locks of hair from her face. Charles looked handsome, amused, and disgustingly dry. "My lord?" she gasped, barely able to find her voice. She sounded decidedly unlike herself, raspy and hoarse from her arguments with God and the butler.
Charles blinked as he regarded her. "I beg your pardon, madam," he said. "Have we met?"
Chapter 3
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
Charles blinked as he regarded her. "I beg your pardon, madam," he said. "Have we met?"
Chapter 3
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
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