To Catch an Heiress
Page 33

“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.”
She thought about that for a moment, then said, “As for you, well, all I can say is that I can just tell. You always look a bit surprised when you laugh, as if you don't expect to be happy.”
Blake's eyes widened imperceptibly, and without thinking, he whispered, “I don't.”
“And as for your other question…” Caroline said, a sad, wistful smile crossing her face. There was a long silence, as she tried to think of the right words. “I know what it's like not to laugh. I know how it hurts.”
“Do you really?”
“And I know that you have to learn to find your laughter and your peace wherever you can. I find it in—” She blushed. “Never mind.”
“No,” he said urgently. “Tell me.”
Caroline looked around. “What happened to the marquis? He seems to have disappeared again.”
Blake ignored her question. James had a talent for disappearing when it was convenient. He would not put it past his friend to play matchmaker. “Tell me,” he repeated.
Caroline stared at a spot just to the right of his face, not understanding why she felt so compelled to bare her soul to this man. “I find my peace in the night sky. It's something my mother taught me. Nothing more than a little trick, but—” She shifted her gaze to meet his eyes. “You probably think that is very silly.”
“No,” Blake said, feeling something very warm and very odd in the vicinity of his heart. “I think that might be the least silly thing I've heard in years.”
Chapter 9
e-gre-gious (adjective). Remarkable in a bad sense; gross, flagrant, outrageous.
My mouth often displays an egregious disregard for discretion, circumspection, and good sense of any kind.
—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent
Caroline's ankle was much improved the following day, although she still required a cane to walk. Finishing her work in the library, however, was out of the question; she was clumsy enough without trying to move huge stacks of books while balancing on one foot. There was no telling what sort of mess she might make while still handicapped by a swollen ankle.
At supper the previous night, James had mentioned that she might draw a floor plan of Prewitt Hall. Blake, who had been most uncommunicative throughout the meal, had grunted in the affirmative when she had asked him if he thought that was a good idea. Eager to impress her hosts, she sat down at a desk in the blue room and began her sketch.
Mapping out the floor plan, however, proved to be more difficult than she had supposed, and soon the floor was littered with crumpled-up pieces of paper whose drawings she had deemed unacceptable. After thirty minutes of aborted attempts, she finally declared, out loud and to herself, “I have a new appreciation and respect for architects.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Caroline looked up in mortification at having been caught talking to herself. Blake was standing in the doorway, but she couldn't quite tell if his expression was amused or irritated.
“I was just talking to myself,” she stammered.
He smiled, and she decided with relief that he was amused. “Yes, that much is clear,” he said. “Something about architects, I believe?”
“I am trying to draw a plan of Prewitt Hall for you and the marquis,” she explained, “only I cannot get it right.”
He walked to the desk and leaned over her shoulder to study her current drawing. “What seems to be the problem?”
“I can't seem to get the sizes of the rooms right. I—I—” She gulped. He was awfully close, and the scent of him brought back powerful memories of their stolen kiss. He smelled of sandalwood and mint and something else she couldn't identify.
“Yes?” he prodded.
“I…ah…well, you see, it's terribly difficult to get the shapes and the sizes of the rooms right at the same time.” She pointed to her diagram. “I started by drawing all of the rooms on the west side of the main hall, and I had thought I'd gotten them right…”
He leaned in a little closer, which caused her to lose her train of thought. “Then what happened?” he murmured.
She swallowed. “Then I got to the last room before the south wall, and I realized I hadn't left enough space.” She jabbed her ungloved finger at the tiny room at the rear. “It looks like nothing more than a closet here, but in actuality it's bigger than this room.” She pointed at another square on her map.
“What is that room?”
“This one?” Caroline asked, her finger still occupying the larger square.
“No, the one you said should be larger.”
“Oh, that is the south drawing room. I don't know very much about it other than that it ought to be bigger than I've shown. I wasn't allowed to go in there.”
Blake's ears immediately perked up. “You don't say?”
She nodded. “Oliver called it his House of Treasures, which I always thought was rather silly, seeing as how it wasn't a house at all but just a room.”
“What sort of treasures did he keep there?”
“That's the odd thing,” Caroline replied. “I don't know. Whenever he bought something new—which he frequently did and I tend to think he was using my money—” She blinked, having completely lost track of what she was saying.
“When he bought something new,” Blake prodded, with what he thought was remarkable patience.