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Chapter 13
dith-er(noun). A state of tremulous excitement or apprehension; also, vacillation; a state of confusion.
Just a word from him sets me in adither, and I vow I do not like it one bit.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
It was Caroline's fiercest desire to avoid Blake for the next fifteen years, but as luck would have it, she quite literally bumped into him the following morning. Unfortunately for the sake of her dignity, this “bump” involved her spilling about a half-dozen rather thick books onto the floor, several of which hit Blake's legs and feet on the way down.
He howled in pain, and she wanted nothing more than to howl in embarrassment, but instead she just mumbled her apologies and dropped to the carpet so that she could gather her books. At least that way he wouldn't see the bright blush that had stained her cheeks the moment she'd collided with him.
“I thought you were limiting your redecorating endeavors to the library,” he said. “What the devil are you doing with those books out here in the hall?”
She looked straight up into his clear gray eyes. Drat. If she had to see him this morning, why did she have to be on her hands and knees? “I'm not redecorating,” she said in her haughtiest voice, “I'm bringing these books back to my room to read.”
“Six of them?” he asked doubtfully.
“I'm quite literate.”
“I never doubted that.”
She pursed her lips, wanting to say that she was electing to read so that she might remain in her chamber and never have to see him again, but she had a feeling that would lead to a long, drawn-out argument, which was the last thing she wanted. “Was there anything else you desired, Mr. Ravenscroft?”
Then she blushed, really blushed. He'd made it quite clear the night before what he desired.
He waved his hand expansively—a motion she found annoyingly condescending. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. If you want to read, be my guest. Read the whole bloody library if it suits you. If nothing else, it will keep you out of trouble.”
She bit back another retort, but it was growing difficult to maintain such a circumspect mouth. Hugging her books to her chest, she asked, “Has the marquis risen yet this morning?”
Blake's expression darkened before he said, “He's gone.”
“Gone?”
“Gone.” And then, as if she couldn't grasp the meaning of the word, he added, “Quite gone.”
“But where would he go?”
“I imagine he would go just about anywhere that would remove him from our company. But as it happens, he went to London.”
Her lips parted in shock. “But that leaves us alone.”
“Quite alone,” he agreed, holding out a sheet of paper. “Would you like to read his note?”
She nodded, took the note into her hands, and read:
Ravenscroft—
I have gone to London for the purpose of alerting Moreton to our plans. I have brought with me the copy of Prewitt's file. I realize this leaves you alone with Caroline, but truly, that is no more improper than her residing at Seacrest Manor with the both of us.
Besides which, the two of you were driving me mad.
—Riverdale
Caroline looked up at him with a wary expression. “You can't like this situation.”
Blake pondered her statement. No, he didn't “like” this situation. He didn't “like” having her under his roof, just an arm's reach away. He didn't “like” knowing that the object of his desire was his for the taking. James hadn't been much of a chaperone—certainly no one who could have salvaged her reputation should word of their uncommon living arrangements get out—but he'd at least created a buffer between Blake and Caroline. All that was now standing between him and the end of this damned frustration and lust was his own conscience.
And his body was starting to get rather frustrated with his conscience.
