by Julia Quinn
She looked down at his head at her breast. Good Lord, he was devouring her.
She was hot, so hot, and she thought she must be burning up wherever he touched her. One of his hands was now creeping up her calf, and his trouser-clad knee was using gentle pressure to open her legs. He settled his weight between them, and the hard proof of his arousal pressed up against her intimately.
His hand moved ever higher, past her knee, along the smooth skin of her inner thigh, and then it paused for a moment, as if giving her one last chance to refuse.
But Caroline was too far gone. She could refuse him nothing, for she wanted everything. Perhaps she was wanton, perhaps she was shameful, but she wanted every wicked touch of his hands and mouth. She wanted the weight of him pressing her into the ground. She wanted the rapid beat of his heart and ragged rasp of his breath.
She wanted his heart, and she wanted his soul. But most of all, she wanted to give herself to him, to heal whatever wounds lay beneath the surface of his skin. She'd finally found a place of belonging—with him—and she wanted to show him the same joy.
And so, when his fingers found the core of her femininity, no words of refusal or protest passed her lips. She gave herself into the pleasure of the moment, moaned his name, and clutched at his shoulders as he teased her desire into a merciless vortex.
She clung to him as she spun out of control, the pressures within her building to a fever pitch. She felt taut, stretched to the limit, and then he slipped one finger inside her as his thumb continued its sensual torture on her hot skin.
Her world exploded in an instant.
She bucked beneath him, her hips rising off the ground and actually lifting him in the air. She shouted his name and then reached frantically from him as he rolled off her.
“No,” she gasped, “come back.”
“Shhh.” He stroked her hair, then her cheek. “I'm right here.”
“Come back.”
“I'm too heavy for you.”
“No. I want to feel you. I want—” She gulped. “I want to please you.”
His face grew taut. “No, Caroline.”
“But—”
“I won't take that away from you.” His voice was firm. “I shouldn't have done what I did, but I'm damned if I take your virginity.”
“But I want to give it to you,” she whispered.
He turned on her with unexpected ferocity. “No,” he bit out. “You will save that for your husband. You are too fine to waste it on another.”
“I—” She broke her words off, not willing to mortify herself by saying she'd hoped he would be that husband.
But he could obviously read her thoughts, for he turned away from her and said, “I won't marry you. I can't marry you.”
She scrambled for her clothing, begging a prayer to God that she wouldn't start to cry. “I never said you had to.”
He turned around. “Do you understand me?”
“I'm quite proficient in English.” Her voice caught. “I know all the big words, remember?”
He gazed upon her face, which wasn't nearly as stoic as she'd hoped. “Christ, I never meant to hurt you.”
“It's a little late for that.”
“You don't understand. I can never marry. My heart belongs to another.”
“Your heart belongs to a dead woman,” she spat out. She immediately clapped her hand to her mouth, horrified by her venomous tone. “Forgive me.”
He shrugged fatalistically as he handed her one of her slippers. “There is nothing to forgive. I took advantage of you. For that I apologize. I am only glad I had the presence of mind to stop when I did.”
“Oh, Blake,” she said sadly. “Eventually, you're going to have to allow yourself to stop hurting. Marabelle is gone. You're still here, and there are people who love you.”
It was as close to a declaration as she was willing to make. She held her breath, waiting for his reply, but he just handed her her other slipper.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I'll go inside now.”
“Yes.” But when she didn't immediately move he said. “Do you plan to sleep in the washing room?”
“I hadn't really thought about it.”
“I'd give you my bed but I don't trust Penelope not to come in and check on me in the night. She occasionally forgets her younger brother has grown up.”
“It must be nice to have a sister.”
He looked away. “Take the pillows and blankets off my bed. I'm sure you can fashion something comfortable.”
She nodded and started to walk away.
“Caroline?”
She whirled around, hope flaring in her eyes.
“Lock the door behind you.”
Chapter 17
es-cu-lent (adjective). Suitable for food, eatable.
I have often heard that even the nastiest of food seems virtuous and esculent when one is hungry, but I disagree. Gruel is gruel, no matter how loud one's stomach rumbles.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
Caroline awoke the following morning to a knock on the bathroom door. At Blake's order, she'd turned the key in the lock the night before—not because she thought he would try to ravish her in the night, but because she wouldn't put it past him to check the door just to see if she'd followed orders. And she certainly didn't want to give him the satisfaction of scolding her.
She'd slept in her chemise, and she wrapped herself in a blanket before opening the door a crack and peeking out. One of Blake's gray eyes was peering back at her.
“May I come in?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Do you have breakfast?”
“Madam, I haven't had access to decent food for nearly twenty-four hours. I was hoping Perriwick had brought you something to eat.”
She opened the door. “It isn't fair for the servants to punish your sister. She must be starving.”
“I imagine she'll eat well enough at teatime. You're expected to pay a visit, remember?”
“Oh yes. How are we meant to manage that?”
He leaned against a marble washbasin. “Penelope has already ordered me to send for you in my finest carriage.”
“I thought you only had one carriage.”
“I do. That's beside the point. I'm to send a carriage to your…ah…home to pick you up.”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “I should like to see that. A carriage rolling up to the washing room. Tell me, would you bring it by way of your bedroom or the servant's stairs?”
He shot her a look that said he wasn't amused. “I'm to have you back here in time for a four o'clock visit.”
“What am I supposed to do before then?”
He looked around the room. “Wash?”
“That isn't funny, Blake.”
There was a moment of silence, then he said quietly, “I'm sorry about what happened last night.”
“Don't apologize.”
“But I must. I took advantage of you. I took advantage of a situation that can go nowhere.”
Caroline gritted her teeth. Her experience the previous night was the closest she'd felt to being loved in years. To have him say he was sorry it had happened was unbearable. “If you apologize again I shall scream.”
“Caroline, don't be—”
“I mean it!”
He nodded. “Very well. I'll leave you alone then.”
“Ah yes,” she said with a wave of her arm, “my oh-so-fascinating life. There is so much to do here, I really don't know where to start. I thought I might wash my hands, and after that my toes, and if I'm really ambitious I might attempt my back.”
He frowned. “Would you like me to bring you a book?”
Her demeanor changed instantly. “Oh, would you please? I don't know where I left that pile I was planning to bring up yesterday.”
“I'll find them.”
“Thank you. When should I…ah…expect your carriage?”
“I suppose I shall have to o
rder the carriage a bit before half three, so why don't you be ready on the hour for me to spirit you to the stables?”
“I can make it to the stables on my own. You'd do better to make certain that Penelope is occupied on the other side of the house.”
He nodded. “You're right. I will tell the groom to expect you on the hour.”
“Is everyone aware of our deception, then?”
“I thought I might be able to limit it to the three house servants, but now it appears as if the stable staff will have to be in on the secret, as well.” He took a step to leave, then turned around and told her, “Remember, be on time.”
She glanced around with a dubious expression. “I don't suppose you've any clocks here.”
He handed her his pocket watch. “Use this. It will need to be wound in a few hours, though.”
“You'll bring those books?”
He nodded. “Never let it be said that I'm not the most gracious of hosts.”
“Even when you relegate the occasional guest to the washing room?”
“Even then.”
At precisely four o'clock that afternoon, Caroline knocked on the front door of Seacrest Manor. Her journey to that spot had been rather bizarre, to say the least. She'd sneaked out of the washing room, down the servants' stairs, dashed across the lawn at precisely three o'clock, hopped up into the carriage, and proceeded to ride about aimlessly until the groom returned to the house at four.
It certainly would have been more direct to have exited through Blake's bedroom and gone down the main stairs, but after spending all day with no company save for a washbasin and a tub, Caroline didn't mind a bit of excitement and scenery.
Perriwick answered the door in record time, winked at her, and said, “It's a delight to see you again, Miss Trent.”
“Miss Dent,” she hissed.
“Right,” he said, saluting her.
“Perriwick! Someone might see.”
He looked furtively about. “Right.”
Caroline groaned. Perriwick had developed a bit too much of a taste for subterfuge.
The butler cleared his throat and said very loudly, “Allow me to show you to the drawing room, Miss Dent.”
“Thank you…er…what did you say your name was?”
He grinned at her approvingly. “It's Perristick, Miss Dent.”
This time Caroline couldn't help herself. She smacked him in the shoulder. “This isn't a game,” she whispered.
“Of course not.” He opened the door to the drawing room, the same one where he'd plied her with feasts while her ankle was mending. “I'll tell Lady Fairwich that you're here.”
She shook her head at his enthusiasm and walked over to the window. It looked as if it might rain later that evening, which was just as well to Caroline, seeing as how she'd most likely be stuck in Blake's washing room all night.
“Miss Dent—Caroline! How lovely to see you again.”
Caroline turned to see Blake's sister gliding into the room. “Lady Fairwich, you have been too kind to invite me.”
“Nonsense, and I believe that yesterday I insisted you call me Penelope.”
“Very well…Penelope,” Caroline said, then motioned to her surroundings with her hand. “This is a lovely room.”
“Yes, isn't the view breathtaking? I am ever jealous of Blake, living out here by the sea. And now I suppose I must be jealous of you as well.” She smiled. “Would you care for some tea?”
If food had been sent up to Caroline's erstwhile room, Blake had somehow managed to intercept it, and her stomach had been screaming at her all day. “Yes,” she said, “I would adore some tea.”
“Excellent.” I would ask for biscuits as well, but”—Penelope leaned in as if to tell a secret—“Blake's cook is really dreadful. I think we had better just stick with tea, to be on the safe side.”
While Caroline was busy trying to think of a polite way to tell the countess that she would perish from hunger if she didn't let Mrs. Mickle send up some biscuits, Blake entered the room.
“Ah, Miss Dent,” he said, “welcome. I trust your drive here was comfortable.”
“Indeed it was, Mr. Ravenscroft. Your carriage is exceptionally well-sprung.”
He nodded at her distractedly and glanced around the room.
“I say, Blake,” Penelope said, “are you looking for something?”
“I was just wondering if perhaps Mrs. Mickle had sent up some tea. And,” he added forcefully, “biscuits.”
“I was just about to ring for some, although I'm not certain about the biscuits. After last night's meal…”
“Mrs. Mickle makes excellent biscuits,” Blake said. “I shall have her send up a double batch.”
Caroline sighed in relief.
“I suppose,” Penelope conceded. “After all, I did have a lovely breakfast this morning.”
“You had breakfast?” Blake and Caroline said in unison.
If Penelope thought it was strange that her guest was questioning her about her eating habits she did not say so, or perhaps she just didn't hear. She shrugged and said, “Yes, it was the oddest thing, actually. I found it on a tray near my room this morning.”
“Really?” Caroline said, trying to sound like she was asking just out of polite interest. She'd bet her life that food had been meant for her.
“Well, to be truthful it wasn't exactly near my room. It was actually closer to your room, Blake, except I knew that you were already up and about. I thought the servants must have not wanted to come so close to my door for fear of waking me up.”
Blake shot her a look of such disbelief that Penelope was forced to lift her hands in an accommodating gesture and say, “I didn't know what else to think.”
“I think that perhaps my breakfast was on that tray, as well,” he said.
“Oh. Yes, that would make sense. I thought there was rather a lot of food there, but I was so hungry after last night's meal, I truly didn't stop to think.”
“No harm done,” Blake said. Then his stomach proved him a liar by grumbling quite loudly. He winced. “I'll just see to that tea. And…ah…the extra biscuits.”
Caroline coughed.
Blake halted in his tracks and turned around. “Miss Dent, are you also hungry?”
She smiled prettily. “Famished. We had a bit of a mishap in our kitchen at home and I have had nothing at all today.”
“Oh dear!” Penelope cried out, clasping her hands over Caroline's. “How awful for you. Blake, why don't you see if your cook can prepare something a bit more substantial than biscuits? If you think she's up to it, that is.”
Caroline thought she ought to say something polite like, “You shouldn't go to the trouble,” but she was terrified that Penelope might actually take her seriously.
“Oh, and Blake!” Penelope called out.
He halted in the doorway and turned around slowly, clearly irritated that he'd been detained yet again.
“No soup.”
He didn't even dignify that with an answer.
“My brother can be a bit grumpy,” Penelope said, once he'd disappeared from view.
“Brothers can,” Caroline agreed.
“Oh, then you have a brother?”
“No,” she said wistfully, “but I know people who do.”
“Blake really isn't a bad sort,” Penelope continued, motioning for Caroline to sit down as she herself did so, “and even I must admit he's quite devilishly handsome.”
Caroline's lips parted in surprise. Was Penelope trying to play matchmaker? Oh, dear. How impossibly ironic.
“Don't you think?”
Caroline blinked and sat. “I beg your pardon?”
“Don't you think that Blake is handsome?”
“Well, yes, of course. Anyone would.”
Penelope frowned, clearly not satisfied with that answer.
Caroline was saved from having to say anything more by a small commotion in the hall. She and Penelope looked up to see Mrs. Mickle in the doorway, join
ed by a scowling Blake.
“Are you satisfied now?” he grumbled.
Mrs. Mickle looked straight at Caroline before saying, “I just wanted to be sure.”
Penelope turned to Caroline and whispered, “My brother has the oddest servants.”
The housekeeper scurried away, and Blake said, “She wanted to be certain that we have guests.”
Penelope shrugged and said, “Do you see what I mean?”
Blake came back into the drawing room and sat down, saying, “Don't let my appearance put a halt to your conversation.”
“Nonsense,” Penelope said, “it's only that…hmmm.”
“Why don't I like the sound of this?” Blake muttered.
Penelope jumped to her feet. “I have something I simply must show to Caroline. Blake, will you keep her company while I fetch it from my room?”
In a flash, she was gone, and Blake asked, “What was that about?”
“I'm afraid your sister might have taken it into her head to play matchmaker.”
“With you?”
“I'm not that bad,” she snapped. “Some might even consider me a matrimonial prize.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to offend. It's just that this must mean she's getting quite desperate.”
She gaped at him. “Could you possibly be unaware of how rude that sounded?”
He had the grace to color slightly. “Once again, I must apologize. It is only that Penelope has been trying to find me a wife for years, but she usually limits her search to ladies whose families she can trace back to the Norman invasion. Not,” he said hastily, “that there is anything wrong with your family. Just that Penelope cannot know your background.”
“I'm sure if she did, she would find it unsuitable,” Caroline said peevishly. “I may be an heiress, but my father was in trade.”
“Yes, so you keep saying. None of this should have ever come to pass if Prewitt hadn't so determined to catch an heiress for his son.”
“I don't think I enjoy the comparison to a fish.”
Blake looked at her sympathetically. “You must know that that is how people view heiresses—as prey to be caught.” When she didn't reply, he added, “It really doesn't signify, however. I will never marry.”
