“I just don't want to hear it. Tomorrow, maybe. But not today. I simply don't have the energy to give you the thrashing you deserve.”
“Thrashing!” she repeated, her back stiffening in righteous indignation. Before she could go on, however, Helen opened the door to the cottage and poked her head in.
“Oh, good, you're out,” she said. “We were beginning to worry about you. Sally was certain you'd be stuck in there all evening.”
“Please offer her our apologies,” Ellie said. “We have both behaved abominably.” When her husband didn't so much as murmur even the barest hint of agreement, she kicked him in the foot. He grunted something, but if it was in English, it wasn't a word Ellie had ever heard before.
She stood, smoothed her skirts—an action that did nothing but get her gloves utterly filthy—and said to the room at large, “I think we ought to be returning to Wycombe Abbey, don't you?”
Helen nodded quickly. Charles didn't say anything, but he did rise to his feet, which Ellie decided to interpret as a “yes.” They bid their farewells to Sally and were on their way. Charles had brought a small carriage, which both Ellie and Helen appreciated after a long day on their feet.
Ellie was silent during the ride home, using the time to review the events of the day in her mind. Her visit with Mr. Barnes had been just as splendid as she could have hoped. She had made marvelous headway with the tenants, who now seemed to well and truly accept her as their new countess. And she seemed to have turned some sort of corner with her husband, who, even if he didn't love her, clearly felt something for her that went beyond mere lust and appreciation for the fact that she had saved his fortune.
All in all, Ellie felt remarkably pleased with life.
Chapter 13
Two days later she thought she might like to strangle the entire household. Helen, Claire, the servants, her husband—especially her husband. In fact, the only person she didn't want to strangle was Judith, and that was probably just because the poor girl was only six.
Her success with the tenants had proven to be a short-lived victory. Since then, everything had gone wrong. Everything. All of Wycombe Abbey looked upon her as if she were inept. Good-natured and sweet, but still clumsy and inept. It drove Ellie crazy.
Every day, something new died in her little indoor garden. It had gotten to be a sick little game in her mind—guessing which rosebush had gone to plant heaven each day as she entered the orangery.
Then there was the beef stew she'd made for her husband just to be contrary when he said countesses couldn't cook. It had so much salt that Charles couldn't have hidden the pinched expression on his face even if he'd tried. Which he hadn't. Which irritated her all the more.
Ellie had had to dump the entire pot outside. Even the pigs wouldn't touch it.
“I am sure you meant to season it properly,” Charles had said while everyone was gagging.
“I did,” Ellie hissed, thinking it a wonder that she hadn't ground her teeth down to powder.
“Perhaps you mistook salt for another spice.”
“I know what salt is,” she fairly yelled.
“Ellie,” Claire said, just a touch too sweetly. “Clearly the stew is a bit oversalted. You must see that.”
“You,” Ellie burst out, jabbing her index finger in the fourteen-year-old's direction. “Stop speaking to me as if I were a child. I have had enough of it.”
“Surely you misunderstand.”
“There is only one thing to understand, and only one person who has some understanding to do.” By now Ellie was practically breathing fire, and everyone at the table was agog.
“I married your cousin,” Ellie continued. “It doesn't matter if you like it, it doesn't matter if he likes it, it doesn't even matter if I like it. I married him, and that is that.”
Claire looked as if she were going to protest this tirade, so Ellie cut her off with, “Last time I consulted the laws of Britain and the Church of England, marriage was permanent. So you had better get used to my presence here at Wycombe Abbey, because I'm not going anywhere.”
Charles had started to applaud, but Ellie was still so furious with him over the salt comment that she could only glower at him in return. And then, because she was certain she'd do someone bodily harm if she remained in the dining room one moment longer, she stomped off.
But her husband had been hot on her heels. “Eleanor, wait!” he called out.
Against her better judgment, she turned around, but not until she had reached the hall outside the dining room, where the rest of the family would not be able to see her humiliation. He'd called her Eleanor—never a good sign. “What?” she bit off.
“What you said in the dining room,” he began.
“I know I ought to be sorry I yelled at a young girl, but I am not,” Ellie said defiantly. “Claire has been doing everything in her power to make me feel unwelcome here, and I wouldn't be surprised if—” She cut herself off, realizing that she'd been about to say she wouldn't have been surprised if Claire had been the one to dump so much salt in the stew.
“You wouldn't have been surprised if what?”
“Nothing.” He wouldn't make her say it. Ellie refused to make childish and petty accusations.
He waited for a moment for her to continue, and when it became apparent that she would not, he said, “What you said in the dining room…about marriage being permanent. I wanted you to know that I agree with you.”
Ellie only stared at him, not sure what he meant.
“I am sorry if I have bruised your feelings,” he said quietly.
Her mouth fell open. He was apologizing?
“But I do want you to know that despite these very minor, er, setbacks—”
Ellie's mouth settled into a grim and angry line.
He must not have noticed because he kept talking. “—I think you are becoming a superb countess. Your behavior with the tenants the other day was magnificent.”
“Are you telling me I am more suited to life outside Wycombe Abbey than inside?” she asked.
“No, of course not.” He exhaled and raked his hand through his thick, brown hair. “I am simply trying to say…Hell,” he muttered. “What am I trying to say?”
Ellie resisted the urge to make some sort of sarcastic remark and just waited, arms crossed. Finally he thrust a piece of paper in her direction and said, “Here.”
“What is this?” she asked, taking it into her hand.
“A list.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “A list. Just what I wanted. I have been so lucky with lists thus far.”
“It is a different sort of list,” he said, clearly trying to be patient with her.
Ellie unfolded the sheet and looked down.
ACTIVITIES TO PURSUE WITH WIFE
A ride and picnic in the countryside.
Revisit the tenants as a unified couple.
A trip into London. Ellie needs new dresses.
Teach her to write her own lists. They can be devilishly entertaining.
She looked up. “Devilishly entertaining, eh?”
“Mmm, yes. I thought you might like to try something like ‘Seven Ways to Silence Mrs. Foxglove.’”
“The suggestion has merit,” she murmured, before looking back down at the list.
5. Take her to the seashore.
6. Kiss her until she's senseless.
7. Kiss her until I'm senseless.
Charles could tell the moment when she reached the final two items, for her cheeks turned delightfully pink. “What does this mean?” she finally asked.
“It means, my dear wife, that I have also realized that marriage is permanent.”
“I don't understand.”
“It is high time we had a normal marriage.”
She colored even further at the word “normal.”
“However,” he continued, “in what must have been a fit of madness, I agreed to your stipulation that you be allowed to get to know me better before we are intimate.”
By now she was beyond beet red.
“Therefore, I have decided to give you every opportunity to get to know me better, every last damned chance to grow comfortable in my presence.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Pick something on the list. We'll do it tomorrow.”
Ellie's lips parted in delighted surprise. Her husband was actually courting her. She was going to be a wooed woman. She'd never dreamed he'd do something so perfectly romantic. Not that he would ever admit to a romantic bone in his body. Seductive, perhaps. Even rakish, devilish, or amorous. But not romantic.
But she knew better. And that was all that mattered. She smiled and looked back down at the list.
“I suggest number six or seven,” he said.
She looked back up. He was grinning in that urbane, devil-may-care fashion of his that must have broken hearts from here to London and back. “I'm not sure I understand the difference,” she said, “between kissing me until I'm senseless and kissing me until you're senseless.”
His voice dropped to a husky murmur. “I could show you.”
“I have no doubt you could,” she returned, trying very hard to sound pert even though her heart was racing and her legs felt as steady as marmalade. “But I choose items one and two. It will be very easy for us to picnic and visit the tenants on the same day.”
“Items one and two it is, then,” he said with a smart bow. “But don't be surprised if I sneak up on you with number six.”
“Really, Charles.”
He leveled a long, hot stare in her direction. “And seven.”
Their outing was scheduled for the very next day. Ellie wasn't particularly surprised by Charles's haste; he had seemed quite determined to do whatever it took to get her into bed. And she was particularly surprised at her own lack of resistance to his plan; she was well aware that she was softening toward him.
“I thought we might ride,” Charles said when he met her at noon. “The weather is splendid, and it seems a shame to confine ourselves in a carriage.”
“An excellent idea, my lord,” Ellie replied. “Or it would be, if I knew how to ride.”
“You don't ride?”
“Vicars rarely earn enough to afford mounts,” she said with an amused smile.
“Then I shall have to teach you.”
“Not today, I hope,” she laughed. “I need time to mentally prepare myself for all of the aches and pains I am sure to acquire.”
“My curricle is still not repaired from our earlier mishap. Are you up for a constitutional walk?”
“Only if you promise to walk fast,” Ellie said with a mischievous grin. “I have never been terribly good at sedate strolls.”
“Now why does that not surprise me?”
She looked at him through her lashes. It was a flirtatious expression that was new to her, yet it felt entirely natural in her husband's company. “You're not surprised?” she asked in mock astonishment.
“Let us just say that I have difficulty imagining you attacking life with anything less than complete enthusiasm.”
Ellie giggled as she ran ahead of him. “Come along, then. I have yet to attack the day.”
Charles followed behind her, matching her run with a gait that was half stride and half lope. “Hold up!” he finally yelled. “Don't forget that I am handicapped by the picnic basket.”
Ellie stopped short. “Oh yes, of course. I hope Monsieur Belmont packed something tasty.”
“Whatever it is, it smells delicious.”
“Some of that roast turkey from yesterday?” she asked hopefully, trying to peer inside the basket.
He held it above his head as he continued down the path. “Now you can't run too far ahead. For I control the food.”
“So you plan to starve me into submission?”
“If that is my only chance of success.” He leaned forward. “I am not a proud man. I shall win you by fair means or foul.”
“Does starvation count as fair or foul?”
“That, I think, depends upon how long it takes.”
As if on cue, Ellie's stomach let out a loud rumble.
“This,” Charles said with a slow grin, “is going to be very, very easy.”
Ellie scoffed before she continued down the path. “Oh, look!” she exclaimed, stopping before a large oak tree. “Someone hung a swing from this tree.”
“My father did it for me when I was eight,” Charles recalled. “I swung here for hours.”
“Is it still sturdy enough to use?”
“Judith comes here nearly every day.”
She looked at him waspishly. “I'm a bit heavier than Judith.”
“Not much. Here, why don't you give it a try?”
Ellie smiled girlishly as she sat down on the wooden board that Charles's father had used for a seat. “Will you push?”
Charles swept his body into a courtly bow. “I am your ever faithful servant, my lady.” He gave her a starting push, and she began to fly through the air.
“Oh, this is lovely!” she shrieked. “I haven't been on a swing in years.”
“Higher?”
“Higher!”
Charles pushed her until she thought her toes might touch the sky.
“Oh, that's quite high enough,” she called out. “My stomach is starting to flip about.” After she settled down to a more sedate swing, she asked, “Speaking of my poor, beleaguered stomach, do you really plan to starve me into submission?”
He grinned. “I have it planned to the last devious detail. One kiss for a piece of roast turkey, two for a scone.”
“There are scones?” Ellie thought she might drool. Mrs. Stubbs might have problems with toast, but the housekeeper made the best scones this side of Hadrian's wall.
“Mmm-hmm. And blackberry jam. Mrs. Stubbs said she slaved over a hot stove for a day to get it just right.”
“Jam is not so very difficult,” Ellie said with a shrug. “I've made it a thousand times. In fact…”
“In fact…?”
“That's a wonderful idea!” she said to herself.
“I don't know why I'm dreading this,” he muttered. “Well, in fact I do know. It could have something to do with the fire in my kitchen. Or the odd smells emanating from my orangery. Or perhaps the stew—”
“None of that was my fault,” she snapped, stamping her feet on the ground and bringing the swing to a halt. “And if you thought about it for more than half a second, you'd realize that I speak the truth.”
Charles decided he'd made a tactical error by bringing up her recent domestic disasters during what was supposed to be an afternoon of seduction. “Ellie,” he said in his most conciliatory voice.
She jumped down from the swing and planted her hands on her hips. “Someone is sabotaging me, and I plan to find out why. And whom,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“Perhaps you're right,” he murmured, not really meaning it. He just wanted to placate her. But as the words slipped from his mouth, they suddenly rang true. It didn't make sense that Ellie, who seemed so supremely capable in every way, would have set a kitchen on fire, singlehandedly killed every plant in the orangery, and mistaken salt for God only knew what else when she was preparing the beef stew. Even the sorriest dullard couldn't have accomplished quite so much in only a fortnight.
But he didn't want to think of sabotage, nor of fiendish plots nor dead plants. Not today, when he needed to concentrate all of his energies on seducing his wife. “Can we discuss this another day?” he inquired, picking up the picnic basket. “I promise I will look into your allegations, but this is too fine a day to worry over such matters.”
Ellie made no reaction for a moment and then nodded. “I don't want to spoil our lovely picnic.” Then her eyes crinkled mischievously, and she added, “Monsieur Belmont didn't sneak in any of the leftover beef stew, did he?”
Charles recognized her peace offering and took it. “No, I think you dumped every last bit of it out this morning.”
“Ah yes,” she murmured. “As I recall, even the pigs wouldn't touch it.”
His heart warmed as he watched her. So few people had the ability to laugh at their own foibles. With every passing day, he was developing a deeper appreciation for his wife. He had chosen quickly, but he had chosen well.
Now, he thought with a sigh, if he could only man age to develop an even deeper appreciation for her before he exploded.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“You sighed.”
“Did I?”
“Yes, you did.”
He sighed again.
“There it is again,” she exclaimed.
“I know. It's simply that…”
She blinked, a waiting expression on her face, and then finally she prodded him with, “Yes?”
“It's going to have to be number six,” he growled, dropping the picnic basket and engulfing her with his arms. “I can't wait another second.”
Before Ellie even had a chance to remember what number six entailed, his lips were on hers, kissing her with a fierce possessiveness that was achingly tender. His mouth grew more and more passionate, and his skin turned hot. Without realizing it, he backed her up against a tree, using its sturdy frame to press his body intimately against hers.
He could feel her every curve, from the lush swell of her breasts to the gentle flare of her hips. The wool of her dress was thick, but it didn't hide the way she peaked under his touch. And nothing could have hidden the soft sounds escaping her mouth.
She wanted him. She might not understand it, but she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her.
He lowered her to the ground, hastily spreading the picnic blanket beneath them. He had long since disposed of her bonnet, and he now loosened her chignon, letting the long strands of hair float between his fingers. “Softer than silk,” he whispered. “Softer than the sunrise.”
She moaned again, a sound that vaguely resembled his name. Charles grinned, thrilled by the fact that he had inflamed her desire to the point that she couldn't even speak. “I've kissed you senseless,” he murmured, his grin sliding into a lazy, masculine smile. “I told you I'd sneak in number six.”