by Julia Quinn
Blake put some water on to boil and scrounged around in the cupboards for some tea. Unlike most men of his station, he knew his way around a kitchen. Soldiers and spies often had to learn how to cook if they wanted to eat, and Blake was no exception. Gourmet meals were quite beyond his repertoire, but he could certainly manage tea and biscuits. Especially since Mrs. Mickle had already baked the biscuits. All Blake had to do was set them on a plate.
It felt very strange to be doing this for Caroline Trent. It had been a long time since he'd taken care of anyone save for himself, and there was something comforting about listening to the teakettle squeak and howl as the water boiled. Comforting and yet at the same time unsettling. Preparing tea, tending to her twisted ankle—they weren't terribly intimate acts, and yet he could feel them pulling him closer to her.
He fought the urge to smack himself in the head. He was growing overly and stupidly philosophical. He wasn't becoming close to Caroline Trent, and he certainly had no desire to do so. They'd shared one kiss, and it had been an idiotic impulse on his part. As for her, she probably hadn't known any better. He'd bet his home and his fortune that she'd never been kissed before.
The water came to a boil, and Blake poured it into the china teapot, taking a sniff of the fragrant aroma as the tea began to steep. After placing a small pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar on the tray, he picked up the service and headed back to the drawing room. He didn't really mind getting the tea; there was something rather soothing in performing the occasional mindless task. But Miss Trent was going to have to get it through her stubborn little skull that he wasn't going to play nursemaid and fetch her every whim and desire while she was living at Seacrest Manor.
He didn't want to act like some lovesick puppy, he didn't want Caroline to think he was acting like a lovesick puppy, and he certainly didn't want James to see him acting like a lovesick puppy.
It didn't matter that he wasn't the least bit lovesick. James would never let him live it down.
Blake turned the last corner and headed into the drawing room, but when his eyes fell upon the sofa, there was an empty spot where Caroline should have been, and a rather large mess on the floor.
And then he heard a rather sheepish voice say, “It was an accident. I swear.”
Chapter 8
quaff (verb). To drink deeply; to take a long draught.
I have found that when a gentleman grows ill-tempered, oftentimes the best antidote is to invite him to quaff a cup of tea.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
Freshly cut flowers were strewn on the floor, a priceless vase was overturned but thankfully not broken, and a wet stain was seeping across Blake's very new, very expensive Aubusson carpet.
“I just wanted to smell them,” Caroline said from her position on the floor.
“You were supposed to stay still!” Blake yelled.
“Well, I know that but—”
“No ‘buts’!” he roared, checking to see that her ankle wasn't twisted in some hideous fashion.
“There is no need to shout.”
“I'LL SHOUT IF I—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and continued in a more normal tone. “I will shout if I damned well please, and I will speak like this if I damned well please. And if I want to whisper—”
“I'm sure I catch your meaning.”
“May I remind you that this is my house, and I can do anything I want?”
“You don't need to remind me,” she said agreeably.
Her friendly and accepting tone needled at him. “Miss Trent, if you are going to remain here—”
“I'm extensively grateful that you're going to let me stay,” she interjected.
“I don't care about your gratitude—”
“Nonetheless, I'm happy to offer it.”
He gritted his teeth. “We need to establish a few rules.”
“Well, yes, of course, the world needs a few rules. Otherwise, chaos would ensue, and then—”
“Would you stop interrupting me!”
She drew her head back a fraction of an inch. “I believe you just interrupted me.”
Blake counted to five before saying, “I'll ignore that.”
Her lips twisted into something that an optimistic person might call a smile. “Do you think you might lend me a hand?”
He just stared at her, uncomprehending.
“I need to get up,” Caroline explained. “My—” She broke off, not about to say to this man that her bum was getting wet. “It's damp down here,” she finally mumbled.
Blake grunted something she doubted she was meant to understand and practically slammed the tea service, which he'd clearly forgotten he was still holding, down on a side table. Before Caroline had time to blink at the crash of the tray against the table, his right hand was thrust in front of her face.
“Thank you,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster, which admittedly wasn't very much.
He helped her back to the sofa. “Don't get up again.”
“No, sir.” She gave him a jaunty salute, an act which didn't seem to have any sort of improving effect on his temper.
“Can't you ever be serious?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Saluting me, knocking all of my books down, little paper birds—can't you take anything seriously?”
Caroline narrowed her eyes, watching him wave his arms wildly as he spoke. She'd only known him a few days, but that was more than enough to know that this burst of emotion was not characteristic. Still, she didn't much appreciate having her attempts at friendship and civility tossed back in her face like so much dirty bathwater.
“Do you want to know how I define serious?” she said in a low, angry voice. “Serious is a man who orders his son to rape his ward. Serious is a young woman with no place to go. Serious is not an overturned vase and a wet carpet.”
He only scowled at her in response, so she added, “And as for my little salute—I was just trying to be friendly.”
“I don't want to be friends,” he bit off.
“Yes, I see that now.”
“You are here for two reasons, and two reasons only, and you'd best not forget that.”
“Perhaps you'd care to elucidate?”
“One: You are here to aid us in the capture of Oliver Prewitt. Two—” He cleared his throat and actually blushed before repeating the word. “Two: You are here because, after abducting you through no fault of your own, well, I owe you that much.”
“Ah, so I am not supposed to try to help around the house and garden or in any way be friendly with the servants?”
He glared at her but did not reply. Caroline took that response as an affirmative, and she gave him a nod that would have done the queen proud. “I see. In that case, perhaps you'd best not join me for tea.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have this terrible habit, you see.”
“Just one?”
“Just one that would offend you, sir,” she shot back, her tone not particularly nice. “When I take tea with other people, I tend to converse with them. And when I converse with people, I'm likely to do so in a polite and friendly manner. And when then happens—”
“Sarcasm doesn't become you.”
“And when that happens,” she continued in a louder voice, “the strangest thing occurs. Not all the time, mind you, and probably not with you, Mr. Ravenscroft, but I'm sure you wouldn't like to chance it.”
“Chance what?”
“Why, becoming friends with me.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” he muttered.
“Just push the tea service toward me, if you please.”
Blake stared at her for a moment before doing as she asked.
“Would you like a cup to take with you?”
“No,” he said perversely. “I'll stay.”
“The consequences could be deadly.”
“It seems to me that the consequences could be even deadlier to my furnishings if I leave you
alone.”
Caroline glared at him and slammed a teacup into a saucer. “Milk?”
“Yes. No sugar. And do try to be gentle with the china. It's a family heirloom. Now that I think of it…”
“Now that you think of what?” she snapped.
“I really should do something about the mess on the carpet.”
“I'd clean it up myself,” she said sweetly, “but you've ordered me not to help around the house.”
Blake ignored her as he stood up and crossed to the open door. “Perriwick!” he bellowed.
Perriwick materialized as if Blake had conjured him. “Yes, Mr. Ravenscroft?”
“Our guest had a slight accident,” Blake said, waving his hand toward the wet spot on the carpet.
“Our invisible guest, you mean?”
Caroline watched the butler with undisguised interest. All Blake did was say, “I beg your pardon?”
“If I might be so bold as to make a deduction based upon your behavior of the past few days, Mr. Ravenscroft—”
“Just get to the point, Perriwick.”
“You clearly did not want it to be made public that Miss…ah…Miss…er…shall we call her Miss Invisible—”
“Miss Trent,” Caroline supplied helpfully.
“—Miss Trent is here.”
“Yes, well, she's here, and that's that,” Blake said irritatedly. “You needn't pretend you don't see her.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Ravenscroft, she is clearly visible now.”
“Perriwick, one of these days I am going to strangle you.”
“I do not doubt it, sir. But may I be so bold as to—”
“What, Perriwick?”
“I merely wanted to inquire as to whether Miss Trent's visit to Seacrest Manor is now meant to be made public.”
“No!” Caroline answered, loudly. “That is, I would prefer you keep this information to yourself. At least for the next few weeks.”
“Of course,” Perriwick replied with a smart bow. “Now, if you will excuse me, I will see to the mishap.”
“Thank you, Perriwick,” Blake said.
“If I might be so bold, Mr. Ravenscroft—”
“What is it now, Perriwick?”
“I merely wished to suggest that you and Miss Trent might be more comfortable having your tea in another room while I tidy this one.”
“Oh, he's not having tea with me,” Caroline said.
“Yes, I am,” Blake ground out.
“I don't see why. You yourself said you didn't want to have anything to do with me.”
“That's not entirely true,” Blake shot back. “I very much enjoy crossing you.”
“Yes, that much is clear.”
Perriwick's head bobbed back and forth like a spectator at a badminton match, and then the old man actually smiled.
“You!” Blake snapped, pointing at Perriwick. “Be quiet.”
Perriwick's hand went to his heart in a dramatic gesture of dismay. “If I might be so—”
“Perriwick, you're the boldest damned butler in England, and you well know it.”
“I merely intended,” the butler replied, looking rather smug, “to ask if you would like me to remove the tea service to another room. I did suggest that you might be more comfortable elsewhere, if you recall.”
“That is an excellent idea, Perriwick,” Caroline said with a blinding smile.
“Miss Trent, you are clearly a woman of superior manners, good humor, and a fine mind.”
“Oh, for the love of God,” Blake muttered.
“Not to mention,” Perriwick continued, “excellent taste and refinement. Were you responsible for the lovely rearrangement of our garden yesterday?”
“Yes, I was,” she said, delighted. “Did you like the new layout?”
“Miss Trent, it clearly reflected the hand of one with a rare sense of the aesthetic, true brilliance, and just a touch of whimsy.”
Blake looked as if he might happily boot his butler clear to London. “Perriwick, Miss Trent is not a candidate for sainthood.”
“Sadly, no,” Perriwick admitted. “Not, however, that I have ever considered the church to be of impeccable judgment. When I think of some of the people they've sainted, why, I—”
Caroline's laughter filled the room. “Perriwick, I think I love you. Where have you been all of my life?”
He smiled modestly. “Serving Mr. Ravenscroft, and his uncle before him.”
“I do hope his uncle was a little more cheerful than he is.”
“Oh, Mr. Ravenscroft wasn't always so ill-tempered. Why, when he was a young man—”
“Perriwick,” Blake roared, “you are perilously close to being tossed out without a reference.”
“Mr. Ravenscroft!” Caroline said reprovingly. “You cannot think to dis—”
“Oh, do not worry, Miss Trent,” Perriwick interrupted. “He threatens to terminate my employment here nearly every day.”
“This time I mean it,” Blake ground out.
“He says that every day, too,” Perriwick said to Caroline, who rewarded him with a giggle.
“I am not amused,” Blake announced, but no one seemed to be listening to him.
“I'll just move this to the other room,” Perriwick returned, piling the teacups back on the tray. “The service will be in the green room, should you desire to partake.”
“I didn't even get a sip,” Caroline murmured as she watched the butler disappear into the hall. “He is quite—Oh!”
Without a word, Blake scooped her up into his arms and thundered out of the room. “If you want tea,” he growled, “then you'll get tea. Even if I have to follow that damned butler to Bournemouth.”
“I had no idea you could be so agreeable,” she said in a wry voice.
“Don't push me, Miss Trent. In case you hadn't noticed, my temper is hanging by a very fine thread.”
“Oh, I noticed.”
Blake stared at her in disbelief. “It's a wonder someone hasn't killed you before now.” He strode across the hall, Caroline clutching his shoulders, and into the green room.
No sign of the tea service.
“Perriwick!” Blake bellowed.
“Oh, Mr. Ravenscroft!” came the butler's disembodied voice.
“Where is he?” Caroline could not help asking, twisting her head to look behind her.
“Lord only knows,” Blake muttered, then yelled, “Where the devil—Oh, there you are, Perriwick.”
“You do creep up on a soul,” Caroline said with a smile.
“It's one of my most useful talents,” Perriwick replied from the doorway. “I took the liberty of moving the tea service to the blue room. I thought Miss Trent might enjoy a view of the ocean.”
“Oh, I should like that above all else,” Caroline said with obvious delight. “Thank you, Perriwick. You are ever so thoughtful.”
Perriwick beamed.
Blake scowled.
“Is there anything else I can do to see to your comfort, Miss Trent?” Perriwick inquired.
“She's fine,” Blake growled.
“Clearly, she—”
“Perriwick, isn't the west wing on fire?”
Perriwick blinked, sniffed the air, and stared at his employer in dismay. “I do not understand, sir.”
“If there is no fire that needs putting out,” Blake said, “then surely you can find some other task to complete.”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Ravenscroft.” With a small bow, the butler left the room.
“You shouldn't be so mean to him,” Caroline said.
“You shouldn't tell me how to run my household.”
“I wasn't doing any such thing. I was merely telling you how to be a nicer person.”
“That is even more impertinent.”
She shrugged, trying to ignore the way she was jostled against him as he carried her through the house. “I'm often impertinent.”
“One doesn't need to be in your company for very long to appreciate that fact.”
Caroline remained silent. She probably should not be speaking so boldly to her host, but her mouth very often formed words with no direction whatsoever from her brain. Besides, she was fairly certain now that her place here at Seacrest Manor was secure for the next five weeks. Blake Ravenscroft might not want her here—he might not even like her—but he definitely felt guilty over having mistakenly abducted her, and his sense of honor required him to provide her with a place to stay until she was safe from Oliver Prewitt.
Caroline smiled to herself. A man with a sense of honor was a very good thing, indeed.
Several hours later Caroline was still in the blue room, but the blue room no longer bore anything more than a passing resemblance to the chamber she'd entered earlier that day.
Perriwick, in his desire to make “the lovely and gracious Miss Trent” as comfortable and happy as possible, had brought in several trays of food, a selection of books and newspapers, a set of watercolors, and a flute. When Caroline had pointed out that she did not know how to play the flute, Perriwick had offered to teach her.
Blake had finally lost his patience when Perriwick offered to move the piano into the room—or rather, offered to have Blake, who was quite a bit younger and stronger than he was—do it. That had been bad enough, but when Caroline asked if Perriwick was going to play for her, Perriwick had answered, “Goodness no, I don't know how to play, but I'm sure Mr. Ravenscroft would be happy to entertain you for the afternoon.”
At that point, Blake had thrown up his arms and stalked out of the room, muttering something about how his butler had never been so courteous and concerned about him.
And that was the last Caroline had seen of him. She had managed to keep herself quite happy for the afternoon, however, munching on pastries and thumbing through the most recent copies of the London Times. Really, she could get used to such a life. Even her ankle wasn't paining her so much any longer.
She was quite entranced by the society pages—not, mind you, that she had a clue who they were talking about, except, possibly, for the “Dashing and Dangerous Lord R—” who Caroline was beginning to suspect might be her new friend James, when the marquis himself walked into the room.
“You have been gone quite a while,” she said. “Would you like a pastry?”
