“But he didn't fail her!”
“Of course he didn't,” James replied. “But he doesn't know that. And furthermore, it's quite obvious he finds you rather fetching.”
Caroline blushed and was immediately furious with herself for doing so.
“That, I think,” James said, “is what scares him the most. What if, horror of horrors, he were to fall in love with you?”
Caroline didn't see that as the worst horror in the world, but she kept the thought to herself.
“Can you even count how many ways he'd think he was betraying Marabelle? He could never live with himself.”
She didn't know what to say in reply, so she just pointed to a hole in the ground and said, “Put the plant there.”
James nodded. “You won't tell him of our little chat?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” Then he did as she asked.
Chapter 7
di-a-crit-i-cal (adjective). Distinguishing, distinctive.
One cannot deny that a complete lack of order is the diacritical mark of Mr. Ravenscroft's garden.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
By the end of the day, Caroline had the garden looking the way she thought a garden ought. James agreed with her, complimenting her on her excellent sense of landscape design. Blake, on the other hand, couldn't be prodded into uttering even the most grudging words of praise. In fact, the only noise he'd made at all was a rather strangled groan that sounded a bit like: “My roses.”
“Your roses had gone wild,” she'd returned, thoroughly exasperated with this man.
“I liked them wild,” he'd shot back.
And that had been that. But he'd surprised her by ordering two new dresses to replace the one she'd brought from Prewitt Hall. That poor rag had been through enough, what with being kidnapped, slept in for days, and dragged through the mud. Caroline wasn't sure when or where he'd managed to get two ready-to-wear dresses, but they seemed to fit her reasonably well, so she thanked him prettily and didn't complain that the hem dragged just a touch on the floor.
She took her supper in her room, not feeling up to another battle of wills with her somewhat cranky host. And besides, she'd obtained a needle and thread from Mrs. Mickle, and she wanted to get to work shortening her new dresses.
Since it was high summer, the sun hung in the sky well past the time she ate her evening meal, and when her fingers grew tired she put her sewing down and walked to the window. The hedges were neat and the roses were trimmed to perfection; she and James had clearly done an excellent job with the gardens. Caroline felt a sense of pride in herself that she hadn't experienced in a long time. It had been much too long since she had had the pleasure of starting and completing a task that interested her.
But she wasn't convinced that Blake had come to appreciate her worth as a helpful and courteous houseguest yet; in fact, she was rather certain he had not. So tomorrow she would have to find herself another task, preferably one that would take a bit more time.
He had told her that she could remain at Seacrest Manor until her twenty-first birthday, and she was damned if she was going to let him find a way to escape his promise.
The next morning found Caroline exploring Seacrest Manor on a full stomach. Mrs. Mickle, who was now her greatest champion, had met her in the breakfast room and fed her no end of delicacies and treats. Omelettes, sausages, kidney pie—Caroline didn't even recognize some of the dishes that graced the sideboard. Mrs. Mickle seemed to have prepared food for an entire army.
After breakfast she set about finding a new project to keep her busy while in residence. She peered into this room and that, finally ending up in the library. It wasn't as large as those in some of the grander estates, but it boasted several hundred volumes. The leather spines gleamed in the early morning light, and the room held the lemony smell of freshly cleaned wood. But a closer inspection of the shelves revealed that they had been filed in no order whatsoever.
Voilà!
“Clearly,” Caroline said to the empty room, “he needs his books alphabetized.”
She pulled down a stack of books, plunked them on the floor, and idly examined the titles. “I don't know how he has managed this long in such chaos.”
More books found their way to the floor. “Of course,” she said with an expansive wave of her hand, “there is no need for me to try to order these piles now. I'll have plenty of time to do that after I finish unloading all of the shelves. I'll be here for five more weeks, after all.”
She paused to look at a random volume. It was a mathematical treatise. “Fascinating,” she murmured, flipping through the pages so that she could glance at the incomprehensible prose. “My father always told me I should learn more arithmetic.”
She giggled. It was amazing how slowly one could work when one really put one's mind to it.
When Blake came down for breakfast that morning he found a feast the likes of which he'd never seen since taking up residence at Seacrest Manor. His morning meal usually consisted of a platter of fried eggs, a slice or two of ham, and some cold toast. Those items were all in evidence, but they were accompanied by roast beef, Dover sole, and a variety of pastries and tarts that boggled the mind.
Mrs. Mickle had clearly found new culinary inspiration, and Blake had no doubt that her name was Caroline Trent.
He resolved not to let himself grow irritated at the way his housekeeper was playing favorites and instead decided simply to fill his plate and enjoy the bounty. He was munching on the most delicious strawberry tart when James strolled into the room.
“Good morning to you,” the marquis said. “Where is Caroline?”