“Dratted female,” he muttered, not sure whether he was referring to Caroline or Mrs. Mickle.

Blake put some water on to boil and scrounged around in the cupboards for some tea. Unlike most men of his station, he knew his way around a kitchen. Soldiers and spies often had to learn how to cook if they wanted to eat, and Blake was no exception. Gourmet meals were quite beyond his repertoire, but he could certainly manage tea and biscuits. Especially since Mrs. Mickle had already baked the biscuits. All Blake had to do was set them on a plate.

It felt very strange to be doing this for Caroline Trent. It had been a long time since he'd taken care of anyone save for himself, and there was something comforting about listening to the teakettle squeak and howl as the water boiled. Comforting and yet at the same time unsettling. Preparing tea, tending to her twisted ankle—they weren't terribly intimate acts, and yet he could feel them pulling him closer to her.

He fought the urge to smack himself in the head. He was growing overly and stupidly philosophical. He wasn't becoming close to Caroline Trent, and he certainly had no desire to do so. They'd shared one kiss, and it had been an idiotic impulse on his part. As for her, she probably hadn't known any better. He'd bet his home and his fortune that she'd never been kissed before.

The water came to a boil, and Blake poured it into the china teapot, taking a sniff of the fragrant aroma as the tea began to steep. After placing a small pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar on the tray, he picked up the service and headed back to the drawing room. He didn't really mind getting the tea; there was something rather soothing in performing the occasional mindless task. But Miss Trent was going to have to get it through her stubborn little skull that he wasn't going to play nursemaid and fetch her every whim and desire while she was living at Seacrest Manor.

He didn't want to act like some lovesick puppy, he didn't want Caroline to think he was acting like a lovesick puppy, and he certainly didn't want James to see him acting like a lovesick puppy.

It didn't matter that he wasn't the least bit lovesick. James would never let him live it down.

Blake turned the last corner and headed into the drawing room, but when his eyes fell upon the sofa, there was an empty spot where Caroline should have been, and a rather large mess on the floor.

And then he heard a rather sheepish voice say, “It was an accident. I swear.”

Chapter 8

quaff (verb). To drink deeply; to take a long draught.

I have found that when a gentleman grows ill-tempered, oftentimes the best antidote is to invite him to quaff a cup of tea.

—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent

Freshly cut flowers were strewn on the floor, a priceless vase was overturned but thankfully not broken, and a wet stain was seeping across Blake's very new, very expensive Aubusson carpet.