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.

"Don't say it," she warned. "I still have a gun."

"You wouldn't use it," he gasped, coughing and clutching at his bloody shoulder.

"I beg your pardon, but the evidence seems to indicate otherwise."

Percy's thin lips clamped into a straight line. He swore viciously, and then lifted his furious gaze to Caroline. "I told my father I didn't want to marry you," he hissed. "God! Can you imagine? Having to live with you for the rest of my life? I should go bloody insane. If you didn't kill me first, that is."