She shrugged, trying to ignore the way she was jostled against him as he carried her through the house. “I'm often impertinent.”

“One doesn't need to be in your company for very long to appreciate that fact.”

Caroline remained silent. She probably should not be speaking so boldly to her host, but her mouth very often formed words with no direction whatsoever from her brain. Besides, she was fairly certain now that her place here at Seacrest Manor was secure for the next five weeks. Blake Ravenscroft might not want her here—he might not even like her—but he definitely felt guilty over having mistakenly abducted her, and his sense of honor required him to provide her with a place to stay until she was safe from Oliver Prewitt.

Caroline smiled to herself. A man with a sense of honor was a very good thing, indeed.

Several hours later Caroline was still in the blue room, but the blue room no longer bore anything more than a passing resemblance to the chamber she'd entered earlier that day.

Perriwick, in his desire to make “the lovely and gracious Miss Trent” as comfortable and happy as possible, had brought in several trays of food, a selection of books and newspapers, a set of watercolors, and a flute. When Caroline had pointed out that she did not know how to play the flute, Perriwick had offered to teach her.

Blake had finally lost his patience when Perriwick offered to move the piano into the room—or rather, offered to have Blake, who was quite a bit younger and stronger than he was—do it. That had been bad enough, but when Caroline asked if Perriwick was going to play for her, Perriwick had answered, “Goodness no, I don't know how to play, but I'm sure Mr. Ravenscroft would be happy to entertain you for the afternoon.”

At that point, Blake had thrown up his arms and stalked out of the room, muttering something about how his butler had never been so courteous and concerned about him.

And that was the last Caroline had seen of him. She had managed to keep herself quite happy for the afternoon, however, munching on pastries and thumbing through the most recent copies of the London Times. Really, she could get used to such a life. Even her ankle wasn't paining her so much any longer.

She was quite entranced by the society pages—not, mind you, that she had a clue who they were talking about, except, possibly, for the “Dashing and Dangerous Lord R—” who Caroline was beginning to suspect might be her new friend James, when the marquis himself walked into the room.

“You have been gone quite a while,” she said. “Would you like a pastry?”

James looked around the room with undisguised curiosity. “Have we arranged for another feast without my knowledge?”

“Perriwick merely wanted to make certain I was comfortable,” Caroline explained.

“Ah, yes. The servants do seem rather besotted with you.”

“It is driving Blake mad.”