Ellie had never had much of a temper. Oh, she was, as her father frequently pointed out, a bit mouthy, but on the whole she was a sensible and levelheaded lady, not given to outbursts and tantrums.
This aspect of her personality, however, was not in evidence at Wycombe Abbey.
“What?!?” she screeched, vaulting to her feet.
“How dare you!” she then shrieked, launching herself toward Billington, who was trying to back up, hindered considerably by his injury and cane.
“You fiend!” she finally squawked, pushing him over and tumbling down to the floor with him.
Charles groaned. “If I have been knocked to the ground,” he said, “then you must be Miss Lyndon.”
“Of course I'm Miss Lyndon,” she shouted. “Who the devil else would I be?”
“I might point out that you look remarkably unlike yourself.”
That gave Ellie pause. She was certain she bore more than a passing resemblance to a drowned rat, her clothes were liberally streaked with mud, and her bonnet…She looked around. Where the devil was her bonnet?
“Lose something?” Charles inquired.
“My bonnet,” Ellie replied, suddenly feeling very sheepish.
He smiled. “I like you better without one. I was wondering what color your hair was.”
“It's red,” she shot back, thinking that this must be the final indignity. She hated her hair, had always hated her hair.
Charles coughed to cover up yet another smile. Ellie was spitting mad, well beyond furious, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun. Well, actually he could. Yesterday, to be precise, when he'd fallen out of a tree and had the good fortune to land on her.
Ellie reached up to push a wet and sticky lock of hair from her face, causing her sodden dress to tighten around her bodice. Charles's skin grew suddenly warm.
Oh yes, he thought, she'd make a very fine wife.
“My lord?” the butler interjected as he leaned down to help Charles up. “Do we know this person?”
“I'm afraid we do,” Charles replied, earning himself a scathing glare from Ellie. “It appears that Miss Lyndon has had a trying day. Perhaps we might offer her some tea. And”—he eyed her dubiously—“a towel.”
“That would be very nice,” Ellie said primly. “Thank you.”
Charles watched her as she stood. “I trust you have been considering my proposal.”
Rosejack halted in his tracks and turned around. “Proposal?” he gasped.
Charles grinned. “Yes, Rosejack. I am hoping that Miss Lyndon will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Rosejack went utterly white.
Ellie scowled at him. “I was trapped in a rainstorm,” she said, thinking that that ought to be self-evident. “I am usually a bit more presentable.”
“She was trapped in a rainstorm,” Charles repeated. “And I can vouch for the fact that she is usually much more presentable. She will make an excellent countess, I assure you.”
“I have not yet accepted,” Ellie muttered.
Rosejack looked as if he might faint.
“You will,” Charles said with a knowing smile.
“How can you possibly—”
“Why else would you have come?” he interjected. He turned to the butler. “Rosejack, the tea, if you please. And don't forget a towel. Or perhaps two.” He glanced down to where Ellie was leaving puddles on the parquet floor, then looked back toward Rosejack yet again. “You had better just bring in a stack of them.”
“I have not come to accept your proposal,” Ellie sputtered. “I merely wanted to talk with you about it. I—”
“Of course, my dear,” Charles murmured. “Would you like to follow me to the drawing room? I would offer you my arm, but I fear I cannot provide much support these days.” He motioned to his cane.
Ellie let out a frustrated breath and followed him into a nearby room. It was decorated in cream and blue, and she didn't dare sit on anything. “I don't think mere towels are going to be sufficient, my lord,” she said. She didn't even want to step on the carpet. Not with the way her skirts were dripping.
Charles surveyed her thoughtfully. “I fear you are correct. Would you like a change of clothing? My sister is married and now lives in Surrey, but she keeps some dresses here. I'd wager she is about your size.”
Ellie didn't like the idea of taking someone's clothing without asking permission, but her other option was coming down with a raging case of lung fever. She looked down at her fingers, which were shaking from the cold and damp, and nodded her head.
Charles rang the bellpull, and a maid entered the room within the minute. Charles gave her instructions to show Ellie to his sister's room. Feeling as if she had somehow lost control of her destiny, Ellie followed the maid out.
Charles sat down on a comfortable sofa, let out a long sigh of relief, then sent up a silent thanks to whomever it was who was responsible for her arriving on his doorstep. He had started to fear that he was going to have to go to London and marry one of those awful debutantes his family kept throwing his way.
He whistled to himself as he waited for tea and Miss Lyndon. What had made her come? He'd been still a bit past tipsy when he'd blurted out that bizarre proposal the day before, but he hadn't been so drunk that he had not been able to gauge her feelings.
He'd thought she would refuse. He'd been almost certain of it.
She was a sensible sort. That much was obvious even after such a brief acquaintance. What would make her give her hand in marriage to a man she barely knew?
There were the usual reasons, of course. He had money and a title, and if she married him, she'd have money and a title as well. But Charles didn't think that was it. He had seen the look of desperation in her eyes when she'd—
He frowned, then laughed as he got up to look out the window. Miss Lyndon had attacked him. Right there in the hall. There really wasn't any other word for it.
Tea arrived a few minutes later, and Charles instructed the maid to leave it in the pot to steep. He liked his tea strong.
A few minutes after that, a hesitant knock sounded at the door. He turned around, surprised at the sound since the maid had left the door open.
Ellie was standing in the doorway, her hand raised to knock again. “I thought you didn't hear me,” she said.
“The door was open. There was no need to knock.”
She shrugged. “I didn't want to intrude.”
Charles motioned for her to come in, watching her with an appraising eye as she crossed the room. His sister's dress was a shade too long for her, and she had to hold up the pale green skirts as she walked. That was when he noticed she wasn't wearing any shoes. Funny how the sight of a foot could cause his midsection to tingle this way…
Ellie caught him looking at her feet and blushed. “Your sister has tiny feet,” she said, “and my own shoes were soaked through.”
He blinked, as if he were lost in thought, then shook his head slightly and looked her in the eye. “No matter,” he said, then let his gaze fall to her feet again.
Ellie dropped her skirts, wondering what the devil was so interesting about her feet.
“You look quite fetching in mint,” he said, hobbling over to her side. “You should wear it more often.”
“All my dresses are dark and serviceable,” she said, her voice containing equal parts irony and wistfulness.
“Pity. I'll have to buy you new ones once we're married.”
“Now, see here!” Ellie protested. “I have not accepted your proposal. I am merely here to—” She broke off when she realized she was yelling and continued in a softer tone. “I am merely here to discuss it with you.”
He smiled slowly. “What do you want to know?”
Ellie exhaled, wishing that she'd been able to approach this interview with a bit more composure. Not that that would have helped much, she thought ruefully, after the entrance she'd made. The butler was never going to forgive her. Looking up, she said, “Do y
ou mind if I sit down?”
“Of course not. How rude of me.” He motioned to the sofa, and she took a seat. “Would you care for tea?” Charles asked.
“Yes, that would be lovely.” Ellie reached for the tray and began to pour. It somehow seemed a sinfully intimate act, pouring tea for this man in his own home. “Milk?”
“Please. No sugar.”
She smiled. “I take mine the same way.”
Charles took a sip and assessed her over the rim of his cup. She was nervous. He couldn't blame her. It was a most uncommon situation, and he had to admire her for facing it with such fortitude. He watched as she drained her teacup and then said, “By the way, your hair isn't red.”
Ellie choked on her tea.
“What is it they call it?” he mused, lifting his hand and rubbing his fingers together in the air as if that would prompt his brain. “Ah yes, strawberry blond. Although that seems rather inadequate to me.”
“It's red,” Ellie said baldly.
“No, no, it really isn't. It's—”
“Red.”
His lips spread into a lazy smile. “Red, then, if you insist.”
Ellie found herself oddly disappointed that he'd given in. She'd always wanted her hair to be something more exotic than just plain red. It was an unexpected gift from some long-forgotten Irish ancestor. The only good thing about it had been that it was a constant source of irritation to her father, who had been known to develop nausea at the merest intimation that there might be a Catholic somewhere in his background.
Ellie had always rather liked the idea of a rogue Catholic hiding out in her family tree. She had always liked the idea of anything out of the ordinary, anything to break up the monotony of her humdrum life. She looked up at Billington, who sprawled elegantly in a chair opposite her.
This man, she decided, definitely qualified as extraordinary. As did the situation in which he'd recently placed her. She smiled weakly, thinking that she ought to be made of sterner stuff. His was a remarkably handsome face, and his charm—well, there was no arguing that it wasn't lethal. Still, she needed to conduct this interview like the sensible woman she was.
She cleared her throat. “I believe we were discussing…” She frowned. What the devil had they been discussing?
“Your hair, actually,” he drawled.
Ellie felt a blush creeping along her cheeks. “Right. Well. Hmmm.”
Charles took pity on her and said, “I don't suppose you want to tell me what prompted you to consider my proposal.”
She looked up sharply. “What makes you think there was a specific incident?”
“You have the look of desperation in your eyes.”
Ellie couldn't even pretend to be affronted by his statement, for she knew it was true. “My father is remarrying next month,” she said after taking a long sigh. “His fiancée is a witch.”
His lips twitched. “As bad as that?”
Ellie had a feeling he thought she was exaggerating. “I am not jesting. Yesterday she presented me with two lists. The first consisted of chores I must perform in addition to those I already do.”
“What, did she have you cleaning out the chimney?” Charles teased.
“Yes!” Ellie burst out. “Yes, and it was not a joke! And then she had the effrontery to tell me I eat too much when I pointed out that I would not fit.”
“I think you're just the right size,” he murmured. She didn't hear him, though, which was probably for the best. He didn't need to scare her away. Not when he was this close to having her name on that blessed marriage certificate. “What was the other list?” he inquired.
“Marriage prospects,” she said in a disgusted voice.
“Was I on it?”
“Most assuredly not. She only listed men whom she thought I might have a chance at catching.”
“Oh, dear.”
Ellie scowled. “Her opinion of me is quite low.”
“I shudder to think who was on the list.”
“Several men over sixty, one under sixteen, and one who is simpleminded.”
Charles couldn't help it. He laughed.
“This isn't funny!” Ellie exclaimed. “And I didn't even mention the one who beat his first wife.”
Charles's humor faded instantly. “You will not be married off to someone who will beat you.”
Ellie's lips parted in surprise. He sounded almost proprietary. How very odd. “I assure you that I won't. If I marry, it will be a man of my own choosing. And I'm afraid to say, my lord, that out of all my options, you do seem to be the best of the lot.”
“I'm flattered,” he muttered.
“I didn't think I would have to marry you, you see.”
Charles frowned, thinking that she didn't need to sound quite so resigned.
“I have some money,” she continued. “Enough to support myself for some time. At least until my sister and her husband return from their holiday.”
“Which is in…”
“Three months,” Ellie finished for him. “Or perhaps a bit longer. Their baby has a small respiratory problem, and the doctor feels a warmer climate would do him good.”
“I trust it is not serious.”
“Not at all,” Ellie said, giving him a reassuring nod. “One of those things one outgrows. But I'm afraid I am still left at loose ends.”
“I do not understand,” Charles said.
“My solicitor will not give me my money.” Ellie quickly recounted the day's events, leaving out her undignified argument with the heavens. Really, the man didn't need to know everything about her. Better not say anything that might lead him to think she was a bit unhinged.
Charles sat quietly, tapping his fingertips together as he listened. “What exactly do you want me to do for you?” he asked when she was finished.
“Ideally, I'd like you to march into the solicitor's office on my behalf and demand that he release my funds,” she replied. “Then I could live quietly in London and await my sister.”
“And not marry me?” he said, a knowing smile on his face.
“That isn't going to happen, is it?”
He shook his head.
“Perhaps I could marry you, you could get my money, and then, once your inheritance is secure, we could obtain an annulment…” She tried to sound convincing, but her words trailed off as she watched him shake his head again.
“That scenario presents two problems,” he said.
“Two?” she echoed. She might have been able to talk her way around one, but two? Doubtful.
“My father's will specifically addresses the possibility that I might enter into a sham marriage merely for the sake of my inheritance. Were I to obtain an annulment, my assets would be immediately seized and handed over to my cousin.”
Ellie's heart sank.
“Secondly,” he continued, “an annulment would require that we not consummate our marriage.”
She gulped. “I don't see any problem there.”
He leaned forward, his eyes burning with something she didn't recognize. “Don't you?” he asked softly.
Ellie didn't like the way her stomach was jumping about. The earl was far too handsome for his own good—far too handsome for her own good. “If we marry,” she blurted out, suddenly very eager to change the subject, “you will have to get my money for me. Can you do that? Because I won't marry you otherwise.”
“I shall be able to provide for you quite handsomely without it,” Charles pointed out.
“But it's mine, and I worked hard for it. I'm not about to let it rot in Tibbett's hands.”
“Certainly not,” Charles murmured, looking as if he were trying very hard not to smile.
“It's the principle of the matter.”
“And the principle is what matters to you, isn't it?”
“Absolutely.” She paused. “Of course, principles won't put food on the table. If they did, I wouldn't be here.”
“Very well. I shall get your money for you. It shouldn't be that difficult.
”
“For you, perhaps,” Ellie muttered ungracefully. “I couldn't even get the blasted man to acknowledge that I possessed a greater intelligence than a sheep.”
Charles chuckled. “Have no fear, Miss Lyndon, I shan't make the same mistake.”
“And that money will remain mine,” Ellie persisted. “I know that when we marry, all of my possessions—meager though they are—become yours, but I would like a separate account in my name.”
“Done.”
“And you will make certain that the bank knows that I have full control over those funds?”
“If you so desire it.”
Ellie looked at him suspiciously. Charles caught the glance and said, “I have more than enough money of my own, provided we marry in haste. I don't need yours.”
She let out a relieved breath. “Good. I do like to play the 'change. I shouldn't want to have to get your signature every time I want to make a transaction.”
His mouth fell open. “You play the 'change?”
“Yes, and I'm quite good at it, I'll have you know. I made a tidy profit in sugar last year.”
Charles smiled in disbelief. They would do quite well together, he was sure of it. Time spent with his new wife would be more than pleasant, and it sounded as if she would be able to keep herself occupied while he was pursuing his own affairs in London. The last thing he needed was to be shackled to a woman who whined every time she was left to her own devices.
He narrowed his eyes. “I say, you're not one of those managing sorts of women, are you?”
“What does that mean?”
“The last thing I need is a woman who wants to take charge of my life. I need a wife, not a keeper.”
“You're rather choosy for someone who has only fourteen days before his fortune is forever lost.”
“Marriage is for life, Eleanor.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“Well?”
“No,” she said, looking as if she wanted to roll her eyes. “I'm not. That is not to say that I don't want to manage my own life, of course.”
“Of course,” he murmured.
“But I won't interfere with yours. You won't even know I'm here.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
She scowled at him. “You know what I mean.”