Since it was high summer, the sun hung in the sky well past the time she ate her evening meal, and when her fingers grew tired she put her sewing down and walked to the window. The hedges were neat and the roses were trimmed to perfection; she and James had clearly done an excellent job with the gardens. Caroline felt a sense of pride in herself that she hadn't experienced in a long time. It had been much too long since she had had the pleasure of starting and completing a task that interested her.

But she wasn't convinced that Blake had come to appreciate her worth as a helpful and courteous houseguest yet; in fact, she was rather certain he had not. So tomorrow she would have to find herself another task, preferably one that would take a bit more time.

He had told her that she could remain at Seacrest Manor until her twenty-first birthday, and she was damned if she was going to let him find a way to escape his promise.

The next morning found Caroline exploring Sea-crest Manor on a full stomach. Mrs. Mickle, who was now her greatest champion, had met her in the breakfast room and fed her no end of delicacies and treats. Omelettes, sausages, kidney pie-Caroline didn't even recognize some of the dishes that graced the sideboard. Mrs. Mickle seemed to have prepared food for an entire army.

After breakfast she set about finding a new proj­ect to keep her busy while in residence. She peered into this room and that, finally ending up in the library. It wasn't as large as those in some of the grander estates, but it boasted several hundred vol­umes. The leather spines gleamed in the early morn­ing light, and the room held the lemony smell of freshly cleaned wood. But a closer inspection of the shelves revealed that they had been filed in no order whatsoever.

Voila!

"Clearly," Caroline said to the empty room, "he needs his books alphabetized."

She pulled down a stack of books, plunked them on the floor, and idly examined the titles. "I don't know how he has managed this long in such chaos."

More books found their way to the floor. "Of course," she said with an expansive wave of her hand, "there is no need for me to try te order these piles now. I'll have plenty of time to do that after I

finish unloading all of the shelves. I'll be here for five more weeks, after all."

She paused to look at a random volume. It was a mathematical treatise. "Fascinating," she mur­mured, flipping through the pages so that she could glance at the incomprehensible prose. "My father always told me I should learn more arithmetic."

She giggled. It was amazing how slowly one could work when one really put one's mind to it.

When Blake came down for breakfast that morn­ing he found a feast the likes of which he'd never seen since taking up residence at Seacrest Manor. His morning meal usually consisted of a platter of fried eggs, a slice or two of ham, and some cold toast. Those items were all in evidence, but they were accompanied by roast beef, Dover sole, and a variety of pastries and tarts that boggled the mind.

Mrs. Mickle had clearly found new culinary in­spiration, and Blake had no doubt that her name was Caroline Trent.

He resolved not to let himself grow irritated at the way his housekeeper was playing favorites and instead decided simply to fill his plate and enjoy the bounty. He was munching on the most delicious strawberry tart when James strolled into the room.

"Good morning to you," the marquis said. "Where is Caroline?"

"Damned if I know, but half the ham is missing, so I imagine she's come and gone."

James whistled. "Mrs. Mickle certainly outdid herself this morning, didn't she? You should have had Caroline move in sooner."

Blake shot him an irritated glance.

"Well, you must admit that your housekeeper has never gone to such lengths to keep you so well-fed."

Blake liked to think that he would have re­sponded with something utterly wry and cutting, but before he could think of anything the least bit witty, they heard a tremendous crash, followed by a feminine shriek of-was it surprise? Or was it pain? Whatever it was, it definitely came from Car­oline, and Blake's heart pounded in his chest as he dashed toward the library and threw open the door.

He'd thought he'd been shocked by his dug-up garden the day before. This was worse.

"What the hell?" he whispered, too shocked to manage a normal speaking voice.

"What happened?" James demanded, skidding to a halt behind him. "Oh my good Lord. What on earth?"

Caroline was sitting in the center of the library, surrounded by books. Or perhaps it would have been more accurate to say that she was sprawled on the library floor, covered with books. An over­turned stepstool lay next to her, and tall piles of books were stacked up on every table and a good portion of the rug.

In fact, not a single volume remained on the shelves. It looked as if Blake's houseguest had somehow managed to conjure a whirlwind for the sole purpose of tearing his library to pieces.

Caroline looked up at them and blinked. "I sup­pose you're both a bit curious."

"Er... yes," Blake replied, thinking that he ought to be yelling at her about something, but not sure what, and still a bit too surprised to come up with a good tirade.

"I thought to put your books in order."

"Yes," he said slowly, trying to take in the scope of the mess. "They look very well-ordered."

Behind him, James let out a snort of laughter, and Caroline planted her hands on her hips and said, "Don't tease!"

"Ravenscroft here wouldn't dream of teasing you," James said. "Would he?"

Blake shook his head. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Caroline scowled at them both. "One of you might offer to help me up."

Blake was about to move aside to let Riverdale pass, but the marquis shoved him forward until he had to lend the girl his hand or seem insufferably rude.

"Thank you," she said, awkwardly rising to her feet. "I'm sorry about the- Ow!" She pitched for­ward into Blake's arms, and for a moment he was able to forget who he was, and what he'd done, and simply savor the feel of her.

"Are you hurt?" he asked gruffly, oddly reluctant to let her go.

"My ankle. I must have twisted it when I fell."

He looked down at her with an amused expres­sion. "This isn't another ill-conceived attempt to force us to let you rerriain here, now is it?"

"Of course not!" she replied, clearly offended. "As if I would deliberately injure myself to-" She looked up sheepishly. "Oh, yes, I did quite destroy my throat the other day, didn't I?"

He nodded, the corners of his mouth quivering toward a smile.

"Yes, well, I had a very good reason... Oh, you were teasing me, weren't you?"

He nodded again.

"It's hard to tell, you know."

"Hard to tell what?"

"When you're teasing," she replied. "You're very serious most of the time."

"You're going to have to stay off of that ankle," Blake said abruptly. "At least until the swelling subsides."

Her voice was soft when she said, "You didn't answer my question."

"You didn't ask a question."

"Didn't I? I suppose I didn't. But you did change the subject."

"A gentleman doesn't like to talk about how se­rious he is."

"Yes, I know." She sighed. "You like to talk of cards and hounds and horses and how much money you lost at the faro table the night before. I've yet to meet a truly responsible gentleman. Aside from my dear father, of course."