Chapter 1
Kent, England
October 1817
Eleanor Lyndon was minding her own business when Charles
Wycombe, Earl of Billington, fell -quite literally- into
her life.
She was walking along, whistling a happy tune and keeping
her mind busy by trying to estimate the yearly profit of
the East and West Sugar Company (of which she owned several
shares) when to her great surprise, a man came crashing
down from the sky and landed at, or to be more precise - on
her feet.
Further inspection revealed that the man in question had
fallen not from the sky but from a large oak tree. Ellie,
whose life had grown decidedly dull in the last year or so,
would have almost preferred that he had fallen from the
sky. It certainly would have been more exciting than a mere
tree.
She pulled her left foot out from underneath his shoulder,
hiked her skirts above her ankles to save them from the
dirt, and crouched down. "Sir?" she inquired. "Are you all
right?"
All he said was, "Ow."
"Oh, dear," she murmured. "You haven't broken any bones,
have you?"
He didn't say anything, just let out a long breath. Ellie
lurched back when the fumes hit her. "Sweet heavens," she
muttered, "You smell as if you've imbibed a winery."
"Whishkey," he slurred in response. "A gennleman drinks
whishkey."
"Not this much whiskey," she retorted. "Only a drunk drinks
this much of anything."
He sat up - clearly a difficult endeavor. "Exactly it," he
said, waving his hand through the air, then wincing when
the action made him dizzy. "I'm a bit drunk, I'm afraid."
Ellie decided to refrain from further comment on that
topic. "Are you certain you're not injured?"
He scratched his reddish-brown hair and blinked. "My head
pounds like the devil."
"I suspect that isn't only from the fall."
He tried to get up, weaved, and sat back down. "You're a
sharp-tongued lass."
"Yes, I know," she said with a wry smile. "It's why I'm a
longtoothed spinster. Now then, I can't very well see to
your injuries if I don't know what they are."
"Efficient, too," he murmured. "An' why are you so certain
I've got an injurty, er, injury?"
Ellie looked up into the tree. The nearest branch which
would have supported his weight was a good fifteen feet
up. "I don't see how you could have fallen so far and not
been injured."
He waved her comments aside and tried to rise again. "Yes,
well, we Wycombes are a hardy lot. It'd take more than a-
Sweet merciful Christ!" he howled.
Ellie tried her best not to sound smug when she said, "An
ache? A pain? A sprain, perhaps."
His brown eyes narrowed as he clutched the trunk of the
tree for support. "You are a hard, cruel woman, Miss
whatever your name is, to take such pleasure in my agony."
Ellie coughed to cover up a giggle. "Mr. Whosis, I must
protest and point out that I tried to tend to your
injuries, but you insisted you didn't have any."
He scowled in a very boyish sort of way and sat back
down. "That's Lord Whosis," he muttered, but his voice
lacked true ire.
"Very well, my lord," she said, hoping that she hadn't
irritated him overmuch. A peer of the realm held much more
power than a vicar's daughter, and he could do much to make
her life miserable if he so chose. She gave up all hope of
keeping her dress clean and sat down in the dirt. "Which
ankle pains you, my lord?"
He pointed to his right ankle and then grimaced when she
lifted it in her hands and inspected for broken bones.
After a moment's examination, she looked up and said in her
most polite voice, "I am going to have to remove your boot,
my lord. Would that be permissible?"
"I liked you better when you were spitting fire," he
muttered. Ellie liked herself better that way, too. She
smiled. "Have you a knife?"
He snorted. "If you think I'm going to put a weapon in your
hands..."
"Very well. I suppose I could just pull the boot off." She
cocked her head and pretended to ponder the matter. "It
might hurt just a bit when it gets stuck on your hideously
swollen ankle, but as you pointed out, you come from hardy
stock, and a man should be able to take a little pain."
"What the devil are you taking about?" Ellie started to
pull at his boot. Not hard - she could never be that cruel.
Just enough to demonstrate that the boot wasn't coming off
his foot through ordinary means.
"Youch!" he yelled, and Ellie wished she hadn't tried to
teach him a lesson, because she ended up with a face full
of whiskey fumes.
"How much did you drink?" she demanded, choking for air.
"Not nearly enough," he groaned. "They haven't invented a
drink strong enough-"
"Oh, come now," Ellie snapped. "I'm not that bad."
To her surprise, he laughed. "Sweetheart," he said in a
tone that told her clear as day that his usual occupation
was rake, "you're the least bad thing that has happened to
me in months."
Ellie felt an odd sort of tingling on the back of her neck
at his clumsy compliment. Thankful that her large bonnet
hid her blush, she focused her attention back on his
ankle. "Have you changed your mind about my cutting your
boot?"
His answer was a knife in her palm. "I always knew there
was some reason I carried one of these things around. I
just never knew what it was until today."
The knife was a bit dull, and soon Ellie was gritting her
teeth as she sawed through his boot. She looked up from her
task for a moment. "Just let me know if I-"
"Ow!"
"-poke you," she finished. "I'm dreadfully sorry."
"It is astonishing," he said, his voice liberally laced
with irony, "how much sorrow I hear in your voice."
Ellie caught another giggle in her throat.
"Oh for the love of God," he muttered. "Just laugh. Lord
knows my life is laughable."
Ellie, whose own life had descended into the miserable ever
since her widower father had announced his intention to
marry the village of Bellfield's biggest busybody, felt a
pang of empathy. She didn't know what it was that had
prompted this remarkably handsome and well-heeled lord to
go out and get himself blindingly drunk, but whatever it
was, she felt for him. She stopped her work on his boot for
a moment, leveled her dark blue eyes at his face, and
said, "My name is Miss Eleanor Lyndon."
His eyes warmed. "Thank you for sharing that pertinent
piece of information, Miss Lyndon. It isn't every day I
allow a strange woman to saw off my boots."
"It isn't every day I nearly get knocked to the ground by
men falling from trees. Strange men," she added for
emphasis.
"Ah yes, I should introduce myself, I s'pose." He cocked
his head in a manner that reminded Ellie that he was still
more than a touch inebriated. "Charles Wycombe at your
service, Miss Lyndon. Earl of Billington." Then he
muttered, "Much as that's worth."
Ellie stared at him unblinkingly. Billington? He was one of
the county's most eligible bachelors. So eligible that even
she'd heard of him, and she wasn't on anybody's list of
eligible young ladies. Rumor had it that he was even more
wealthy than her sister Victoria's new husband, the Earl of
Macclesfield. Ellie couldn't personally vouch for that, as
she hadn't seen his personal finance ledgers, and she made
it a point never to speculate on financial matters without
hard evidence. But she did know that the Billington estate
was vast and ancient.
And it was a good twenty miles away. "What are you doing
here in Bellfield?" she blurted out.
"Just visiting my old childhood haunts."
Ellie motioned toward the branches above them with her
head.
"Your favorite tree?"
"Used to climb it all the time with Macclesfield."
Ellie finished her work on the boot and put the knife
down. "Robert?" she asked.
Charles looked suspicious and a bit protective. "You're on
a first name basis with him? He's recently married."
"Yes. To my sister."
"The world grows smaller by the second," he murmured. "I'm
honored to make your acquaintance."
"You might rethink that sentiment in a moment," Ellie
remarked. With a gentle touch, she slid his swollen foot
from his boot.
Charles looked down at his mangled boot with a pained
expression. "I suppose my ankle is more important," he said
wistfully. But he didn't sound as if he meant it.
Ellie expertly prodded his ankle. "I don't think you've
broken any bones, but you've a nasty sprain."
"You sound experienced at this sort of thing."
"I come to the rescue of any wounded animal," she said,
arching her brows. "Dogs, cats, birds."
"Men," he finished for her.
"No," she said pertly. "You're the first. But I cannot
imagine that you'd be that much different from a dog."
"Your fangs are showing, Miss Lyndon."
"Are they?" she asked, reaching up to touch her face. "I
shall have to remember to retract them."
Charles burst out laughing. "You, Miss Lyndon, are a
treasure."
"That's what I keep telling everyone," she said with a
shrug and a wicked smile, "but no one seems to believe me.
Now then, I fear you will require a cane for several days.
Possibly a week. Have you one at your disposal?"
"Right now?"
"I meant at home, but..." Ellie's words trailed off as she
looked around her. She spied a long stick several yards
away and scrambled to her feet.
"This should do," she said, picking it up and handing it to
him. "Do you need assistance getting to your feet?" He
grinned wolfishly as he swayed toward her. "Any excuse to
be in your arms, my dear Miss Lyndon."
Ellie knew she should be affronted, but he was trying so
hard to be charming, and devil take it, he was succeeding.
Handily. She stepped around to his back and put her hands
under his arms. "I warn you, I'm not very gentle."
"Now why doesn't that surprise me?"
"On the count of three, then. Are you ready?"
"That depends, I suppose, on-"
"One, two... three!" With a grunt and a heave, Ellie pulled
the earl to his feet. It wasn't an easy task. He outweighed
her by a good four stone and was drunk, to boot. His knees
buckled, and Ellie only just managed to keep herself from
cursing as she planted her feet and braced them. Then he
started to topple over in the other direction, and she had
to scoot to his front to keep him from falling.
"Now that feels nice," he murmured as his chest pressed up
against hers.
"Lord Billington, I must insist that you use your cane."
"On you?" He sounded intrigued by the notion.
"To walk!" she fairly yelled.
He flinched at the noise, then shook his head. "It's the
oddest thing," he murmured, "but I have the most appalling
urge to kiss you."
For once, Ellie was speechless.
He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. "I think I just
might do it."
That was enough to spur her into motion, and she jumped to
the side, sending him sprawling on the ground.
"Good God, woman!" he yelled. "What did you do that for?"
"You were going to kiss me."
He rubbed his head, which had hit the tree trunk. "The
prospect was that terrifying?"
Ellie blinked. "Not terrifying, exactly."
"Please don't say repulsive," he grumbled. "I really
couldn't bear it."
She exhaled and held out a conciliatory hand. "I'm terribly
sorry for dropping you, my lord."
"Once again, your face is a picture of sorrow."
Ellie fought the urge to stamp her foot. "I meant it this
time. Do you accept my apology?"
"It appears," he said, raising his eyebrows," that you
might do me bodily harm if I do not."
"Ungracious prig," she muttered. "I am trying to
apologize."
"And I," he emphasized, "am trying to accept."
He reached out and took her gloved hand. She pulled him to
his feet again, stepping out of his reach once he had
steadied himself on his makeshift cane.
"I will escort you to Bellfield," Ellie said. "It isn't
terribly far. Will you be able to get home from there?"
"I left my curricle at the Bee and Thistle," he replied.
She cleared her throat. "I would appreciate it if you would
behave with gentility and discretion. I may be a spinster,
but I do have a reputation to protect."
He sent a sideways look in her direction. "I'm considered
something of a blackguard, I'm afraid."
"I know."
"Your reputation was probably shredded the moment I landed
on top of you."
"For heavens' sake, you fell out of a tree!"
"Yes, of course, but you did put your bare hands on my bare
ankle."
"It was for the noblest of reasons."
"Frankly, I thought kissing you seemed rather noble, but
you appeared to disagree."
Her mouth settled into a grim line. "That is exactly the
sort of flippant remark I am talking about. I know that I
shouldn't, but I do care what people think of me, and I
have to live here for the rest of my life."
"Do you?" he asked. "How sad."
"That isn't funny."
"It wasn't meant to be."
She sighed impatiently. "Contrive to behave yourself when
we reach Bellfield. Please?"
He leaned on his stick and swept into a courtly bow. "I try
never to disappoint a lady."
"Will you stop!" she said, grabbing him by the elbow and
pulling him upright. "You're going to knock yourself over."
"Why, Miss Lyndon, I do believe you are beginning to care
for me."
Her answer was a marginally ladylike grunt.With fisted
hands, she began to march toward town. Charles hobbled
behind her, smiling all the way. She was walking much more
quickly than he, however, and the space between them grew
until he was forced to call out her name.
Ellie turned around.
Charles offered her what he hoped was an appealing
smile. "I cannot keep up with you, I'm afraid." He held out
his hands in a gesture of supplication and then promptly
lost his balance. Ellie rushed forward to straighten him.
"You are a walking disaster," she muttered, keeping her
hand on his elbow.
"A limping disaster," he corrected. "And I cannot-" He
lifted his free hand to his mouth to cover an inebriated
burp. "I cannot limp quickly."
She let out a long-suffering sigh. "Here. You can lean on
my shoulder. Together we should be able to get you into
town."
Charles grinned and slid his arm over her shoulder. She was
small, but she was a sturdy little thing, so he decided to
test the waters by leaning on her a little more closely.
She stiffened, then let out another loud sigh.
Slowly they moved toward town. Charles felt himself leaning
on her more and more. Whether his incompetence was due to
his sprain or his drunkenness he didn't know. She felt warm
and strong and soft all at once next to him, and he didn't
much care how he had gotten himself into this fix -- he
just resolved to enjoy it while it lasted. Each step
pressed the side of her breast up against his ribs, and he
was finding that to be a most pleasant sensation indeed.
"It's a beautiful day, don't you think?" he inquired,
thinking he ought to make conversation.
"Yes," Ellie agreed, stumbling slightly under the weight of
him. "But it is growing late. Is there no way you can move
a little bit faster?"
"Even I," Charles said with an expansive wave of his
hand, "am not such a cad that I would feign lameness merely
to enjoy the attentions of a beautiful lady."
"Will you stop waving your arm about! We're losing our
balance."
Charles wasn't sure why, and maybe it was just because he
was still decidedly un-sober, but he liked the sound of the
word "we" from her lips. There was something about this
Miss Lyndon that made him glad she was on his side. Not
that he thought she would make a vicious enemy, just that
she seemed loyal, levelheaded, and fair. And she had a
wicked sense of humor. Just the sort of person a man would
want standing beside him when the going got rough.
He turned his face toward hers. "You smell nice," he said.
"What?" she screeched.
And she was fun to torture. Had he remembered to add that
to his list of attributes? It was always good to surround
oneself with people who could take a bit of teasing. He
schooled his face into an innocent mask. "You smell nice,"
he said again.
"That is not the sort of thing a gentleman says to a lady,"
she said primly.
"I'm drunk," he said with an unrepentant shrug. "I don't
know what I'm saying."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I have a feeling you know
exactly what you're saying."
"Why, Miss Lyndon, are you accusing me of trying to seduce
you?"
He didn't think it possible, but she turned an even deeper
shade of crimson. He wished he could see the color of her
hair under that monstrous bonnet, but her eyebrows were
blond, and they stood out comically against her blush.
"Stop twisting my words."
"You twist words very nicely yourself, Miss Lyndon." When
she didn't say anything, he added, "That was a compliment."
She trudged along the dirt road, pulling him with her. "You
baffle me, my lord."
Charles smiled, thinking that it was great fun to baffle
Miss Eleanor Lyndon. He fell silent for a few minutes, and
then, as they rounded a corner, asked, "Are we almost there
yet?"
"A little more than halfway, I should think." Ellie
squinted at the horizon, watching the sun sink ever
lower. "Oh, dear. It is growing late. Papa will have my
head."
"I swear on my father's grave-" Charles was trying to sound
serious, but he hiccupped.
Ellie turned toward him so quickly that her nose bumped
into his shoulder. "Whatever are you talking about, my
lord?"
"I was trying-hic-to swear to you that I am not-hic-
deliberately trying to slow you down."
The corners of her lips twitched. "I don't know why I
believe you," she said, "but I do."
"It might be because my ankle looks like an overripe pear,"
he joked.
"No," she said thoughtfully, "I think you're just a nicer
person than you'd like people to believe."
He scoffed. "I am far from-hic-nice."
"I'll wager you give your entire staff extra wages at
Christmas."
Much to his irritation, he blushed.
"A-ha!" she cried out triumphantly. "You do!"
"It breeds loyalty," he mumbled.
"It gives them money to buy presents for their families,"
she said softly.
He grunted and turned his head away from her. "Lovely
sunset, don't you think, Miss Lyndon?"
"A bit clumsy as changes of subject go," she said with a
knowing grin, "but yes, it is quite."
"It's rather amazing," he continued, "how many different
colors make up the sunset. I see orange, and pink, and
peach. Oh, and a touch of saffron right over there." He
pointed off to the southwest. "And the truly remarkable
thing of it is that it'll all be different tomorrow."
"Are you an artist?" Ellie asked.
"No," he said. "I just like the sunset."
"Bellfield is just around the corner," she said.
"Is it?"
"You sound disappointed."
"Don't really want to go home, I suppose," he replied. He
sighed, thinking about what was waiting for him there. A
pile of stones that made up Wycombe Abbey. A pile of stones
that cost a bloody fortune to keep up. A fortune that would
slip through his fingers in less than a month thanks to his
meddling father.
One would think that George Wycombe's hold on the
pursestrings would have loosened with death, but no, he
still found a way to keep his hands firmly around his son's
neck from the grave. Charles swore under his breath as he
thought about how apt that image was. He certainly felt
like he was being strangled.
In precisely fifteen days, he would turn thirty.In
precisely fifteen days, every last unentailed scrap of his
inheritance would be snatched away from him. Unless-
Miss Lyndon coughed and rubbed a piece of dust from her
eye. Charles looked at her with renewed interest. Unless -
he thought slowly, not wanting his still somewhat groggy
brain to miss any important details - unless sometime in
these next twenty-four days, he managed to find himself a
wife.
Miss Lyndon steered him onto Bellfield's High Street and
pointed south. "The Bee and Thistle is just over there. I
don't see your curricle. Is it 'round back?"
She had a nice voice, Charles thought. She had a nice
voice, and a nice brain, and a nice wit, and although he
still didn't know what color her hair was, she had a nice
set of eyebrows. And she felt damned nice with his weight
pressed up against her.
He cleared his throat. "Miss Lyndon."
"Don't tell me you misplaced your carriage."
"Miss Lyndon, I have something of great import to discuss
with you."
"Has your ankle worsened? I knew that putting weight on it
was a bad idea, but I didn't know how else to get you into
town. Ice would-"
"Miss Lyndon!" he fairly boomed.
That got her to close her mouth.
"Do you think you might-" Charles coughed, suddenly wishing
he were sober, because he had a feeling his vocabulary was
larger when he wasn't tipsy.
"Lord Billington?" she asked with a concerned expression.
In the end he just blurted it out. "Do you think you might
marry me?"
Kent, England
October 1817
Eleanor Lyndon was minding her own business when Charles
Wycombe, Earl of Billington, fell -quite literally- into
her life.
She was walking along, whistling a happy tune and keeping
her mind busy by trying to estimate the yearly profit of
the East and West Sugar Company (of which she owned several
shares) when to her great surprise, a man came crashing
down from the sky and landed at, or to be more precise - on
her feet.
Further inspection revealed that the man in question had
fallen not from the sky but from a large oak tree. Ellie,
whose life had grown decidedly dull in the last year or so,
would have almost preferred that he had fallen from the
sky. It certainly would have been more exciting than a mere
tree.
She pulled her left foot out from underneath his shoulder,
hiked her skirts above her ankles to save them from the
dirt, and crouched down. "Sir?" she inquired. "Are you all
right?"
All he said was, "Ow."
"Oh, dear," she murmured. "You haven't broken any bones,
have you?"
He didn't say anything, just let out a long breath. Ellie
lurched back when the fumes hit her. "Sweet heavens," she
muttered, "You smell as if you've imbibed a winery."
"Whishkey," he slurred in response. "A gennleman drinks
whishkey."
"Not this much whiskey," she retorted. "Only a drunk drinks
this much of anything."
He sat up - clearly a difficult endeavor. "Exactly it," he
said, waving his hand through the air, then wincing when
the action made him dizzy. "I'm a bit drunk, I'm afraid."
Ellie decided to refrain from further comment on that
topic. "Are you certain you're not injured?"
He scratched his reddish-brown hair and blinked. "My head
pounds like the devil."
"I suspect that isn't only from the fall."
He tried to get up, weaved, and sat back down. "You're a
sharp-tongued lass."
"Yes, I know," she said with a wry smile. "It's why I'm a
longtoothed spinster. Now then, I can't very well see to
your injuries if I don't know what they are."
"Efficient, too," he murmured. "An' why are you so certain
I've got an injurty, er, injury?"
Ellie looked up into the tree. The nearest branch which
would have supported his weight was a good fifteen feet
up. "I don't see how you could have fallen so far and not
been injured."
He waved her comments aside and tried to rise again. "Yes,
well, we Wycombes are a hardy lot. It'd take more than a-
Sweet merciful Christ!" he howled.
Ellie tried her best not to sound smug when she said, "An
ache? A pain? A sprain, perhaps."
His brown eyes narrowed as he clutched the trunk of the
tree for support. "You are a hard, cruel woman, Miss
whatever your name is, to take such pleasure in my agony."
Ellie coughed to cover up a giggle. "Mr. Whosis, I must
protest and point out that I tried to tend to your
injuries, but you insisted you didn't have any."
He scowled in a very boyish sort of way and sat back
down. "That's Lord Whosis," he muttered, but his voice
lacked true ire.
"Very well, my lord," she said, hoping that she hadn't
irritated him overmuch. A peer of the realm held much more
power than a vicar's daughter, and he could do much to make
her life miserable if he so chose. She gave up all hope of
keeping her dress clean and sat down in the dirt. "Which
ankle pains you, my lord?"
He pointed to his right ankle and then grimaced when she
lifted it in her hands and inspected for broken bones.
After a moment's examination, she looked up and said in her
most polite voice, "I am going to have to remove your boot,
my lord. Would that be permissible?"
"I liked you better when you were spitting fire," he
muttered. Ellie liked herself better that way, too. She
smiled. "Have you a knife?"
He snorted. "If you think I'm going to put a weapon in your
hands..."
"Very well. I suppose I could just pull the boot off." She
cocked her head and pretended to ponder the matter. "It
might hurt just a bit when it gets stuck on your hideously
swollen ankle, but as you pointed out, you come from hardy
stock, and a man should be able to take a little pain."
"What the devil are you taking about?" Ellie started to
pull at his boot. Not hard - she could never be that cruel.
Just enough to demonstrate that the boot wasn't coming off
his foot through ordinary means.
"Youch!" he yelled, and Ellie wished she hadn't tried to
teach him a lesson, because she ended up with a face full
of whiskey fumes.
"How much did you drink?" she demanded, choking for air.
"Not nearly enough," he groaned. "They haven't invented a
drink strong enough-"
"Oh, come now," Ellie snapped. "I'm not that bad."
To her surprise, he laughed. "Sweetheart," he said in a
tone that told her clear as day that his usual occupation
was rake, "you're the least bad thing that has happened to
me in months."
Ellie felt an odd sort of tingling on the back of her neck
at his clumsy compliment. Thankful that her large bonnet
hid her blush, she focused her attention back on his
ankle. "Have you changed your mind about my cutting your
boot?"
His answer was a knife in her palm. "I always knew there
was some reason I carried one of these things around. I
just never knew what it was until today."
The knife was a bit dull, and soon Ellie was gritting her
teeth as she sawed through his boot. She looked up from her
task for a moment. "Just let me know if I-"
"Ow!"
"-poke you," she finished. "I'm dreadfully sorry."
"It is astonishing," he said, his voice liberally laced
with irony, "how much sorrow I hear in your voice."
Ellie caught another giggle in her throat.
"Oh for the love of God," he muttered. "Just laugh. Lord
knows my life is laughable."
Ellie, whose own life had descended into the miserable ever
since her widower father had announced his intention to
marry the village of Bellfield's biggest busybody, felt a
pang of empathy. She didn't know what it was that had
prompted this remarkably handsome and well-heeled lord to
go out and get himself blindingly drunk, but whatever it
was, she felt for him. She stopped her work on his boot for
a moment, leveled her dark blue eyes at his face, and
said, "My name is Miss Eleanor Lyndon."
His eyes warmed. "Thank you for sharing that pertinent
piece of information, Miss Lyndon. It isn't every day I
allow a strange woman to saw off my boots."
"It isn't every day I nearly get knocked to the ground by
men falling from trees. Strange men," she added for
emphasis.
"Ah yes, I should introduce myself, I s'pose." He cocked
his head in a manner that reminded Ellie that he was still
more than a touch inebriated. "Charles Wycombe at your
service, Miss Lyndon. Earl of Billington." Then he
muttered, "Much as that's worth."
Ellie stared at him unblinkingly. Billington? He was one of
the county's most eligible bachelors. So eligible that even
she'd heard of him, and she wasn't on anybody's list of
eligible young ladies. Rumor had it that he was even more
wealthy than her sister Victoria's new husband, the Earl of
Macclesfield. Ellie couldn't personally vouch for that, as
she hadn't seen his personal finance ledgers, and she made
it a point never to speculate on financial matters without
hard evidence. But she did know that the Billington estate
was vast and ancient.
And it was a good twenty miles away. "What are you doing
here in Bellfield?" she blurted out.
"Just visiting my old childhood haunts."
Ellie motioned toward the branches above them with her
head.
"Your favorite tree?"
"Used to climb it all the time with Macclesfield."
Ellie finished her work on the boot and put the knife
down. "Robert?" she asked.
Charles looked suspicious and a bit protective. "You're on
a first name basis with him? He's recently married."
"Yes. To my sister."
"The world grows smaller by the second," he murmured. "I'm
honored to make your acquaintance."
"You might rethink that sentiment in a moment," Ellie
remarked. With a gentle touch, she slid his swollen foot
from his boot.
Charles looked down at his mangled boot with a pained
expression. "I suppose my ankle is more important," he said
wistfully. But he didn't sound as if he meant it.
Ellie expertly prodded his ankle. "I don't think you've
broken any bones, but you've a nasty sprain."
"You sound experienced at this sort of thing."
"I come to the rescue of any wounded animal," she said,
arching her brows. "Dogs, cats, birds."
"Men," he finished for her.
"No," she said pertly. "You're the first. But I cannot
imagine that you'd be that much different from a dog."
"Your fangs are showing, Miss Lyndon."
"Are they?" she asked, reaching up to touch her face. "I
shall have to remember to retract them."
Charles burst out laughing. "You, Miss Lyndon, are a
treasure."
"That's what I keep telling everyone," she said with a
shrug and a wicked smile, "but no one seems to believe me.
Now then, I fear you will require a cane for several days.
Possibly a week. Have you one at your disposal?"
"Right now?"
"I meant at home, but..." Ellie's words trailed off as she
looked around her. She spied a long stick several yards
away and scrambled to her feet.
"This should do," she said, picking it up and handing it to
him. "Do you need assistance getting to your feet?" He
grinned wolfishly as he swayed toward her. "Any excuse to
be in your arms, my dear Miss Lyndon."
Ellie knew she should be affronted, but he was trying so
hard to be charming, and devil take it, he was succeeding.
Handily. She stepped around to his back and put her hands
under his arms. "I warn you, I'm not very gentle."
"Now why doesn't that surprise me?"
"On the count of three, then. Are you ready?"
"That depends, I suppose, on-"
"One, two... three!" With a grunt and a heave, Ellie pulled
the earl to his feet. It wasn't an easy task. He outweighed
her by a good four stone and was drunk, to boot. His knees
buckled, and Ellie only just managed to keep herself from
cursing as she planted her feet and braced them. Then he
started to topple over in the other direction, and she had
to scoot to his front to keep him from falling.
"Now that feels nice," he murmured as his chest pressed up
against hers.
"Lord Billington, I must insist that you use your cane."
"On you?" He sounded intrigued by the notion.
"To walk!" she fairly yelled.
He flinched at the noise, then shook his head. "It's the
oddest thing," he murmured, "but I have the most appalling
urge to kiss you."
For once, Ellie was speechless.
He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. "I think I just
might do it."
That was enough to spur her into motion, and she jumped to
the side, sending him sprawling on the ground.
"Good God, woman!" he yelled. "What did you do that for?"
"You were going to kiss me."
He rubbed his head, which had hit the tree trunk. "The
prospect was that terrifying?"
Ellie blinked. "Not terrifying, exactly."
"Please don't say repulsive," he grumbled. "I really
couldn't bear it."
She exhaled and held out a conciliatory hand. "I'm terribly
sorry for dropping you, my lord."
"Once again, your face is a picture of sorrow."
Ellie fought the urge to stamp her foot. "I meant it this
time. Do you accept my apology?"
"It appears," he said, raising his eyebrows," that you
might do me bodily harm if I do not."
"Ungracious prig," she muttered. "I am trying to
apologize."
"And I," he emphasized, "am trying to accept."
He reached out and took her gloved hand. She pulled him to
his feet again, stepping out of his reach once he had
steadied himself on his makeshift cane.
"I will escort you to Bellfield," Ellie said. "It isn't
terribly far. Will you be able to get home from there?"
"I left my curricle at the Bee and Thistle," he replied.
She cleared her throat. "I would appreciate it if you would
behave with gentility and discretion. I may be a spinster,
but I do have a reputation to protect."
He sent a sideways look in her direction. "I'm considered
something of a blackguard, I'm afraid."
"I know."
"Your reputation was probably shredded the moment I landed
on top of you."
"For heavens' sake, you fell out of a tree!"
"Yes, of course, but you did put your bare hands on my bare
ankle."
"It was for the noblest of reasons."
"Frankly, I thought kissing you seemed rather noble, but
you appeared to disagree."
Her mouth settled into a grim line. "That is exactly the
sort of flippant remark I am talking about. I know that I
shouldn't, but I do care what people think of me, and I
have to live here for the rest of my life."
"Do you?" he asked. "How sad."
"That isn't funny."
"It wasn't meant to be."
She sighed impatiently. "Contrive to behave yourself when
we reach Bellfield. Please?"
He leaned on his stick and swept into a courtly bow. "I try
never to disappoint a lady."
"Will you stop!" she said, grabbing him by the elbow and
pulling him upright. "You're going to knock yourself over."
"Why, Miss Lyndon, I do believe you are beginning to care
for me."
Her answer was a marginally ladylike grunt.With fisted
hands, she began to march toward town. Charles hobbled
behind her, smiling all the way. She was walking much more
quickly than he, however, and the space between them grew
until he was forced to call out her name.
Ellie turned around.
Charles offered her what he hoped was an appealing
smile. "I cannot keep up with you, I'm afraid." He held out
his hands in a gesture of supplication and then promptly
lost his balance. Ellie rushed forward to straighten him.
"You are a walking disaster," she muttered, keeping her
hand on his elbow.
"A limping disaster," he corrected. "And I cannot-" He
lifted his free hand to his mouth to cover an inebriated
burp. "I cannot limp quickly."
She let out a long-suffering sigh. "Here. You can lean on
my shoulder. Together we should be able to get you into
town."
Charles grinned and slid his arm over her shoulder. She was
small, but she was a sturdy little thing, so he decided to
test the waters by leaning on her a little more closely.
She stiffened, then let out another loud sigh.
Slowly they moved toward town. Charles felt himself leaning
on her more and more. Whether his incompetence was due to
his sprain or his drunkenness he didn't know. She felt warm
and strong and soft all at once next to him, and he didn't
much care how he had gotten himself into this fix -- he
just resolved to enjoy it while it lasted. Each step
pressed the side of her breast up against his ribs, and he
was finding that to be a most pleasant sensation indeed.
"It's a beautiful day, don't you think?" he inquired,
thinking he ought to make conversation.
"Yes," Ellie agreed, stumbling slightly under the weight of
him. "But it is growing late. Is there no way you can move
a little bit faster?"
"Even I," Charles said with an expansive wave of his
hand, "am not such a cad that I would feign lameness merely
to enjoy the attentions of a beautiful lady."
"Will you stop waving your arm about! We're losing our
balance."
Charles wasn't sure why, and maybe it was just because he
was still decidedly un-sober, but he liked the sound of the
word "we" from her lips. There was something about this
Miss Lyndon that made him glad she was on his side. Not
that he thought she would make a vicious enemy, just that
she seemed loyal, levelheaded, and fair. And she had a
wicked sense of humor. Just the sort of person a man would
want standing beside him when the going got rough.
He turned his face toward hers. "You smell nice," he said.
"What?" she screeched.
And she was fun to torture. Had he remembered to add that
to his list of attributes? It was always good to surround
oneself with people who could take a bit of teasing. He
schooled his face into an innocent mask. "You smell nice,"
he said again.
"That is not the sort of thing a gentleman says to a lady,"
she said primly.
"I'm drunk," he said with an unrepentant shrug. "I don't
know what I'm saying."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I have a feeling you know
exactly what you're saying."
"Why, Miss Lyndon, are you accusing me of trying to seduce
you?"
He didn't think it possible, but she turned an even deeper
shade of crimson. He wished he could see the color of her
hair under that monstrous bonnet, but her eyebrows were
blond, and they stood out comically against her blush.
"Stop twisting my words."
"You twist words very nicely yourself, Miss Lyndon." When
she didn't say anything, he added, "That was a compliment."
She trudged along the dirt road, pulling him with her. "You
baffle me, my lord."
Charles smiled, thinking that it was great fun to baffle
Miss Eleanor Lyndon. He fell silent for a few minutes, and
then, as they rounded a corner, asked, "Are we almost there
yet?"
"A little more than halfway, I should think." Ellie
squinted at the horizon, watching the sun sink ever
lower. "Oh, dear. It is growing late. Papa will have my
head."
"I swear on my father's grave-" Charles was trying to sound
serious, but he hiccupped.
Ellie turned toward him so quickly that her nose bumped
into his shoulder. "Whatever are you talking about, my
lord?"
"I was trying-hic-to swear to you that I am not-hic-
deliberately trying to slow you down."
The corners of her lips twitched. "I don't know why I
believe you," she said, "but I do."
"It might be because my ankle looks like an overripe pear,"
he joked.
"No," she said thoughtfully, "I think you're just a nicer
person than you'd like people to believe."
He scoffed. "I am far from-hic-nice."
"I'll wager you give your entire staff extra wages at
Christmas."
Much to his irritation, he blushed.
"A-ha!" she cried out triumphantly. "You do!"
"It breeds loyalty," he mumbled.
"It gives them money to buy presents for their families,"
she said softly.
He grunted and turned his head away from her. "Lovely
sunset, don't you think, Miss Lyndon?"
"A bit clumsy as changes of subject go," she said with a
knowing grin, "but yes, it is quite."
"It's rather amazing," he continued, "how many different
colors make up the sunset. I see orange, and pink, and
peach. Oh, and a touch of saffron right over there." He
pointed off to the southwest. "And the truly remarkable
thing of it is that it'll all be different tomorrow."
"Are you an artist?" Ellie asked.
"No," he said. "I just like the sunset."
"Bellfield is just around the corner," she said.
"Is it?"
"You sound disappointed."
"Don't really want to go home, I suppose," he replied. He
sighed, thinking about what was waiting for him there. A
pile of stones that made up Wycombe Abbey. A pile of stones
that cost a bloody fortune to keep up. A fortune that would
slip through his fingers in less than a month thanks to his
meddling father.
One would think that George Wycombe's hold on the
pursestrings would have loosened with death, but no, he
still found a way to keep his hands firmly around his son's
neck from the grave. Charles swore under his breath as he
thought about how apt that image was. He certainly felt
like he was being strangled.
In precisely fifteen days, he would turn thirty.In
precisely fifteen days, every last unentailed scrap of his
inheritance would be snatched away from him. Unless-
Miss Lyndon coughed and rubbed a piece of dust from her
eye. Charles looked at her with renewed interest. Unless -
he thought slowly, not wanting his still somewhat groggy
brain to miss any important details - unless sometime in
these next twenty-four days, he managed to find himself a
wife.
Miss Lyndon steered him onto Bellfield's High Street and
pointed south. "The Bee and Thistle is just over there. I
don't see your curricle. Is it 'round back?"
She had a nice voice, Charles thought. She had a nice
voice, and a nice brain, and a nice wit, and although he
still didn't know what color her hair was, she had a nice
set of eyebrows. And she felt damned nice with his weight
pressed up against her.
He cleared his throat. "Miss Lyndon."
"Don't tell me you misplaced your carriage."
"Miss Lyndon, I have something of great import to discuss
with you."
"Has your ankle worsened? I knew that putting weight on it
was a bad idea, but I didn't know how else to get you into
town. Ice would-"
"Miss Lyndon!" he fairly boomed.
That got her to close her mouth.
"Do you think you might-" Charles coughed, suddenly wishing
he were sober, because he had a feeling his vocabulary was
larger when he wasn't tipsy.
"Lord Billington?" she asked with a concerned expression.
In the end he just blurted it out. "Do you think you might
marry me?"
Kent, England
October 1817
Eleanor Lyndon was minding her own business when Charles
Wycombe, Earl of Billington, fell -quite literally- into
her life.
She was walking along, whistling a happy tune and keeping
her mind busy by trying to estimate the yearly profit of
the East and West Sugar Company (of which she owned several
shares) when to her great surprise, a man came crashing
down from the sky and landed at, or to be more precise - on
her feet.
Further inspection revealed that the man in question had
fallen not from the sky but from a large oak tree. Ellie,
whose life had grown decidedly dull in the last year or so,
would have almost preferred that he had fallen from the
sky. It certainly would have been more exciting than a mere
tree.
She pulled her left foot out from underneath his shoulder,
hiked her skirts above her ankles to save them from the
dirt, and crouched down. "Sir?" she inquired. "Are you all
right?"
All he said was, "Ow."
"Oh, dear," she murmured. "You haven't broken any bones,
have you?"
He didn't say anything, just let out a long breath. Ellie
lurched back when the fumes hit her. "Sweet heavens," she
muttered, "You smell as if you've imbibed a winery."
"Whishkey," he slurred in response. "A gennleman drinks
whishkey."
"Not this much whiskey," she retorted. "Only a drunk drinks
this much of anything."
He sat up - clearly a difficult endeavor. "Exactly it," he
said, waving his hand through the air, then wincing when
the action made him dizzy. "I'm a bit drunk, I'm afraid."
Ellie decided to refrain from further comment on that
topic. "Are you certain you're not injured?"
He scratched his reddish-brown hair and blinked. "My head
pounds like the devil."
"I suspect that isn't only from the fall."
He tried to get up, weaved, and sat back down. "You're a
sharp-tongued lass."
"Yes, I know," she said with a wry smile. "It's why I'm a
longtoothed spinster. Now then, I can't very well see to
your injuries if I don't know what they are."
"Efficient, too," he murmured. "An' why are you so certain
I've got an injurty, er, injury?"
Ellie looked up into the tree. The nearest branch which
would have supported his weight was a good fifteen feet
up. "I don't see how you could have fallen so far and not
been injured."
He waved her comments aside and tried to rise again. "Yes,
well, we Wycombes are a hardy lot. It'd take more than a-
Sweet merciful Christ!" he howled.
Ellie tried her best not to sound smug when she said, "An
ache? A pain? A sprain, perhaps."
His brown eyes narrowed as he clutched the trunk of the
tree for support. "You are a hard, cruel woman, Miss
whatever your name is, to take such pleasure in my agony."
Ellie coughed to cover up a giggle. "Mr. Whosis, I must
protest and point out that I tried to tend to your
injuries, but you insisted you didn't have any."
He scowled in a very boyish sort of way and sat back
down. "That's Lord Whosis," he muttered, but his voice
lacked true ire.
"Very well, my lord," she said, hoping that she hadn't
irritated him overmuch. A peer of the realm held much more
power than a vicar's daughter, and he could do much to make
her life miserable if he so chose. She gave up all hope of
keeping her dress clean and sat down in the dirt. "Which
ankle pains you, my lord?"
He pointed to his right ankle and then grimaced when she
lifted it in her hands and inspected for broken bones.
After a moment's examination, she looked up and said in her
most polite voice, "I am going to have to remove your boot,
my lord. Would that be permissible?"
"I liked you better when you were spitting fire," he
muttered. Ellie liked herself better that way, too. She
smiled. "Have you a knife?"
He snorted. "If you think I'm going to put a weapon in your
hands..."
"Very well. I suppose I could just pull the boot off." She
cocked her head and pretended to ponder the matter. "It
might hurt just a bit when it gets stuck on your hideously
swollen ankle, but as you pointed out, you come from hardy
stock, and a man should be able to take a little pain."
"What the devil are you taking about?" Ellie started to
pull at his boot. Not hard - she could never be that cruel.
Just enough to demonstrate that the boot wasn't coming off
his foot through ordinary means.
"Youch!" he yelled, and Ellie wished she hadn't tried to
teach him a lesson, because she ended up with a face full
of whiskey fumes.
"How much did you drink?" she demanded, choking for air.
"Not nearly enough," he groaned. "They haven't invented a
drink strong enough-"
"Oh, come now," Ellie snapped. "I'm not that bad."
To her surprise, he laughed. "Sweetheart," he said in a
tone that told her clear as day that his usual occupation
was rake, "you're the least bad thing that has happened to
me in months."
Ellie felt an odd sort of tingling on the back of her neck
at his clumsy compliment. Thankful that her large bonnet
hid her blush, she focused her attention back on his
ankle. "Have you changed your mind about my cutting your
boot?"
His answer was a knife in her palm. "I always knew there
was some reason I carried one of these things around. I
just never knew what it was until today."
The knife was a bit dull, and soon Ellie was gritting her
teeth as she sawed through his boot. She looked up from her
task for a moment. "Just let me know if I-"
"Ow!"
"-poke you," she finished. "I'm dreadfully sorry."
"It is astonishing," he said, his voice liberally laced
with irony, "how much sorrow I hear in your voice."
Ellie caught another giggle in her throat.
"Oh for the love of God," he muttered. "Just laugh. Lord
knows my life is laughable."
Ellie, whose own life had descended into the miserable ever
since her widower father had announced his intention to
marry the village of Bellfield's biggest busybody, felt a
pang of empathy. She didn't know what it was that had
prompted this remarkably handsome and well-heeled lord to
go out and get himself blindingly drunk, but whatever it
was, she felt for him. She stopped her work on his boot for
a moment, leveled her dark blue eyes at his face, and
said, "My name is Miss Eleanor Lyndon."
His eyes warmed. "Thank you for sharing that pertinent
piece of information, Miss Lyndon. It isn't every day I
allow a strange woman to saw off my boots."
"It isn't every day I nearly get knocked to the ground by
men falling from trees. Strange men," she added for
emphasis.
"Ah yes, I should introduce myself, I s'pose." He cocked
his head in a manner that reminded Ellie that he was still
more than a touch inebriated. "Charles Wycombe at your
service, Miss Lyndon. Earl of Billington." Then he
muttered, "Much as that's worth."
Ellie stared at him unblinkingly. Billington? He was one of
the county's most eligible bachelors. So eligible that even
she'd heard of him, and she wasn't on anybody's list of
eligible young ladies. Rumor had it that he was even more
wealthy than her sister Victoria's new husband, the Earl of
Macclesfield. Ellie couldn't personally vouch for that, as
she hadn't seen his personal finance ledgers, and she made
it a point never to speculate on financial matters without
hard evidence. But she did know that the Billington estate
was vast and ancient.
And it was a good twenty miles away. "What are you doing
here in Bellfield?" she blurted out.
"Just visiting my old childhood haunts."
Ellie motioned toward the branches above them with her
head.
"Your favorite tree?"
"Used to climb it all the time with Macclesfield."
Ellie finished her work on the boot and put the knife
down. "Robert?" she asked.
Charles looked suspicious and a bit protective. "You're on
a first name basis with him? He's recently married."
"Yes. To my sister."
"The world grows smaller by the second," he murmured. "I'm
honored to make your acquaintance."
"You might rethink that sentiment in a moment," Ellie
remarked. With a gentle touch, she slid his swollen foot
from his boot.
Charles looked down at his mangled boot with a pained
expression. "I suppose my ankle is more important," he said
wistfully. But he didn't sound as if he meant it.
Ellie expertly prodded his ankle. "I don't think you've
broken any bones, but you've a nasty sprain."
"You sound experienced at this sort of thing."
"I come to the rescue of any wounded animal," she said,
arching her brows. "Dogs, cats, birds."
"Men," he finished for her.
"No," she said pertly. "You're the first. But I cannot
imagine that you'd be that much different from a dog."
"Your fangs are showing, Miss Lyndon."
"Are they?" she asked, reaching up to touch her face. "I
shall have to remember to retract them."
Charles burst out laughing. "You, Miss Lyndon, are a
treasure."
"That's what I keep telling everyone," she said with a
shrug and a wicked smile, "but no one seems to believe me.
Now then, I fear you will require a cane for several days.
Possibly a week. Have you one at your disposal?"
"Right now?"
"I meant at home, but..." Ellie's words trailed off as she
looked around her. She spied a long stick several yards
away and scrambled to her feet.
"This should do," she said, picking it up and handing it to
him. "Do you need assistance getting to your feet?" He
grinned wolfishly as he swayed toward her. "Any excuse to
be in your arms, my dear Miss Lyndon."
Ellie knew she should be affronted, but he was trying so
hard to be charming, and devil take it, he was succeeding.
Handily. She stepped around to his back and put her hands
under his arms. "I warn you, I'm not very gentle."
"Now why doesn't that surprise me?"
"On the count of three, then. Are you ready?"
"That depends, I suppose, on-"
"One, two... three!" With a grunt and a heave, Ellie pulled
the earl to his feet. It wasn't an easy task. He outweighed
her by a good four stone and was drunk, to boot. His knees
buckled, and Ellie only just managed to keep herself from
cursing as she planted her feet and braced them. Then he
started to topple over in the other direction, and she had
to scoot to his front to keep him from falling.
"Now that feels nice," he murmured as his chest pressed up
against hers.
"Lord Billington, I must insist that you use your cane."
"On you?" He sounded intrigued by the notion.
"To walk!" she fairly yelled.
He flinched at the noise, then shook his head. "It's the
oddest thing," he murmured, "but I have the most appalling
urge to kiss you."
For once, Ellie was speechless.
He chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. "I think I just
might do it."
That was enough to spur her into motion, and she jumped to
the side, sending him sprawling on the ground.
"Good God, woman!" he yelled. "What did you do that for?"
"You were going to kiss me."
He rubbed his head, which had hit the tree trunk. "The
prospect was that terrifying?"
Ellie blinked. "Not terrifying, exactly."
"Please don't say repulsive," he grumbled. "I really
couldn't bear it."
She exhaled and held out a conciliatory hand. "I'm terribly
sorry for dropping you, my lord."
"Once again, your face is a picture of sorrow."
Ellie fought the urge to stamp her foot. "I meant it this
time. Do you accept my apology?"
"It appears," he said, raising his eyebrows," that you
might do me bodily harm if I do not."
"Ungracious prig," she muttered. "I am trying to
apologize."
"And I," he emphasized, "am trying to accept."
He reached out and took her gloved hand. She pulled him to
his feet again, stepping out of his reach once he had
steadied himself on his makeshift cane.
"I will escort you to Bellfield," Ellie said. "It isn't
terribly far. Will you be able to get home from there?"
"I left my curricle at the Bee and Thistle," he replied.
She cleared her throat. "I would appreciate it if you would
behave with gentility and discretion. I may be a spinster,
but I do have a reputation to protect."
He sent a sideways look in her direction. "I'm considered
something of a blackguard, I'm afraid."
"I know."
"Your reputation was probably shredded the moment I landed
on top of you."
"For heavens' sake, you fell out of a tree!"
"Yes, of course, but you did put your bare hands on my bare
ankle."
"It was for the noblest of reasons."
"Frankly, I thought kissing you seemed rather noble, but
you appeared to disagree."
Her mouth settled into a grim line. "That is exactly the
sort of flippant remark I am talking about. I know that I
shouldn't, but I do care what people think of me, and I
have to live here for the rest of my life."
"Do you?" he asked. "How sad."
"That isn't funny."
"It wasn't meant to be."
She sighed impatiently. "Contrive to behave yourself when
we reach Bellfield. Please?"
He leaned on his stick and swept into a courtly bow. "I try
never to disappoint a lady."
"Will you stop!" she said, grabbing him by the elbow and
pulling him upright. "You're going to knock yourself over."
"Why, Miss Lyndon, I do believe you are beginning to care
for me."
Her answer was a marginally ladylike grunt.With fisted
hands, she began to march toward town. Charles hobbled
behind her, smiling all the way. She was walking much more
quickly than he, however, and the space between them grew
until he was forced to call out her name.
Ellie turned around.
Charles offered her what he hoped was an appealing
smile. "I cannot keep up with you, I'm afraid." He held out
his hands in a gesture of supplication and then promptly
lost his balance. Ellie rushed forward to straighten him.
"You are a walking disaster," she muttered, keeping her
hand on his elbow.
"A limping disaster," he corrected. "And I cannot-" He
lifted his free hand to his mouth to cover an inebriated
burp. "I cannot limp quickly."
She let out a long-suffering sigh. "Here. You can lean on
my shoulder. Together we should be able to get you into
town."
Charles grinned and slid his arm over her shoulder. She was
small, but she was a sturdy little thing, so he decided to
test the waters by leaning on her a little more closely.
She stiffened, then let out another loud sigh.
Slowly they moved toward town. Charles felt himself leaning
on her more and more. Whether his incompetence was due to
his sprain or his drunkenness he didn't know. She felt warm
and strong and soft all at once next to him, and he didn't
much care how he had gotten himself into this fix -- he
just resolved to enjoy it while it lasted. Each step
pressed the side of her breast up against his ribs, and he
was finding that to be a most pleasant sensation indeed.
"It's a beautiful day, don't you think?" he inquired,
thinking he ought to make conversation.
"Yes," Ellie agreed, stumbling slightly under the weight of
him. "But it is growing late. Is there no way you can move
a little bit faster?"
"Even I," Charles said with an expansive wave of his
hand, "am not such a cad that I would feign lameness merely
to enjoy the attentions of a beautiful lady."
"Will you stop waving your arm about! We're losing our
balance."
Charles wasn't sure why, and maybe it was just because he
was still decidedly un-sober, but he liked the sound of the
word "we" from her lips. There was something about this
Miss Lyndon that made him glad she was on his side. Not
that he thought she would make a vicious enemy, just that
she seemed loyal, levelheaded, and fair. And she had a
wicked sense of humor. Just the sort of person a man would
want standing beside him when the going got rough.
He turned his face toward hers. "You smell nice," he said.
"What?" she screeched.
And she was fun to torture. Had he remembered to add that
to his list of attributes? It was always good to surround
oneself with people who could take a bit of teasing. He
schooled his face into an innocent mask. "You smell nice,"
he said again.
"That is not the sort of thing a gentleman says to a lady,"
she said primly.
"I'm drunk," he said with an unrepentant shrug. "I don't
know what I'm saying."
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I have a feeling you know
exactly what you're saying."
"Why, Miss Lyndon, are you accusing me of trying to seduce
you?"
He didn't think it possible, but she turned an even deeper
shade of crimson. He wished he could see the color of her
hair under that monstrous bonnet, but her eyebrows were
blond, and they stood out comically against her blush.
"Stop twisting my words."
"You twist words very nicely yourself, Miss Lyndon." When
she didn't say anything, he added, "That was a compliment."
She trudged along the dirt road, pulling him with her. "You
baffle me, my lord."
Charles smiled, thinking that it was great fun to baffle
Miss Eleanor Lyndon. He fell silent for a few minutes, and
then, as they rounded a corner, asked, "Are we almost there
yet?"
"A little more than halfway, I should think." Ellie
squinted at the horizon, watching the sun sink ever
lower. "Oh, dear. It is growing late. Papa will have my
head."
"I swear on my father's grave-" Charles was trying to sound
serious, but he hiccupped.
Ellie turned toward him so quickly that her nose bumped
into his shoulder. "Whatever are you talking about, my
lord?"
"I was trying-hic-to swear to you that I am not-hic-
deliberately trying to slow you down."
The corners of her lips twitched. "I don't know why I
believe you," she said, "but I do."
"It might be because my ankle looks like an overripe pear,"
he joked.
"No," she said thoughtfully, "I think you're just a nicer
person than you'd like people to believe."
He scoffed. "I am far from-hic-nice."
"I'll wager you give your entire staff extra wages at
Christmas."
Much to his irritation, he blushed.
"A-ha!" she cried out triumphantly. "You do!"
"It breeds loyalty," he mumbled.
"It gives them money to buy presents for their families,"
she said softly.
He grunted and turned his head away from her. "Lovely
sunset, don't you think, Miss Lyndon?"
"A bit clumsy as changes of subject go," she said with a
knowing grin, "but yes, it is quite."
"It's rather amazing," he continued, "how many different
colors make up the sunset. I see orange, and pink, and
peach. Oh, and a touch of saffron right over there." He
pointed off to the southwest. "And the truly remarkable
thing of it is that it'll all be different tomorrow."
"Are you an artist?" Ellie asked.
"No," he said. "I just like the sunset."
"Bellfield is just around the corner," she said.
"Is it?"
"You sound disappointed."
"Don't really want to go home, I suppose," he replied. He
sighed, thinking about what was waiting for him there. A
pile of stones that made up Wycombe Abbey. A pile of stones
that cost a bloody fortune to keep up. A fortune that would
slip through his fingers in less than a month thanks to his
meddling father.
One would think that George Wycombe's hold on the
pursestrings would have loosened with death, but no, he
still found a way to keep his hands firmly around his son's
neck from the grave. Charles swore under his breath as he
thought about how apt that image was. He certainly felt
like he was being strangled.
In precisely fifteen days, he would turn thirty.In
precisely fifteen days, every last unentailed scrap of his
inheritance would be snatched away from him. Unless-
Miss Lyndon coughed and rubbed a piece of dust from her
eye. Charles looked at her with renewed interest. Unless -
he thought slowly, not wanting his still somewhat groggy
brain to miss any important details - unless sometime in
these next twenty-four days, he managed to find himself a
wife.
Miss Lyndon steered him onto Bellfield's High Street and
pointed south. "The Bee and Thistle is just over there. I
don't see your curricle. Is it 'round back?"
She had a nice voice, Charles thought. She had a nice
voice, and a nice brain, and a nice wit, and although he
still didn't know what color her hair was, she had a nice
set of eyebrows. And she felt damned nice with his weight
pressed up against her.
He cleared his throat. "Miss Lyndon."
"Don't tell me you misplaced your carriage."
"Miss Lyndon, I have something of great import to discuss
with you."
"Has your ankle worsened? I knew that putting weight on it
was a bad idea, but I didn't know how else to get you into
town. Ice would-"
"Miss Lyndon!" he fairly boomed.
That got her to close her mouth.
"Do you think you might-" Charles coughed, suddenly wishing
he were sober, because he had a feeling his vocabulary was
larger when he wasn't tipsy.
"Lord Billington?" she asked with a concerned expression.
In the end he just blurted it out. "Do you think you might
marry me?"
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