Three women were preparing food in the far corner. Two appeared to be kitchen maids, and they were washing and dicing meat. The other woman was a bit older and had her head in one of the ovens. Ellie assumed she was Mrs. Stubbs.
Helen cleared her throat, and the two maids turned to look at them. Mrs. Stubbs rose too quickly and banged her head on the lip of the oven. She let out a short howl of pain, muttered something that Ellie was certain her father would have disapproved of, and stood upright.
“Good morning, Mrs. Stubbs,” Helen said. “I would like to introduce you to the new countess.”
Mrs. Stubbs bobbed a curtsy, as did the two kitchen maids. “My lady,” she said.
“You'll be wanting something cold for that bump,” Ellie said briskly, in her element now that she had found a task to complete. She stepped toward the kitchen maids. “Would one of you be so kind as to show me where the ice is stored?”
The maids gaped at her for a moment and then one of them said, “I'll fetch some for you, my lady.”
Ellie turned to Helen with a slightly sheepish smile. “I'm not used to having people do and fetch things for me.”
Helen's lips twitched. “Obviously not.”
Ellie crossed the room to Mrs. Stubbs's side. “Let me have a look at that.”
“No, really, it's quite all right,” the housekeeper said quickly. “I don't need—”
But Ellie's fingers had already found the lump. It wasn't very large, but she was certain it must be painful. “Of course you do,” she said. She picked up a thin towel she saw on a worktable, wrapped it around the ice one of the maids was holding tentatively toward her, and pressed it against the lump on the housekeeper's head.
Mrs. Stubbs let out a grumble and muttered, “It's very cold.”
“Of course it is,” Ellie replied. “It's ice.” She turned to Helen with an exasperated look on her face, but her new cousin had her hand clamped over her mouth and looked as if she were trying very hard not to laugh. Ellie widened her eyes and jutted her chin forward in a silent appeal for cooperation.
Helen gave a little nod, took a couple of breaths to stem her giggles, and said, “Mrs. Stubbs, Lady Billington has come to the kitchen to inspect the ovens.”
The housekeeper's head turned slowly in Ellie's direction. “I beg your pardon.”
“I couldn't help noticing this morning that the toast was a bit black,” Ellie said.
“That is how Mrs. Pallister likes it.”
Helen cleared her throat and said, “Actually, Mrs. Stubbs, I do prefer my toast on the slightly less charred side.”
“Why didn't you say anything?”
“I did. You said it came out that way no matter how long you toasted it.”
“I can only conclude,” Ellie interjected, “that something is amiss with the oven. As I have a great deal of experiences with stoves and ovens, I thought I might give it a look.”
“You?” Mrs. Stubbs asked.
“You?” Kitchen maid #1 (as Ellie had taken to calling her in her mind) asked.
“You?” Kitchen maid #2 (by default, of course) asked.
All three were gaping visibly. Ellie rather thought that the only reason Helen hadn't let her mouth drop open and echo, “You?” was because Helen had already done so upstairs in the informal dining room.
Ellie scowled, planted her hands on her hips, and said, “Contrary to popular opinion, a countess may occasionally possess a useful talent or two. Perhaps even a skill.”
“I have always found embroidery quite useful,” Helen said. She eyed a blackened stovetop. “And it's quite a clean hobby.”
Ellie shot her a dirty look and hissed, “You are not helping.”
Helen shrugged, smiled, then said, “I think we should let the countess take a look at the oven.”
“Thank you,” Ellie said, with what she thought was great dignity and patience. She turned to Mrs. Stubbs and asked, “Which oven do you use for the toast?”
“That one,” the housekeeper replied, pointing a long finger at the filthiest of the lot. “Those other ones belong to the Frenchie. I wouldn't touch them if you paid me.”
“They were imported from France,” Helen explained.
“Oh,” Ellie said, feeling as if she were trapped in a very strange dream. “Well, I am certain they can't compare to our good, sturdy English ovens.” She walked over to the oven, pulled the door open, then turned back around to suggest, “Do you know, we could avoid all of this if we just used a toasting fork?”
Mrs. Stubbs crossed her arms and said, “I'll never use one of those. Don't trust them.”
Ellie couldn't imagine what could possibly be construed as untrustworthy about a toasting fork, but she decided that it wasn't worth pressing the issue, so she lifted her skirts above her ankles, kneeled, and stuck her head in the oven.
Charles had been hunting for his new bride for several minutes, his quest finally taking him, most improbably, to the kitchens. A footman swore that he had seen Ellie and Helen head that way a quarter of an hour earlier. Charles couldn't credit it, but he decided to investigate, anyway. Ellie wasn't the most conventional of countesses, so he supposed it was possible that she had taken it in her head to introduce herself to the kitchen staff.
He was not prepared for the sight that awaited him. His new wife was on her hands and knees with her entire head—no, rather half her torso—jammed into an oven that Charles was fairly certain had resided at Wycombe Abbey since before the time of Cromwell. Charles's initial reaction was one of terror—visions of flames leaping through Ellie's hair raced through his mind. But Helen appeared unperturbed, so he managed to squelch the urge to run into the kitchen and haul Ellie to safety.
He took a step back from the doorway so that he could watch the proceedings unnoticed. Ellie was saying something—it sounded like nothing so much as a grunt, actually—and then he clearly heard her yell, “I have it! I have it—”
Helen, Mrs. Stubbs, and the two kitchen maids all leaned in closer, clearly fascinated with Ellie's maneuvers.
“Blast. I don't have it,” Ellie finished, rather grumpily, in Charles's opinion.
“Are you certain you know what you're about?” Helen asked.
“Absolutely. All I need is to move this rack. It's much too high.” Ellie began to yank on something that obviously wouldn't budge, for she landed on her behind several times. “When was the last time this oven was cleaned?” she asked.
Mrs. Stubbs huffed. “That oven is every bit as clean as an oven needs to be.”
Ellie muttered something Charles couldn't hear, and then she said, “There. I have it.” She pulled a charred rack out of the oven and then inserted it back in. “Now all I have to do is move this farther from this flame.”
Flame? Charles's blood ran to ice. She was playing with fire?
“There!” Ellie pulled herself out of the oven and landed on her behind on the floor. “That ought to fix it.”
Charles decided that this was a good moment to announce his presence. “Good morning, wife,” he said, strolling in, his stance deceptively casual. What Ellie couldn't see was that his hands were clenched tightly together behind his back. It was the only way he could keep them from wrapping themselves around her shoulders and hauling her back to their room for a blistering lecture on the safety—or lack thereof—of the kitchens.
“Billington!” Ellie exclaimed in surprise. “You're awake.”
“Obviously.”
She scrambled to her feet. “I must look a fright.”
Charles pulled out a snowy handkerchief. “You do have a bit of soot here” —he wiped the cloth against her left cheek— “and here” —he wiped it against her right— “and of course a bit here.” This time he applied the handkerchief to her nose.
Ellie grabbed the cloth out of his hand, not liking the drawl in his voice. “That's really not necessary, my lord,” she said. “I'm perfectly capable of wiping my face.”
“I don't suppose you would like to tell
me what you were doing inside the oven. I assure you that we have ample foodstuffs here at Wycombe Abbey without you offering yourself up as the main course.”
Ellie stared at him, not at all certain whether he was funning her or not. “I was fixing the oven, my lord.”
“We have servants for that.”
“Clearly you don't,” Ellie replied, bristling at his tone. “Or you wouldn't have been eating burnt toast for the past ten years.”
“I like my toast burnt,” he bit out.
Helen coughed so hard that Mrs. Stubbs whacked her on the back.
“Well, I don't,” Ellie returned, “and neither does Helen, so you are outvoted.”
“I like my toast burnt.”
Every head swiveled to face the doorway, where Claire stood, her arms planted on her hips. Ellie thought the girl looked rather militant for a fourteen-year-old.
“I want the oven the way it was,” Claire stated firmly. “I want everything the way it was.”
Ellie's heart sank. Her new cousin was clearly not excited about her arrival into the household. “Fine!” she said, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “I'll change it back.”
She made it halfway back into the oven by the time Charles's hand closed around the collar of her dress and yanked her back out. “You will not be repeating this dangerous stunt,” he said. “The oven will remain the way it is.”
“I thought you liked your toast burnt?”
“I will adjust.”
At that point, Ellie really wanted to laugh, but she wisely kept her mouth shut.
Charles glared belligerently at the rest of the kitchen's occupants. “I would like a few words alone with my wife.” When no one moved, he roared, “Now!”
“Then perhaps we should leave,” Ellie cut in. “After all, Mrs. Stubbs and the kitchen maids work here. We do not.”
“You appeared to be doing a rather fine imitation of it,” he grumbled, suddenly sounding more petulant than angry.
Ellie gaped at him. “You are quite the most strange and contrary man I have every met.”
“I did not have my head in an oven,” he shot back.
“Well, I do not eat burnt toast!”
“Well, I—” Charles's head snapped up, as if he suddenly realized that he was not only having a most bizarre argument with his wife, but that he was doing it before an audience. He cleared his throat and wrapped his hand around her slender wrist. “I believe I would like to show you the blue room,” he said loudly.
Ellie followed. She didn't have much choice, really. He left the room in quite a hurry, and since her wrist was now attached to his hand, she went with him. She wasn't certain where they were going—probably to the first chamber he found with enough privacy for him to rail at her without anyone else hearing.
Blue room, indeed.
Chapter 8
Much to Ellie's surprise, the room Charles eventually pulled her into actually was decorated in blue. She looked around her—taking in the blue sofas, blue drapes—and then let her eyes slide to the floor, which was covered with a blue-and-white carpet.
“Have you anything to say for yourself?” Charles demanded.
Ellie said nothing, temporarily mesmerized by the interlocking pattern on the carpet.
“Ellie,” he growled.
Her head snapped back up. “I beg your pardon?”
Charles looked as if he wanted to shake her. Hard. “I said,” he repeated, “have you anything to say for yourself?”
She blinked and replied, “This room is quite blue.”
He just stared at her, clearly at a loss as to how to respond.
“I didn't think you were serious about taking me to the blue room,” she explained. “I thought you merely wanted to take me somewhere where you might yell at me.”
“I do want to yell at you,” he ground out.
“Yes,” she mused. “That much is clear. Although I must say that I'm not entirely certain why…”
“Eleanor!” he fairly roared, “You had your head in an oven!”
“Of course I did,” she replied. “I was fixing it. You'll be quite pleased once you start receiving proper toast for breakfast.”
“I will not be pleased, I could not care less about the toast, and you will never enter the kitchens again.”
Ellie's hands found their way to her hips. “You, sir, are an idiot.”
“Have you ever seen a person with his hair on fire?” Charles demanded, jabbing his finger into her shoulder. “Have you?”
“Of course not, but—”
“I have, and it was not a pretty sight.”
“I don't imagine it was, but—”
“I'm not certain what ultimately caused the poor fellow's death, the burns or the pain.”
Ellie swallowed, trying not to visualize the disaster. “I'm terribly sorry for your friend, but—”
“His wife went insane. Said she heard his screams at night.”
“Charles!”
“Good God, I had no idea having a wife would be this disruptive. And only one day into marriage.”
“You are being needlessly insulting. And I can assure you that—”
He sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward as he interrupted her. “Was it so much to hope that my life could continue as peacefully as before?”
“Will you let me speak!” Ellie finally burst out.
He shrugged in a deceptively casual manner. “Go right ahead.”
“You needn't be so pointlessly macabre,” she said. “I have been fixing ovens my entire life. I didn't grow up with servants and luxuries and the like. If we were to eat supper, I had to cook it. And if the oven didn't work, I had to fix it.”
Charles pondered that, paused, and said, “I apologize if you feel that I have underestimated you in any way. I certainly do not mean to belittle your talents.”
Ellie wasn't entirely certain that fixing an oven qualified as a talent, but she kept her mouth shut.
“It is simply”—he reached out, took a lock of her strawberry-blond hair, and twirled it around his fore-finger— “that I shouldn't like to see this go up in flames.”
She swallowed nervously. “Don't be silly.”
He tugged gently on her hair, drawing her closer to him. “It would be such a shame,” he murmured. “It's so soft.”
“It's just hair,” Ellie stated, thinking that one of them had to keep this conversation grounded in reality.
“No.” He brought the lock of hair to his mouth and ran it across his lips. “It's much more than that.”
Ellie stared at him, unaware that her lips had parted ever so slightly. She would swear she felt that gentle caress on her scalp. No, on her mouth. No, on her neck. No—blast it, she'd felt that bloody sensation all over her body.
She looked up. He was still running her hair across his mouth. She shuddered. She was still feeling it. “Charles,” she croaked.
He smiled, clearly aware of his effect on her. “Ellie?” he countered.
“I think you should…” She gasped and tried to pull away as he pulled her even closer to him.
“You think I should what?”
“Let go of my hair.”
His free arm stole around her waist. “I disagree,” he whispered. “I've grown quite attached to it.”
Ellie looked at his finger, around which were now wrapped several coils of her hair. “Clearly,” she said, wishing she sounded more sarcastic and less breathy.
He held his finger up so that he could regard it against the undraped window. “Pity,” he murmured. “The sun is already well above the horizon. I should have liked to compare your hair to the sunrise.”
Ellie stared at him, dumbfounded. No one had ever spoken to her in such a poetic fashion before. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to interpret his words. “What are you talking about?” she finally blurted out.
“Your hair,” he said with a smile, “is the color of the sun.”
“My hair,” she said loudly, “is ridiculous.”
“Women.” He sighed. “They are never satisfied.”
“That is not true,” Ellie protested, thinking that she ought to defend her gender.
He shrugged. “You are not satisfied.”
“I beg your pardon. I am completely satisfied with my life.”
“As your husband, I cannot tell you how heartened I am to hear it. I must be better at this marriage thing than I thought.”
“I am perfectly satisfied,” she said, ignoring his ironic tone, “because I now have control over my own destiny. I am no longer under my father's thumb.”
“Or Mrs. Foxglove's,” Charles pointed out.
“Or Mrs. Foxglove's,” she agreed.
His face adopted a thoughtful air. “But my thumb, I could do quite a bit with my thumb.”
“I am certain I do not know what you are talking about.”
He let go of her hair and let his fingers trail down the side of her neck. “I am certain you don't,” he murmured. “But you will. And then you will be satisfied.”
Ellie's eyes narrowed as she jerked out of his grasp. Her new spouse certainly did not have any difficulties relating to his self-esteem. She rather doubted he had ever heard the word, “No,” uttered from female lips. She narrowed her eyes and asked, “You have seduced many women, haven't you?”
“I hardly think that is the sort of question one asks one's husband.”
“I think it is exactly the sort of question one should be asking one's husband.” She planted her hands firmly on her hips. “Women are nothing but a game to you.”
Charles stared at her for a moment. Her statement was nothing if not astute. “Not a game, precisely,” he said, stalling for time.
“Then what?”
“Well, at the very least, you are not a game.”
“Oh? And what am I?”
“My wife,” he bit off, losing patience with this line of conversation.
“You haven't any idea how to treat a wife.”
“I know exactly how to treat a wife,” he snapped. “I am not the problem.”