they had been young and thought themselves immortal. Missions for the War Office had been great adventures. It had never occurred to them that their lives might lead to anywhere other than happily ever after.

  But then Marabelle had been killed and it no longer mattered if Blake thought himself immortal or not, for he had ceased caring about his own life. He hadn't been nervous before missions because he hadn't really cared about their outcomes. Oh, he wanted to see England's traitors brought to justice, but if for some reason he didn't live to see them hang…Well, it was no great loss to him.

  But now it was different. He cared. He wanted more than anything to make it through this mission and build his marriage with Caroline. He wanted to watch her puttering about in the rose garden, and he wanted to see her face every morning on the pillow next to his. He wanted to make love to her with wild abandon, and he wanted to touch her belly as it grew round and large with their children.

  He wanted everything life had to offer. Every last bit of wonder and joy. And he was terrified, because he knew how easily it could all be snatched away.