his dead fiancée? She suddenly felt very small and very insignificant. And very undesirable.
“It's really nothing,” James said, clearly concerned by her unhappy expression.
“I would never take a risk like that,” Caroline said firmly. “Not if I had someone to love.” She swallowed. “Not if I had someone who loved me.”
James touched her hand. “It's been a lonely time for you these past few years, hasn't it?”
But Caroline wasn't ready for sympathetic comments. “What happened to Blake?” she asked sharply. “After she died.”
“He was devastated. Drunk for three months. He blamed himself.”
“Yes, I'm sure he would. He's the sort to take responsibility for everyone, isn't he?”
James nodded.
“But surely he realizes now that it wasn't his fault.”
“In his head, perhaps, but not in his heart.”
There was a long pause while they both stared at the ground. When Caroline finally spoke, her voice was soft and unnaturally tentative. “Do you really think he thinks I look like her?”
James shook his head. “No. And you don't look like her. Marabelle was quite blond, actually, with pale blue eyes and—”
“Then why did you say—”
“Because it's rare to meet a woman of such spirit.” When Caroline didn't say anything, James grinned and added, “That was a compliment, by the way.”
Caroline twisted her lips into something that was halfway between a grimace and a wry smile.
“Thank you, then. But I still don't see why he's being such a beast.”
“Consider the situation from his view. First he thought you were a traitor, the very breed of vermin who'd killed Marabelle. Then he found himself in the position of your protector, which can only remind him of how he failed his fiancée.”
“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
B y 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
“It's really nothing,” James said, clearly concerned by her unhappy expression.
“I would never take a risk like that,” Caroline said firmly. “Not if I had someone to love.” She swallowed. “Not if I had someone who loved me.”
James touched her hand. “It's been a lonely time for you these past few years, hasn't it?”
But Caroline wasn't ready for sympathetic comments. “What happened to Blake?” she asked sharply. “After she died.”
“He was devastated. Drunk for three months. He blamed himself.”
“Yes, I'm sure he would. He's the sort to take responsibility for everyone, isn't he?”
James nodded.
“But surely he realizes now that it wasn't his fault.”
“In his head, perhaps, but not in his heart.”
There was a long pause while they both stared at the ground. When Caroline finally spoke, her voice was soft and unnaturally tentative. “Do you really think he thinks I look like her?”
James shook his head. “No. And you don't look like her. Marabelle was quite blond, actually, with pale blue eyes and—”
“Then why did you say—”
“Because it's rare to meet a woman of such spirit.” When Caroline didn't say anything, James grinned and added, “That was a compliment, by the way.”
Caroline twisted her lips into something that was halfway between a grimace and a wry smile.
“Thank you, then. But I still don't see why he's being such a beast.”
“Consider the situation from his view. First he thought you were a traitor, the very breed of vermin who'd killed Marabelle. Then he found himself in the position of your protector, which can only remind him of how he failed his fiancée.”
“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
B y 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
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