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“Kiss me back,” he growled, the words hot against her mouth. “I know you want to. I saw it in your eyes.”
For a second she made no response, but then he felt her small hand moving slowly along the length of his back. She pulled herself closer to him, and when Blake felt the heat of her body pressing gently against his he thought he might explode.
Her mouth wasn't moving with the same fervor as his, but her lips parted, tacitly encouraging him to deepen the kiss.
“Good Christ,” he murmured, only speaking when he had to come up for air. “Carlotta.”
She stiffened in his arms and tried to pull away.
“Not yet,” Blake moaned. He knew he had to end this, knew he couldn't let it go where his body was begging it to, but he wasn't ready to release her. He still needed to feel her heat, to touch her skin, to use her warmth to remind himself that he was alive. And he—
She wrenched herself away and skidded several steps backward until she was pressed up against the wall.
Blake swore under his breath and planted his hands on his hips as he fought to regain his breath. When he looked up at her, her eyes were almost frantic, and she was shaking her head urgently.
“I was that distasteful?” he bit out.
She shook her head again, the movement tiny but quick. I can't, she mouthed.
“Well, neither can I,” he said, self-loathing evident in his voice. “But I did, anyway. So what the hell does that mean?”
Her eyes widened, but other than that, she made no response.
Blake stared at her for a long minute before saying, “I'll leave you alone then.”
She nodded slowly.
He wondered why he was so reluctant to leave. Finally, with a few muttered epithets, he strode across the room to the door. “I'll see you in the morning.”
The door slammed, and Caroline stared at the space where he'd been for several seconds before whispering, “Oh, my God.”
The next morning Blake made his way downstairs before heading up to see his “guest.” He was going to get her to talk today if it killed him. This nonsense had gone on long enough.
When he reached the kitchen Mrs. Mickle, his housekeeper and cook, was busy stirring something in a soup pot.
“Good morning, sir,” she said.
“So that's what a female voice sounds like,” Blake muttered. “I had nearly forgotten.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No matter. Would you please boil some water for tea?”
“More tea?” she questioned. “I thought you preferred coffee.”
“I do. But today I want tea.” Blake was fairly certain that Mrs. Mickle knew there was a woman upstairs, but she'd worked for him for several years, and they had a tacit agreement: he paid her well and treated her with the utmost of respect, and she in turn asked no questions and told no tales. It was the same with all his servants.
The housekeeper nodded and smiled. “Then you'll want another large pot?”
Blake smiled wryly back. Of course this silent understanding didn't mean that Mrs. Mickle didn't like to tease him when she could. “A very large pot,” he replied.
While she was tending to the tea, Blake headed off in search of Perriwick, his butler. He found him polishing some silver that absolutely didn't need polishing.
“Perriwick,” Blake called out. “I need a message sent to London. Immediately.”
Perriwick nodded regally. “To the marquis?” he guessed.
Blake nodded. Most of his urgent messages were sent to James Sidwell, the Marquis of Riverdale. Perriwick knew exactly how to get them to London by the speediest route.
