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James looked up. “Oh, good day, Ravenscroft.”
“And where did you disappear to this morning?”
James held up the posted bill he'd brought back from town. “I went out to investigate our Miss Trent.”
“She isn't our Miss Tr—”
“Forgive me,” James said with a wicked smile. “Your Miss Trent.”
Caroline immediately took offense. “I'm not—”
“This is an exceedingly asinine conversation,” Blake cut in.
“My thoughts exactly,” Caroline muttered. Then she pointed to the notice about her and said, “Look what the marquis brought back.”
“I thought I told you to call me James,” James said.
“‘The marquis’ is just fine,” Blake grumbled. “And what the hell is this?”
James handed him the paper.
Blake dismissed it immediately. “This looks nothing like her.”
“You don't think so?” James asked, his expression positively angelic.
“No. Any fool could see that the artist put her eyes a bit too close together, and the mouth is all wrong. If the artist really wanted to capture her on paper, he should have shown her smiling.”
“Do you think so?” Caroline asked, delighted.
Blake scowled, clearly irritated with himself. “I wouldn't worry that anyone is going to find you based on this. And besides, no one knows you're here, and I'm not expecting any guests.”
“True,” James murmured.
“And,” Blake added, “why would anyone care? There is no mention of a reward.”
“No reward?” Caroline exclaimed. “Why that cheap little—”
James laughed out loud, and even Blake, grumpy as he was, had to crack a smile.
“Well, I don't care,” she announced. “I just don't care that he isn't offering a reward. In fact, I'm glad. I'm much happier here than I was with any of my guardians.”
“I would be, too,” Blake said wryly, “if Perriwick and Mrs. Mickle treated me this way.”
Caroline turned to him with a wicked smile, the urge to tease him too strong to ignore. “Now, now, don't get snippy because your servants like me best.”
Blake started to say something, then just laughed. Caroline felt an instant happy satisfaction spreading within her, as if her heart recognized that she had done something very good in making this man laugh. She needed Blake, and the shelter of his home, but she sensed that maybe he needed her just a little bit, too.
His was a wounded soul, far more so even than her own. She smiled up into his eyes and murmured, “I wish you'd laugh more often.”
“Yes,” he said gruffly, “you've said as much.”
“I'm right about this.” On impulse, she patted his hand. “I'll allow that I'm wrong about a great deal, but I'm sure that I'm right about this. A body can't go as long without laughing as you have.”
“And how would you know?”
“That a body can't go without laughing, or that you haven't laughed in a long, long while?”
“Both.”
