Brighter Than the Sun

  Charles couldn't stop one corner of his lips from turning upward in a respectful smile. He imagined that the reverend could muster quite a bit of hellfire and torment. “You have my word that Eleanor will be treated like a queen.”

  “There is one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  The reverend cleared his throat. “Are you overfond of spirits?”

  Charles blinked, a bit startled by the question. “I certainly have a glass when appropriate, but I do not spend my days and nights in drunken stupors, if that is what you are asking.”

  “Then perhaps you might explain why you reek of whiskey?”

  Charles fought back an absurd urge to laugh, and explained to the reverend what had happened that afternoon and how Ellie had accidentally poured whiskey on him.

  Mr. Lyndon leaned back, satisfied. He didn't smile, but then, Charles doubted he smiled often. “Good,” the reverend said. “Now that we understand each other, allow me to be the first to welcome you to the family.”

  “I am glad to be a part of it.”

  The reverend nodded. “I would like to perform the ceremony, if that is acceptable to you.”

  “Of course.”

  Ellie chose that moment to return to the room, carrying a tray with a tea service.

  “Eleanor,” her father said, “I have decided that the earl will suit you nicely.”

  Ellie let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. She had the approval of her father, something that meant more to her than she'd realized until that very moment. Now all she had to do was actually get married.

  Married. She gulped. Lord help her.

  Chapter 6

  The next day, a package addressed to Ellie arrived by special messenger. Curious, she untied the string, pausing when an envelope fluttered out. She reached down to the floor, picked up the envelope, and opened it.

  My dear Eleanor,

  Please accept this gift as a token of my esteem and affection. You looked so lovely in green the other day. I thought you might like to be married in it.

  Yrs.

  Billington

  P.S. Please do not cover your hair.

  Ellie could barely suppress a gasp when she felt her fingers touch luxurious velvet. She pulled aside the rest of the wrappings to reveal the most beautiful dress she'd ever seen—much less had the opportunity to wear. Fashioned of the deepest emerald velvet, it was simply cut, without flounces or ruffles. Ellie knew it would suit her perfectly.

  With any luck, the man who'd given it to her would suit her as well.

  The morning of her wedding dawned bright and clear. A carriage arrived to carry Ellie, her father, and Mrs. Foxglove to Wycombe Abbey, and Ellie truly felt like a fairy princess. The dress, the carriage, the impossibly handsome man waiting for her at the end of her journey—they all seemed like props in some glorious magical tale.

  The ceremony was to take place in the formal drawing room of Wycombe Abbey. The Reverend Mr. Lyndon took his place at the front, then, much to everyone's amusement, let out a little yelp of dismay and rushed out of the room. “I have to give away the bride,” he explained when he reached the door.

  Further laughs ensued when he said, out of rote, “Who gives away this woman?” and then added, “Actually, I do.”

  But those moments of lightness did not ease Ellie's tension, and she felt her entire body clench up when her father prompted her to say, “I will.”

  Barely able to breathe, she looked over at the man who would be her husband. What was she doing? She hardly knew him.

  She looked at her father, who was gazing at her with uncharacteristic nostalgia.

  She looked over at Mrs. Foxglove, who had seemingly forgotten her plans to use Ellie as a human chimney brush and had spent the entire carriage ride over going on and on about how she'd always known that “dear Eleanor would make a splendid catch” and “my dear dear stepson-in-law, the earl.”

  “I will,” Ellie blurted out. “Oh, I will.”

  Beside her, she could feel Charles shaking with laughter.

  And then he slipped a heavy gold band onto the fourth finger of her left hand, and Ellie realized that in the eyes of God and England, she now belonged to the Earl of Billington. Forever.

  For a woman who had always prided herself on her pluck, her knees felt suspiciously watery.

  Mr. Lyndon completed the ceremony, and Charles leaned down and placed a fleeting kiss upon Ellie's lips. To an observer it was nothing more than a gentle peck, but Ellie felt his tongue flick along the corner of her mouth. Flustered by this hidden caress, she'd barely had time to regain her composure when Charles took her arm and led her over to a small group of individuals she assumed were his relatives.

  “I did not have time to invite my entire family,” he said, “but I wanted you to meet my cousins. May I introduce Mrs. George Pallister, Miss Pallister, and Miss Judith Pallister.” He turned to the lady and two girls and smiled. “Helen, Claire, Judith, may I present my wife, Eleanor, Countess of Billington.”

  “How do you do,” Ellie said, not sure if she was supposed to curtsy, or if perhaps they were supposed to curtsy, or if none of them needed to at all. So she just smiled in her most friendly manner. Helen, an attractive blond matron of about forty years, smiled back.

  “Helen and her daughters live here at Wycombe Abbey,” Charles said. “Since the death of Mr. Pallister.”

  “They do?” Ellie said with surprise. She looked at her new cousins. “You do?”

  “Yes,” Charles replied, “as does my maiden aunt Cordelia. I don't know where she's gone off to.”

  “She's a bit eccentric,” Helen said helpfully. Claire, who looked to be thirteen or fourteen years old, said nothing, a sullen expression firmly fixed on her face.

  “I'm sure we will get on very well,” Ellie said. “I have always wanted to live in a large household. Mine has been quite lonely since my sister left.”

  “Eleanor's sister recently married the Earl of Macclesfield,” Charles explained.

  “Yes, but she left home many years before that,” Ellie said wistfully. “It has been just my father and me for eight years.”

  “I have a sister, too!” Judith chirped. “Claire!”

  Ellie smiled down at the young girl. “So you do. And how old are you, Judith?”

  “I am six,” she said proudly, flicking back her light brown hair. “And tomorrow I will be twelve.”

  Helen laughed. “‘Tomorrow’ tends to mean any day in the future,” she said, leaning down to kiss her daughter on the cheek. “First you must turn seven.”

  “And then twelve!”

  Ellie crouched down. “Not quite, poppet. Then eight, then nine, then—”

  “Ten, then eleven,” Judith interrupted proudly, “and then twelve!”

  “Correct,” Ellie said.

  “I can count to sixty-two.”

  “Is that so?” Ellie asked, using her best “impressed” voice.

  “Mmm-hmm. One. Two. Three. Four—”

  “Mother!” Claire said with a beleaguered sigh.

  Helen took Judith by the hand. “Come along, little one. We will practice our counting another time.”

  Judith rolled her eyes at her mother before turning to Charles and saying, “Mama said it's high time you got married.”

  “Judith!” Helen exclaimed, turning quite pink.

  “Well, you did. You said he controls with too many women, and—”

  “Judith!” Helen fairly shouted, grabbing her by the hand. “This is not the time.”

  “It's all right,” Ellie said quickly. “She meant no harm.”

  Helen looked as if she wanted to sink into the floor and disappear. She tugged on Judith's arm, saying, “I believe our newlyweds would like a moment alone. I shall show everyone to the dining room for the wedding breakfast.”

  As Helen hurried the guests from the room, Ellie and Charles heard Judith chirp, “Claire, what is a loose woman?”

  “Judith, you are a pes
t,” was Claire's reply.

  “Does she fall apart? Are her arms and legs not screwed in tight enough?”

  Ellie wasn't certain whether she should laugh or cry.

  “I'm sorry about that,” Charles said quietly once the room was empty.

  “It was nothing.”

  “A bride shouldn't be subjected to stories of her new husband's peccadilloes on her wedding day.”

  Ellie shrugged. “It's not so dreadful coming from the mouth of a six-year-old. Although I imagine she meant that you consort with women.”

  “I can assure you I contort with no one.”

  Ellie actually chuckled.

  Charles looked down at the woman who was now his wife and felt an inexplicable sense of pride blossoming within him. The events of the morning could not have been anything but overwhelming for her, and yet she held herself with grace and dignity. He had chosen well. “I'm glad you didn't cover your hair,” he murmured.

  He chuckled as one of her hands flew to her head. “I can't imagine why you asked me not to,” she said nervously.

  He reached out and touched a lock of hair that had escaped her coiffure and curled along the base of her throat. “Can't you?”

  She didn't answer and he applied pressure to her shoulder until she began to sway toward him, her eyes beginning to glaze over with desire. Charles felt a burst of triumph as he realized that seducing his wife wasn't going to be nearly as difficult as he'd anticipated.

  His body quickened, and he leaned down to kiss her, to run his hands through that glorious red-gold hair of hers, and then…

  She pulled away.

  Just like that.

  Charles swore under his breath.

  “This isn't such a good idea, my lord,” she said, looking damnably sure of what she was saying.

  “Call me Charles,” he bit out.

  “Not when you look like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like—oh, I don't know. Rather imperious.” She blinked. “Actually, you look as if you're in pain.”

  “I am in pain,” he snapped.

  She took a step back. “Oh. I'm terribly sorry. Do you still ache from the curricle accident? Or is it your ankle? I noticed you still have a tiny limp.”

  He stared at her, wondering if she could possibly be that innocent. “It's not my ankle, Eleanor.”

  “You should probably call me Ellie,” she said, “if I'm to call you Charles.”

  “You haven't done so yet.”

  “I suppose not.” Ellie cleared her throat, thinking that this conversation must be proof that she did not know this man nearly well enough to be his wife. “Charles.”

  He smiled. “Ellie. I like that. It suits you.”

  “Only my father calls me Eleanor.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “Oh, and Mrs. Foxglove, too, I suppose.”

  “Then I shall never call you Eleanor,” he vowed, a smile tugging at his lips.

  “You probably will,” she said, “when you're angry with me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Everyone does when they're angry with me.”

  “Why are you so certain I will become angry with you?”

  She scoffed at that. “Really, my lord, we are to be married for a lifetime. I cannot imagine I will make it that long without incurring your ire at least once.”

  “I suppose I should be glad I married a realist.”

  “We are the best sorts in the long run,” she replied with a loopy smile. “You'll see.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then Ellie said, “We should go in to breakfast.”

  “I suppose we should,” he murmured, reaching out to stroke the underside of her chin.

  Ellie lurched backwards. “Don't try that.”

  “Don't try what?” He sounded rather amused.

  “To kiss me.”

  “Why not? That was part of our bargain, wasn't it?”

  “Yes,” Ellie hedged. “But you know very well I can't think straight when you do that.” She supposed she probably ought to have kept that fact to herself, but what was the point if he was just as aware of it as she?

  Charles's lips spread into a full-fledged grin. “That's the idea, my dear.”

  “Perhaps for you,” she retorted. “But I wanted the chance to get to know you better before we entered that…er…phase of our relationship.”

  “Very well, what do you want to know?”

  Ellie was silent for a moment, having no idea how to answer that. Finally she said, “Anything, I suppose.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything that you think might help me to know the Earl of Billington—excuse me, Charles—better.”

  He thought for a moment, then smiled and said, “I am a compulsive list-maker. How does that rate for an interesting tidbit?”

  Ellie wasn't certain what she'd been expecting him to reveal about himself, but that certainly wasn't it. A compulsive list-maker? That told her more about him than any hobby or pastime ever would. “What sorts of things do you make lists about?” she asked.

  “This and that. Everything.”

  “Did you make a list about me?”

  “Of course.”

  Ellie waited for him to elaborate further, then impatiently asked, “What was on it?”

  He chuckled at her curiosity. “It was a list of reasons why I thought you should make a good wife. That sort of thing.”

  “I see.” Ellie wanted to ask how long this list of good reasons was, but thought that might sound a touch too ill-bred.

  He leaned forward, the devil lurking in his brown eyes. “There were six items on the list.”

  Ellie leaned back. “I'm sure I didn't ask you the number.”

  “But you wanted to.”

  She kept silent.

  “Now then,” Charles said, “you must tell me something about Miss Eleanor Lyndon.”

  “I'm not Miss Eleanor Lyndon any longer,” she pointed out pertly.

  He laughed at his mistake. “The Countess of Billington. What is she like?”

  “She is often a bit too mouthy for her own good,” she replied.

  “I already knew that.”

  Ellie made a face. “Very well.” She thought for a moment. “When the weather is nice, I like to take a book and read outside. I often don't return until the sun sets.”

  Charles reached out and took her arm. “That is a very good thing for a husband to know,” he said softly. “I will know where to look, should I ever lose you.”

  They walked toward the dining room, and he leaned down and said, “The dress seems to fit you well. Is it to your liking?”

  “Oh, yes. It is quite the most lovely gown I have ever worn. It required only the smallest of alterations. How were you ever able to obtain it on such short notice?”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “I paid a dressmaker an obscene amount of money.”

  Before Ellie could respond, they had rounded a corner and were entering the dining room. The small crowd of guests stood up to cheer the new couple.

  The wedding breakfast passed uneventfully, with the exception of the introduction of Charles's great-aunt Cordelia, who had been mysteriously absent from the ceremony and much of the breakfast. Ellie couldn't help but glance at the empty seat, wondering if her husband's aunt had an objection to the marriage.

  Charles caught her staring, and murmured, “Do not worry. She is merely eccentric and likes to act on her own schedule. I am sure she will make an appearance.”

  Ellie didn't believe him until an older woman, dressed in a gown at least twenty years out of date, came crashing into the room with the declaration, “The kitchens are on fire!”

  Ellie and her family were half out of their seats (indeed, Mrs. Foxglove was halfway out the door) by the time they realized that Charles and his family had not moved a muscle.

  “But Charles!” Ellie exclaimed. “Didn't you hear what she said? Surely we must do something.”

&
nbsp; “She is always claiming that something or another is on fire,” he replied. “I believe she enjoys a flair for high drama.”

  Cordelia made her way to Ellie. “You must be the new bride,” she said bluntly.

  “Er, yes.”

  “Good. We needed one of those around here.” And then she left, leaving Ellie openmouthed in her wake.

  Charles patted his wife on the back. “See? She likes you.”

  Ellie sank back down into her seat, wondering if every aristocratic family had a crazy maiden aunt stashed away in the proverbial attic. “Are there any other relatives of yours you'd like to introduce me to?” she asked weakly.

  “Just my cousin Cecil,” Charles replied, clearly trying hard not to laugh. “But he doesn't live here. He's quite a toad, actually.”

  “A toad in the family,” Ellie murmured, the barest hint of a smile brushing along her lips. “How peculiar. I had no idea the Wycombes had an amphibian branch.”

  Charles chuckled. “Yes, we are all very accomplished swimmers.”

  This time it was Ellie's turn to laugh. “You shall have to teach me someday. I have never managed to learn.”

  He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “It should be my honor, my lady. We shall journey out to the pond just as soon as the weather turns warm.”

  And to all the onlookers, they looked very much like a young couple madly in love.

  Several hours later, Charles was sitting in his study, his chair tipped back and his feet balanced against the edge of his desk. He had sensed that Ellie might like a few moments alone to unpack her belongings and adjust to her new surroundings. So he had come here, telling himself that he had a number of business concerns that called for his attention. The responsibilities of administering an earldom were quite time-consuming if one wanted to do a decent job of them. He would complete some work here in his study, take care of all the tasks he had let pile up in the past few days. He'd go about his business while Ellie went about her business and—