by Julia Quinn
Dear Reader—
Every author dreads the question, “Where do you get your ideas?” because the truth is, most of the time we just don't know. All we can do is hope and pray that they keep coming.
But sometimes we do actually know where those precious ideas come from, and To Catch an Heiress is one of those cases. I was struggling with the manuscript, thinking that it had to be the worst thing I'd ever written. (But of course I think that about every book while I'm writing it!) Most troubling, I wasn't sure I really knew Caroline, my heroine, and if there is one thing I need, it's to know my characters inside and out.
And then, right when I was just about ready to tear my hair out, my father did something really vexing. He subscribed me to the “A Word a Day” listserv. As if I weren't busy enough trying to finish a troublesome manuscript, now I was getting unsolicited vocabulary lessons via email!
But then it all fell into place. I knew who Caroline was, and I knew how to make the reader know, too. Caroline would keep a sort of diary—a personal dictionary, really, in which she jotted down new words and then used them in context. And every new entry would provide the reader (and me!) with a little more insight into her character. Flip to the first page of any chapter in this book, and you'll see what I mean. From that moment on, the-manuscript-that-wouldn't-behave became the-book-that-wrote-itself. I hope you enjoy it.
With my warmest wishes,
For Mama Chiks, Sister Song, Freener, and Nosk from Bools
And also for Paul, even though it's a miracle I got this book finished at all since be kept stealing my computer to play DOOM.
Contents
Dear Reader
Chapter 1
Caroline Trent hadn’t meant to shoot Percival…
Chapter 2
Blake Ravenscroft wasn’t certain what he…
Chapter 3
Caroline coughed through the night.
Chapter 4
Blake left her alone for the rest of the day.
Chapter 5
“Oh dear,” Caroline croaked, forgetting…
Chapter 6
Caroline was so delighted about being allowed…
Chapter 7
By the end of the day, Caroline had the garden…
Chapter 8
Freshly cut flowers were strewn on the floor, a …
Chapter 9
Caroline's ankle was much improved the following…
Chapter 10
By mid-afternoon Caroline had come to two…
Chapter 11
One moment Caroline was crawling on all…
Chapter 12
Blake clamped his hand over Caroline's…
Chapter 13
It was Caroline's fiercest desire to avoid Blake…
Chapter 14
An hour later Caroline was feeling quite refreshed…
Chapter 15
Penelope smiled breezily at him and strode…
Chapter 16
It occurred to Blake as he was eating supper…
Chapter 17
Caroline awoke the following morning to a…
Chapter 18
Utter silence ensued, followed by a burst of…
Chapter 19
“You!” Penelope accused. “What are you…
Chapter 20
Caroline was sitting on the sandy portion of the…
Chapter 21
They were married one week later, much to the…
Chapter 22
In a few short days, the honeymoon was over.
Chapter 23
Caroline squinted at the horizon, but in the…
Selections from the Personal Dictionary of Caroline Ravenscroft
About the Author
Avon Books by Julia Quinn
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
con.tu.ber.nal (noun). One who occupies the same tent; a tent-fellow, comrade.
The thought of Percy Prewitt as my contubernal causes me to break out in hives.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
Hampshire, England
July 3, 1814
Caroline Trent hadn't meant to shoot Percival Prewitt, but she had, and now he was dead.
Or at least she thought he was dead. There was certainly enough blood. It was dripping from the walls, it was splattered on the floor, and the bedclothes were stained quite beyond redemption. Caroline didn't know very much about medicine, but she was fairly certain a body couldn't lose that much blood and still live.
She was in big trouble now.
“Damn,” she muttered. Although she was a gentlewoman, she hadn't always been raised in particularly gentle circumstances, and her language occasionally left a bit to be desired.
“You stupid man,” she said to the body on the floor. “Why did you have to lunge at me like that? Why couldn't you have left well enough alone? I told your father I wasn't going to marry you. I told him I wouldn't marry you if you were the last idiot in Britain.”
She nearly stamped her foot in frustration. Why was it her words never came out quite the way she intended them to? “What I meant to say was that you are an idiot,” she said to Percy, who, not surprisingly, didn't respond, “and that I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man in Britain, and—Oh, blast. What am I doing talking to you, anyway? You're quite dead.”
Caroline groaned. What the devil was she supposed to do now? Percy's father was due to return in just two short hours, and it didn't require an Oxford degree to deduce that Oliver Prewitt would not be pleased to find his son dead on the floor.
“Bother your father,” she ground out. “This is all his fault, anyway. If he hadn't been so obsessed with catching you an heiress …”
Oliver Prewitt was Caroline's guardian, or at least he would be for the next six weeks, until she reached her twenty-first birthday. She had been counting down the days until August 14, 1814, ever since August 14, 1813, when she had turned twenty. Just forty-two days to go. Forty-two days and she would finally have control of her life and her fortune. She didn't even want to think about how much of her inheritance the Prewitts had already run through.
She tossed her gun onto the bed, planted her hands on her hips, and stared down at Percy.
And then … his eyes opened.
“Aaaaaaack!” Caroline let out a loud scream, jumped a foot, and grabbed her gun.
“You b—” Percy started.
“Don't say it,” she warned. “I still have a gun.”
“You wouldn't use it,” he gasped, coughing and clutching at his bloody shoulder.
“I beg your pardon, but the evidence seems to indicate otherwise.”
Percy's thin lips clamped into a straight line. He swore viciously, and then lifted his furious gaze to Caroline. “I told my father I didn't want to marry you,” he hissed. “God! Can you imagine? Having to live with you for the rest of my life? I should go bloody insane. If you didn't kill me first, that is.”
“If you didn't want to marry me you shouldn't have tried to force yourself upon me.”
He shrugged, then howled when the movement sparked pain in his shoulder. He looked quite furious as he said, “You've quite a bit of money, but do you know, I don't think you're worth it.”
“Kindly tell that to your father,” Caroline snapped.
“He said he'd disinherit me if I didn't marry you.”
“And you couldn't stand up to him for once in your pathetic life?”
Percy growled at being called pathetic, but in his weakened condition he couldn't do much about the insult. “I could go to America,” he muttered. “Surely savages have to be a better option than you.”
Caroline ignored him. She and Percy had been at od
ds since she had come to live with the Prewitts a year and a half earlier. Percy was quite under his father's thumb, and the only time he showed any spirit was when Oliver quit the house. Unfortunately, his spirit was usually mean and small and, in Caroline's opinion, rather dull.
“I suppose I'm going to have to save you now,” she grumbled. “You're certainly not worth the gallows.”
“You're too kind.”
Caroline shook a pillow out of its case, wadded up the cloth—the highest quality linen, she noted, probably purchased with her money—and pressed it against Percy's wound. “We have to stop the bleeding,” she said.
“It appears to have slowed down,” Percy admitted.
“Did the bullet go straight through?”
“I don't know. Hurts like the devil, but I don't know if it's supposed to hurt more if it goes through or gets stuck in the muscle.”
“I imagine they're both quite painful,” Caroline said, lifting the wadded pillowcase and examining the wound. She turned him gently and looked at his back. “I think it went through. You've a hole in the back of your shoulder as well.”
“Trust you to injure me twice.”
“You lured me into your room under the pretense of needing a cup of tea for a head cold,” she snapped, “and then you tried to rape me! What did you expect?”
“Why the hell did you bring a gun?”
“I always carry a gun,” she replied. “I have since … well, never you mind.”
“I wouldn't have gone through with it,” he muttered.
“How was I to know that?”
“Well, you know I've never liked you.”
Caroline pressed her makeshift bandage against Percy's bloody shoulder with perhaps a touch more force than was necessary. “What I know,” she spat out, “is that you and your father have always quite liked my inheritance.”
“I think I dislike you more than I like your inheritance,” Percy grumbled. “You're too bossy by half, you're not even pretty, and you've the serpent's own tongue.”
Caroline clamped her mouth into a grim line. If she had a sharp way of speaking, it wasn't her fault. She'd learned quickly that her wits were her only defense against the parade of horrible guardians she'd been forced to endure since her father's passing when she was ten. First there had been George Liggett, her father's first cousin. He hadn't been such a bad sort, but he certainly didn't know what to do with a small girl. So he'd smiled at her once—just once, mind you—told her he was happy to meet her, and then tossed her into a country home with a nurse and governess. And then he proceeded to ignore her.
But George had died, and her guardianship had passed on to his first cousin, who was no relation of hers or her father's. Niles Wickham was a mean old miser who'd seen a ward as a good substitute for a serving girl, and he'd immediately given her a list of chores longer than her arm. Caroline had cooked, cleaned, ironed, polished, scrubbed, and swept. The only thing she hadn't done was sleep.
Niles, however, had choked on a chicken bone, turned quite purple, and died. The courts were at a bit of a loss as to what to do with Caroline, who at fifteen seemed too well-bred and wealthy to toss into an orphanage, so they passed her guardianship on to Archibald Prewitt, Niles's second cousin. Archibald had been a lewd man who'd found Caroline entirely too attractive for her comfort, and it was then that she began her habit of keeping a weapon on her person at all times. Archibald had had a weak heart, however, and so Caroline had only had to live with him for six months before she attended his funeral and was packed off to live with his younger brother Albert.
Albert drank too much and used his fists, which resulted in Caroline's learning how to run fast and hide well. Archibald may have tried to grope her on every occasion, but Albert was a mean drunk, and when he struck her, it hurt. She also became quite adept at smelling spirits from across a room. Albert never raised a hand against her when he was sober.
But, unfortunately, Albert was rarely sober, and in one of his drunken rages he kicked his horse so hard that his horse kicked him back. Right in the head. By then Caroline was quite used to moving about, so as soon as the surgeon pulled the sheet over Albert's face, she packed her bag and waited for the courts to decide where to send her next.
She soon found herself residing with Albert's younger brother Oliver and his son, the currently bleeding Percy. At first Oliver had seemed the best of the bunch, but Caroline quickly realized that Oliver cared for nothing so much as money. Once he learned that his ward came with a rather large portion, he decided that Caroline—and her money—would not escape his grasp. Percy was only a few years older than Caroline, so Oliver announced that they would marry. Neither of the prospective couple was pleased by this plan, and they said so, but Oliver didn't care. He needled Percy until Percy agreed, and then he set about convincing Caroline that she ought to become a Prewitt.
“Convincing” entailed screaming at her, slapping her about, starving her, locking her in her room, and finally ordering Percy to get her with child so that she'd have to marry him.
“I'd rather bring it up a bastard than a Prewitt,” Caroline muttered.
“What was that?” Percy asked.
“Nothing.”
“You're going to have to leave, you know,” he said, abruptly changing the subject.
“Believe me, that fact is quite clear.”
“Father told me that if I don't get you with child, he'll take care of it himself.”
Caroline very nearly threw up. “I beg your pardon?” she said, her voice uncharacteristically shaky. Even Percy was preferable to Oliver.
“I don't know where you can go, but you need to disappear until your twenty-first birthday, which is … when? … soon, I think.”
“Six weeks,” Caroline whispered. “Six weeks exactly.”
“Can you do it?”
“Hide?”
Percy nodded.
“I'll have to, won't I? I'll need funds, though. I have a bit of pin money, but I don't have access to my inheritance until my birthday.”
Percy winced as Caroline peeled the cloth away from his shoulder. “I can give you a little,” he said.
“I'll pay you back. With interest.”
“Good. You'll have to leave tonight.”
Caroline looked around the room. “But the mess … We have to clean up the blood.”
“No, leave it. Better I let you get away because you shot me than because I simply botched the plan.”
“One of these days you're going to have to stand up to your father.”
“It'll be easier with you gone. There is a perfectly nice girl two towns over I've a mind to court. She's quiet and biddable, and not nearly as skinny as you.”
Caroline immediately pitied the poor girl. “I hope everything works out for you,” she lied.
“No, you don't. But I don't care. Really doesn't matter what you think, as long as you're gone.”
“Do you know, Percy, but that is precisely how I feel about you?”
Amazingly, Percy smiled, and for the first time in the eighteen months since Caroline had come to live with the youngest branch of the Prewitts, she felt a sense of kinship with this boy who was so nearly her age.
“Where will you go?” he asked.
“Better you don't know. That way your father can't badger it out of you.”
“Good point.”
“Besides, I haven't a clue. I haven't any relations, you know. That is how I ended up here with you. But after ten years of defending myself against my ever-so-caring guardians, I should think I should be able to manage in the outside world for six weeks.”
“If any female can do it, it would be you.”
Caroline raised her brows. “Why Percy, was that a compliment? I'm stunned.”
“It wasn't even close to being a compliment. What kind of man would want a woman who could get along quite well without him?”
“The kind who could get along quite well without his father,” Caroline retorted.
Percy scowled as he flicked his head toward his bureau. “Open up the top drawer … no, the one on the right …”
“Percy, these are your undergarments!” Caroline exclaimed, slamming the drawer shut in disgust.
“Do you want me to lend you money or not? That's where I hide it.”
“Well, it stands to reason that no one would want to look in there,” she murmured. “Perhaps if you bathed more often…”
“God!” he burst out. “I cannot wait until you leave. You, Caroline Trent, are the devil's own daughter. You are plague. You are pestilence. You are—”
“Oh, shut up!” She yanked the drawer back open, disgusted with how much his words stung. She didn't like Percy any better than he liked her, but who would enjoy being compared to locusts, gnats, and frogs; the Black Death; and rivers turning to blood? “Where is the money?” she demanded.
“In my stocking … no, the black one … no, not that black one … yes, over there, next to the … yes, that's it.”
Caroline found the stocking in question and shook out some bills and coins. “Good heavens, Percy, you must have a hundred pounds here. Where did you get this much?”
“I've been saving for quite some time. And I nick a coin or two each month from Father's desk. As long as I don't take too much, he never notices.”
Caroline found that hard to believe; Oliver Prewitt was so obsessed with money it was a wonder his skin hadn't turned the color of pound notes.
“You can take half of it,” Percy said.
“Only half? Don't be stupid, Percy. I need to hide for six weeks. I may have unexpected expenses.”
“I may have unexpected expenses.”
“You have a roof over your head!” she burst out.
“I might not, once Father discovers I let you get away.”
