To Catch an Heiress

Chapter 21

prov-e-nance (noun). Origin, deriva­tion.

I cannot claim to know or understand the provenance of romantic love, but I'm not sure that it is something that needs to be understood, just appreciated and revered.

-From the personal dictionary of

Caroline Ravenscroft

They were married one week later, much to the delight of Penelope, who insisted upon pur­chasing a trousseau for the bride. Caroline had thought that the two ready-made dresses Blake had purchased for her were a luxury, but nothing could compare to Penelope's idea of a suitable wardrobe. Caroline let her soon-to-be sister choose everything-with one exception. The dressmaker owned a bolt of blue-green silk the exact color of her eyes, and Caroline insisted upon having an evening gown fashioned out of it. She had never given much thought to her eyes before, but after Blake had skimmed his fingers across her eyelids and declared her eyes the exact color of the ocean at the equator ... Well, she really couldn't help becoming a little bit proud of them.

The wedding ceremony was small and private, with only Penelope, James, and Seacrest Manor's servants in attendance. Blake's older brother had wanted to come, but one of his daughters had taken ill, and he didn't want to leave her. Caroline thought that was as it should be and penned him a note expressing her desire to meet him at a more convenient time.

Perriwick gave the bride away. Mrs. Mickle was so jealous she insisted upon playing the part of mother of the bride, even though that role didn't entail her actually taking part in the ceremony.

Penelope was matron of honor, and James was best man, and a lovely time was had by all.

Caroline smiled her way through the next few days. She couldn't ever remember being as happy as she was as Caroline Ravenscroft of Seacrest Manor. She had a husband and a home, and her life was as near to perfect as she could imagine. Blake hadn't professed his love to her, but she supposed that was too much to expect from a man who had until recently been in so much emotional pain.

In the meantime, she would make him as happy as she could, sand let him do the same for her.

Now that Caroline truly belonged to Seacrest Manor and vice versa, she was determined to make her mark on the small estate. She was puttering in the garden when Perriwick approached her. "Mrs. Ravenscroft," he said, "you have a visitor."

"I do?" she asked in surprise. Hardly anyone even knew she was Mrs. Ravenscroft. "Who?"

"A Mr. Oliver Prewitt."

She paled. "Oliver? But why..."

"Do you want me to send him away? Or I could have Mr. Ravenscroft deal with him, if that is preferable."

"No, no," she said quickly. She didn't want her husband seeing Oliver. Blake was likely to lose his temper, and he'd hate himself later for it. She knew how important it was to him to apprehend Oliver and his entire ring of spies. If he blew his cover now, he'd never get the chance.

"I'll see him," she said in a firm voice. She took a deep, cleansing breath and set down her work gloves. Oliver had no power over her now, and she refused to be afraid of him.

Perriwick motioned for her to follow him into the house, and they made their way to the drawing room. As she passed through the doorway, she saw Oliver's back, and her entire body tensed.

She'd almost forgotten how much she hated him.

"What do you want, Oliver?" she said in a flat voice.

He looked up at her, seven different kinds of menace lurking in his eyes. "That isn't a very affectionate greeting for your guardian."

"My former guardian," she corrected.

"A minor technicality," he said with a little wave of his hand.

"Get to the point, Oliver," she ground out.

"Very well." He walked slowly toward her until they were nose to nose. "You owe me," he said in a low voice.

She didn't flinch. "I owe you nothing."

They stood that way, staring each other down, until he broke away and walked to the window. "Quite a nice piece of property you have here."

Caroline suppressed the urge to scream in frus­tration. "Oliver," she warned, "my patience is wearing thin. If you have something to say to me, say it. Otherwise, get out."

He whirled around. "I ought to kill you," he hissed.

"You could," she said, trying not to show any reaction to his threat, "but you'd go to the gallows, and I don't think you want that."

"You've ruined everything. Everything!"

"If you mean your little plot to make me the next Prewitt," she spat out, "then yes, I have. Shame on you, Oliver."

"I gave you food. I gave you shelter. And you repaid me with the worst sort of betrayal."

"You ordered your son to rape me!"

He advanced, jabbing his stubby finger in her di­rection. "That wouldn't have been necessary if you'd cooperated. You always knew you were meant to marry Percy."

"I knew no such thing. And Percy didn't want the marriage any more than I did."

"Percy does what I tell him to."

"I know," she said in a disgusted voice.

"Do you have any idea the plans I had for your fortune? I owe money, Caroline. Lots of money."

She blinked in surprise. She had no idea Oliver was in debt. "That's not my problem or my fault. And you certainly lived well enough off my money while I was your ward." .

He let out a bark of angry laughter. "Your money was tied up tighter than a chastity belt. I received a small quarterly allowance to cover your living ex­penses, but it was nothing more than a pittance."

She stared at him in shock. Oliver had always lived so well. He insisted upon the finest of every­thing. "Then where did all your money come from?" she asked. "The new candelabra, the fancy carriage... how did you pay for them?"

"That was from-" His lips pressed together in a firm and angry line. "Thaf s none of your business."

Her eyes widened. Oliver had almost admitted to smuggling-she was sure of it. Blake would be very interested.

"The real power was to come when you married Percy," he continued. "Then I would have had control over everything."

She shook her head, stalling for time while she thought of something to say mat might prompt him to incriminate himself. "I would never have done it," she finally blurted out, knowing she had to say something to keep him from growing suspicious. "I would never have married him."

"You would have done what I told you to!" he roared. "If I had gotten to you before that idiot you call your husband, I would have held my boot to the back of your head until you obeyed."

Caroline saw red. It was one thing to threaten her, but no one called her husband an idiot. "If you do not leave this instant, I will have you forcibly re­moved." She no longer cared if he incriminated himself or not-she just wanted him out of her house..

"I'll have you forcibly removed " he mimicked. His lips spread into a menacing grin. "Surely you can do better than that, Caroline. Or should I say Mrs. Ravenscroft? My, my, how we've come up in the world. The newspaper mentioned that your new husband is the son of Viscount Darnsby."

"There was an announcement in the newspaper?" she whispered in shock. She'd been wondering how Oliver had known where to find her.

"Don't try to act surprised, you little slut. I know you put that announcement there so I would see it. It's not as if you have any friends you'd want to notify."

"But who-" She caught her breath. Penelope. Of course. In her world, marriages were immediately announced in the newspaper. She'd probably for­gotten all about the need for secrecy.

She pursed her lips and suppressed a sigh, not wanting to show any signs of weakness. Oliver shouldn't have learned of her connection to Blake until after his arrest, but there was nothing to be done about it now. "I asked you once to leave," she said, trying to be patient. "Don't make me repeat myself."

"I'm not going anywhere until I'm good and ready. You owe me, girl."

"I owe you nothing except a slap in the face. Now, leave."

He closed the remaining distance between them and grabbed her arm in a painful grasp. "I want what's mine."

She gaped at him while she tried to free herself from his grip. "What are you talking about?"

"You're going to sign half your fortune to me. As payment for my tender care in raising you to womanhood."

She laughed in his face.

"You little whore," he hissed. And then before she had any time to react, he picked up his free hand and smacked her across the face.

She jerked backward, and would have probably fallen to the ground if he weren't holding her arm so tightly. She said nothing; she didn't trust herself to speak. And her cheek stung. Oliver had been wearing a ring, and she feared she was now bleed­ing.

"Did you trick him into marriage?" he taunted. "Did you sleep with him?"

Fury gave her the strength to wrench her arm away, and she stumbled against a chair. "Get out of my house."

"Not until you sign this."

"I couldn't even if I wanted to," she said with a self-satisfied smirk. "When I married Mr. Ravenscroft, my fortune became his. You know the laws of England as well as I do."

Oliver started to shake with fury, and Caroline grew bold. "You're welcome to ask my husband for the money, but I warn you, he's the devil's own temper, and"-she let her eyes travel up and down Oliver's thin frame in an insulting manner-"he's quite larger than you."

Oliver seethed at her implication. "You will pay for what you've done to me." He advanced upon her again, but before his arm descended to hit her, they heard a roar from the doorway.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Caroline looked over and breathed a sigh of re­lief. Blake.

Oliver appeared not to know what to say, and he simply froze, his arm still raised to strike her.

"Were you planning to hit my wife?" Blake's voice was low and deadly. He sounded calm, too calm.

Oliver said nothing.

Blake's gaze zeroed in on the welt on Caroline's cheek. "Did you hit her already, Prewitt? Caroline, did he strike you?"

She nodded, mesmerized by the barely leashed fury in him.

"I see," Blake said mildly, pulling off his gloves as he walked into the room. He handed them to Caroline, who took them wordlessly.

Blake turned back to Oliver. "That, I'm afraid, was a mistake."

Oliver's eyes bugged out. It was clear he was ter­rified. "I beg your pardon?"

Blake shrugged. "I really hate to have to touch you, but..."

WHAM! Blake's fist connected with Oliver's eye socket. The older man went tumbling to the ground.

Caroline's mouth fell open. Her head swung to Blake, down to Oliver, and back to Blake. "You looked so calm."

Her husband just stared at her. "Did he hurt you?"

"Did he- No, well, yes, just a little bit." Her hand went to her cheek.

THUNK. Blake kicked Oliver in the ribs. He looked back at her. "That's for hurting my wife."

She swallowed. "It was really more the shock than anything else, Blake. Maybe you shouldn't-"

THWAK. Blake kicked Oliver in the hip. "That," he spat, "is for shocking her."

Caroline clapped her hand over her mouth to hold in nervous laughter.

"Is there anything else you need to tell me?"

She shook her head, afraid that if she opened her mouth one more time he would kill Oliver. Not that the world wouldn't be a finer place for it, but she had no wish for Blake to go to the gallows.

Blake cocked his head slightly to the side as he looked at her a little more closely. "You're bleed­ing," he whispered.

She lifted her hand from her cheek and looked at it. There was blood on her fingers. Not much, but enough to make her instinctively press her hand back up against the wound.

Blake pulled out a handkerchief. She reached out to take it, but he dodged her hand and instead dabbed the snowy white linen to her cheek mur­muring, "Let me."

Caroline had never before had anyone to tend to her wounds, minor or otherwise, and she found his touch oddly soothing.

"I should get some water to dean this off," he said gruffly.

"I'm sure it will be fine. It's a shallow cut."

He nodded. "For a second I thought he'd scarred you. I would have killed him for that."

From the floor, Oliver emitted a groan.

Blake stared at Caroline. "If you ask me to, I will kill him."

"Oh, no, Blake. No. Not like this."

"What the hell do you mean, not like this?" Oli­ver snapped.

Caroline looked down. Obviously, he'd regained consciousness. Or perhaps he'd never lost it. She said, "I wouldn't mind, however, if you booted him out of the house."

Blake nodded. "Gladly." He picked Oliver up by his collar and the seat of his pants and strode out into the hall. Caroline scurried after him, wincing when Oliver bellowed, "I will summon the magis­trate! See if I don't! You'll pay for this!"

"I am the magistrate," Blake bit out. "And if you trespass on my land again, I'll arrest you myself." With that, he tossed him out onto the front steps and slammed the door.

He turned around and regarded his wife, who was standing in the hall, staring at him open-mouthed. There was still a bit of blood on her cheek, and some on the tips of her fingers. His heart clenched. He knew she hadn't suffered a serious in­jury, but somehow that didn't matter. Prewitt had hurt her and he hadn't been there to prevent it.

"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice somewhere be­tween a whisper and a murmur.

She blinked. "But why?"

"I should have been here. I should never have let you see him alone."

"But you didn't even know he was here."

"That's not the point. You are my wife. I swore to protect you."

"Blake," she said gently, "you can't save the en­tire world."

He stepped toward her, knowing his heart was in his eyes, but somehow not minding this weak­ness. "I know that. I only want to save you."

"Oh, Blake."

He gathered her into his arms and pulled her close, heedless of the blood on her cheek. "I won't fail you again," he vowed.

"You could never fail me."

He stiffened. "I failed Marabelle."

"You told me you'd finally accepted that her death wasn't your fault," she said, wiggling free.

"I did. I do." He closed his eyes for a moment. "It still haunts me. If you could have seen her..."

"Oh, no," she gasped. "I didn't know you were there. I didn't know you'd seen her be killed."

"I didn't," he said flatly. "I was in bed with a putrid throat. But when she didn't return on sched­ule, Riverdale and I went out looking for her."

"I'm so sorry."

His voice grew hollow as the memories overtook him. "There was so much blood. She'd been shot four times."

Caroline thought about how much blood had gushed from Percy's flesh wound. She couldn't even imagine how awful it must be to see a loved one fatally injured. "I wish I knew what to say, Blake.

I wish there was something to say."

He turned to face her abruptly. "Do you hate her?"

"Marabelle?" she asked, startled.

He nodded.

"Of course not!"

"You once told me you didn't want to compete with a dead woman."

"Well, I was jealous," she said sheepishly. "I don't hate her. That would be rather narrow-minded of me, don't you think?"

He shook his head, as if to dismiss the subject. "I was just wondering. I wouldn't have been angry if you did."

"Marabelle is a part of who you are," she said. "How can I hate her when she was so important in making you the man you are today?"

He watched her face, his eyes searching for some­thing. Caroline felt naked under his gaze. She said softly, "If it weren't for Marabelle you might not be the man I-" She swallowed, summoning her cour

­age. "You might not be the man I love."

He stared at her for a long moment, and then took her hand. "That is the most generous emotion

any­one has ever shown to me."

She stared at him through moist eyes, waiting, hoping, praying that he'd return the sentiment. He looked as if he wanted to say something important, but after a few moments he merely cleared his throat and said, "Were you working in the gar­den?"

She nodded, swallowing down the lump of dis­appointment that had just formed in her throat.

He offered her his arm. "I'll escort you back. I should like to see what you've done."

Patience, Caroline told herself. Remember, pa­tience.

But that was far easier said than done when one was courting a broken heart.

Later that evening, Blake was sitting in the dark in his study, staring out the window.

She had said that she loved him. It was an awe­some responsibility, that.

Deep down, he had known that she cared for him deeply, but it had been so long since he'd even thought about the concept of love, he hadn't thought he'd recognize it when it arose.

But it had, and he did, and he knew that Caro­line's feelings were true.

"Blake?"

He looked up. Caroline was standing in the door­way, her hand raised to knock again on the

door-jamb.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?"

"I'm just thinking."

"Oh." He could tell she wanted to ask more. In­stead, she smiled hesitantly and said,

"Would you like me to light a candle?"

He shook his head, slowly rising to his feet. He had the oddest desire to kiss her.

It wasn't odd that he wanted to kiss her in and of itself. He always wanted to kiss her. What was odd was the intensity of the need. It was almost as if he positively, definitively knew that if he didn't kiss her that very minute, his life would be forever changed, and not for the better.

He had to kiss her. That was all there was to it.

He walked across the room as if in a trance. She said something to him, but he didn't hear the words. He just kept moving slowly, inexorably to her side.

Caroline's lips parted slightly in surprise. Blake was acting most oddly. It was as if his mind were

somewhere else, and yet he was staring at her with the strangest intensity.

She whispered his name for what must have been the third time, but he made no response, and then he was right in front of her.

"Blake?"

He touched her cheek with a reverence that made her tremble.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," he murmured. "No."

"Then what-"

Whatever she'd meant to say was lost as he crushed her to him, his mouth capturing hers with ferocious tenderness. She felt one of his hands sink into her hair as the other roamed the length of her back before settling on the curve of her hip.

Then he moved to the small of her back, pulling her against his body until she could feel the force of his arousal. Her head lolled back as she moaned his name, and his lips moved to the line of her throat, kissing their way to the bodice of her gown.

She let out a little squeal when his hand slipped from her hip to her buttocks and squeezed, and the sound must have jolted him out of whatever spell he was under, because he suddenly froze, shook his head a little, and stepped back.

"I'm sorry," he said, blinking. "I don't know what came over me."

Her mouth fell open. "You're sorry?" He kissed her until she could barely stand and then he stopped and said he was sorry?

"It was the strangest thing," he said, more to him­self than to her.

"I didn't think it was that strange," she muttered.

"I had to kiss you."

"That's all?" she blurted out.

He smiled slowly. "Well, at first, yes, but now..."

"Now what?" she demanded.

"You're an impatient wench."

She stamped her foot. "Blake, if you don't-''

"If I don't what?" he asked, his grin positively devilish.

"Don't make me say it," she muttered, turning a rather bright shade of red.

"I think we'll save that for next week," he mur­mured. "After all, you're still something of an in­nocent. But for now I think you'd better run."

"Run?"

He nodded. 'Fast."

"Why?"

"You're about to find out."

She skidded toward the door. "What if I want to get caught?"

"Oh, you definitely want to get caught," he re­plied, advancing on her with the lithe grace of a born predator.

"Then why should I run?" she asked, breathless.

"It's really more fun that way."

"It is?"

He nodded. "Trust me."

"Hmmph. Famous last words." But even as she said that, she was already in the hall, walking backward toward the stairs with remarkable speed.

He licked his lips.

"Oh. Then I had better... I should..,"

He started moving faster.

"Oh, dear." She took off at a sprint, laughing all the way up the stairs.

Blake caught up with her on the landing, heaved her over his shoulder, and carried her, unconvinc­ing protests and all, to their bedroom.

Then he kicked the door shut and proceeded to show her why getting caught was oftentimes even more fun than the chase.