They tumbled onto the sofa, Caroline landing softly on top of him, and he wasted no time in ex­changing positions with her. He wanted to feel her squirming beneath him, writhing with the same force of desire that was consuming him. He wanted to watch her eyes as they darkened and smoldered with need.

His hands stole under the hem of her skirt, dar­ingly squeezing her supple calf before sliding up to her soft thigh. She moaned beneath him, a delecta­ble sound that might have been his name, or it might have just been a moan, but Blake didn't care. All he wanted was her.

All of her.

"God help me, Caroline," he said, barely recog­nizing the sound of his own voice. "I need you. To­night. Right now. I need you."

His hand went to the fastening of his breeches, moving frantically to free himself. He had to sit up to get them undone, though, and that was just enough time for her to look at him, to really look at him. And in that split second her haze of passion cleared and she lurched up off the sofa.

"No," she gasped. "Not like this. Not without- No."

Blake just watched her go, hating himself for coming at her like such an animal. But she surprised him by pausing at the door.

"Go," he said hoarsely. If she didn't leave the room that instant, he knew he would go after her, and then there would be no escape.

"Will you be all right?"

He stared at her in shock. He had very nearly dishonored her. He would have taken her virginity without a backward glance. "Why are you asking?"

"Will you be all right?"

She wasn't going to leave without a response, so he nodded.

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow."

And then she was gone.

dith-er (noun). A state of tremulous ex­citement or apprehension; also, vacilla­tion; a state of confusion.

Just a word from him sets me in a dither, 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 far the purpose of alerting More-ton 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.

"I'm fine," he said.

"It's really quite remarkable how well you can enunciate even when you talk through your teeth. But still, you don't look at all the thing. Perhaps I ought to put you to bed."

The room suddenly felt stiflingly hot, and Blake blurted out, "That is a very bad idea, Caroline."

"I know, I know. Men make the worst patients. Can you imagine if you had to deliver babies? The human race should never have made it so far."

He turned on his heel. "I'm going to my room."

"Oh, good. You should. You'll feel much better, I'm sure, if you get some rest."

Blake didn't answer her, just strode toward the stairs. When he reached the first step, however, he realized that she was still right behind him. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

"I'm following you to your room."

"Are you doing this for any particular reason?"

"I'm seeing to your welfare."

"See to it elsewhere."

"That," she said firmly, "is quite impossible."

"Caroline," he ground out, thinking his jaw was going to snap in two at any moment, "you are try­ing my nerves. Severely."

"Of course I am. Anyone would in your condi­tion. You are clearly suffering from some sort of illness."

He stomped up two steps. "I am not ill."

She stomped up one step. "Of course you are. You could have a fever, or perhaps a putrid throat."

He whirled around. "I repeat: I am not ill."

"Don't make me repeat my statement as well. We're starting to sound rather childish. And if you

don't allow me to tend to you, you'll only grow sicker."

Blake felt a pressure rising within him-some­thing he was quite powerless to contain. "I am not ill."