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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 toquaff 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.
