Chapter 22

In a few short days, the honeymoon was over.

Chapter 23

Caroline squinted at the horizon, but in the…

Selections from the Personal Dictionary of Caroline Ravenscroft

About the Author

Avon Books by Julia Quinn

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

con.tu.ber.nal (noun). One who occupies the same tent; a tent-fellow, comrade.

The thought of Percy Prewitt as my contubernal causes me to break out in hives.

—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent

Hampshire, England
July 3, 1814

Caroline Trent hadn't meant to shoot Percival Prewitt, but she had, and now he was dead.

Or at least she thought he was dead. There was certainly enough blood. It was dripping from the walls, it was splattered on the floor, and the bedclothes were stained quite beyond redemption. Caroline didn't know very much about medicine, but she was fairly certain a body couldn't lose that much blood and still live.

She was in big trouble now.

“Damn,” she muttered. Although she was a gentlewoman, she hadn't always been raised in particularly gentle circumstances, and her language occasionally left a bit to be desired.

“You stupid man,” she said to the body on the floor. “Why did you have to lunge at me like that? Why couldn't you have left well enough alone? I told your father I wasn't going to marry you. I told him I wouldn't marry you if you were the last idiot in Britain.”

She nearly stamped her foot in frustration. Why was it her words never came out quite the way she intended them to? “What I meant to say was that you are an idiot,” she said to Percy, who, not surprisingly, didn't respond, “and that I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man in Britain, and—Oh, blast. What am I doing talking to you, anyway? You're quite dead.”

Caroline groaned. What the devil was she supposed to do now? Percy's father was due to return in just two short hours, and it didn't require an Oxford degree to deduce that Oliver Prewitt would not be pleased to find his son dead on the floor.

“Bother your father,” she ground out. “This is all his fault, anyway. If he hadn't been so obsessed with catching you an heiress …”

Oliver Prewitt was Caroline's guardian, or at least he would be for the next six weeks, until she reached her twenty-first birthday. She had been counting down the days until August 14, 1814, ever since August 14, 1813, when she had turned twenty. Just forty-two days to go. Forty-two days and she would finally have control of her life and her fortune. She didn't even want to think about how much of her inheritance the Prewitts had already run through.

She tossed her gun onto the bed, planted her hands on her hips, and stared down at Percy.

And then … his eyes opened.

“Aaaaaaack!” Caroline let out a loud scream, jumped a foot, and grabbed her gun.

“You b—” Percy started.