Ellie tried to unclench her teeth this time before speaking, but she wasn't successful. "Just keep going up the stairs and to your room, if you please."
"And then I can kiss you?"
"Yes! Fine!"
He sighed happily. "Oh, good."
Ellie groaned and tried to ignore the way the footmen were trying to hide their grins.
A minute or so later they nearly had him into his room, but Charles suddenly stopped short and blurted out. "Do you know what your problem is, Ellie, m'dear?"
She kept trying to push him down the hall. "What?"
"You're too damned good at everything."
Ellie wondered why that didn't sound like a compliment.
"I mean—" He waved his good arm expansively, causing him to lurch forward, which required Ellie and both of the footmen to grab him before he tumbled to the ground.
"Charles, I don't think this is the time," she said.
"Y'see," he said, ignoring her, "I thought I wanted a wife I could ignore."
"I know." Ellie looked desperately at the footmen as they pushed Charles onto his bed. "I believe I can handle him from here."
"Are you certain, my lady?"
"Yes," she muttered. "With any luck he'll pass out soon."
The footmen looked dubious, but they filed out nonetheless.
"Close the door behind you!" Charles hollered.
Ellie spun around and crossed her arms. "You do
not
make an attractive drunk, my lord."
"Really? You once told me you liked me best drunk."
"I have reconsidered."
He sighed. "Women."
"The world would be a far less civilized place without us," she said with a sniff.
"I agree wholeheartedly." He burped. "Now, where was I? Oh yes, I wanted a wife so I could ignore her."
"A fine specimen of English good cheer and chivalry, you are."' she said under her breath.
"What was that? Didn't hear you. Ah well, doesn't matter. Anyway, here is what happened."
Ellie looked at him with an expression of sarcastic eagerness.
"I ended up with a wife who can ignore
me."
He jabbed himself in the chest and yelped, "Me!"
She blinked. "I beg your pardon."
"You can do anything. Stitch up my arm, make a fortune. Well, aside from blowing up my kitchen ..."
"Now, see here!"
"Hmm, and you did mess up the orangery something awful, but I did receive a note from Barnes calling you quite the most intelligent female he'd ever met. And the tenants like you better than they ever liked me."
She crossed her arms. "Do you have a point?"
"No." He shrugged. "Well, I probably do, but I'm having a bit of trouble getting to it."
"I would never have noticed."
"Thing is, you don't need me for a damned thing."
"Well, that is not entirely true ..."
"Isn't it?" He suddenly looked a touch more sober than he had the moment before. "You've got your money. You've got your new friends. What the hell do you need a husband for? I'm clearly ignorable."
"I'm not sure I'd say
that..."
"I could make you need me, I s'pose."
"Why would you want to? You don't love me."
He pondered that for a moment, and then said. "Don't know. But I do."
"You love me?" she asked disbelievingly.
"No, but I want you to need me."
Ellie tried to ignore the way her heart sank a little when he replied in the negative. "Why?" she asked again.
He shrugged. "I don't know. I just want you to. Now get into bed."
"I certainly will not!"
"D'you think I don't remember what we were doing out in the meadow?"
Her cheeks turned pink, but Ellie honestly wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or fury.
Charles sat up and leered at her. "I'm eager to finish what we started, wife."
"Not when you're three sheets to the wind!" she retorted, stepping back so that she wouldn't be within arm's reach. "You're liable to forget what you're about."
He gasped, clearly gravely insulted. "I would
neber
—that is to say,
never
forget what I am about. I am an excellent lover, my lady. Superb."
"Is that what all your mistresses have told you?" she could not resist asking.
"Yes. No!" He muttered, "This isn't the sort of thing one wants to talk about with one's wife."
"Exactly. Which is why I'm going to take my leave."
"Oh, no you're not!" With speed that no one who'd imbibed a bottle of brandy should have possessed, he hopped off the bed, dashed across the room, and grabbed her around the waist. By the time Ellie caught her breath she was lying on the bed, and Charles was lying on top of her.
"Hello, wife," he said, looking very much like a wolf.
"A tipsy wolf," she muttered, trying not to cough on the fumes.
He cocked an eyebrow. "You did say I could kiss you."
"When?" she asked suspiciously.
"On the stairs. I pestered and pestered and pestered and you finally said, 'Yes! Fine!' "
Ellie let out an irritated breath. It figured that his memory would still be in perfect working order.
He grinned triumphantly. "The nice thing about you, Ellie, is that you are fundamentally incapable of going back on your word."
She wasn't about to tell him to go ahead and kiss her, nor could she refute his statement—which was, after all, something of a compliment—so she didn't say anything.
That plan backfired, however, for his next words were, "Terribly sporting of you not to start blabbering on, dear wife. Makes it hard to find your mouth."
Then he was kissing her, and Ellie discovered that brandy tasted an awful lot better than it smelled. So much better, in fact, that when he moved to kiss her neck, she surprised herself and grabbed his head to drag his mouth back to hers.
This gave him cause to chuckle, and he kissed her again, this time more deeply. After what seemed like an eternity of this sensual torture, he lifted his head a couple of inches, rested his nose against hers, and said her name.
It was a moment before she was able to say, "Yes?"
"I'm not nearly as foxed as you think I am."
"You're not?"
Slowly, he shook his head.
"But—but you were stumbling. Hiccupping. Burping!"
He smiled at her in amazement. "But I'm not any longer."
"Oh." Ellie's lips parted as she tried to digest this news and decide what it meant. She
thought
it might mean that they were going to consummate their marriage that evening—that hour, in all probability. But she was feeling strangely befuddled, and to be honest rather
hot,
and her brain simply wasn't running at optimum speed.
He stared at her for several moments more, then lowered himself back down to kiss her again. His lips touched everything but her mouth—traveling to her cheeks, her eyes, her ears. His hands were in her hair, streaming it out over the pillows. And then they were running down the length of her body, smoothing over the curve of her hips, caressing the length of her legs, leaving trails of fire wherever they touched.
Ellie felt as if there were two women inhabiting her body. Part of her wanted to lay there and let him work his magic on her, to accept his lovemaking like a rare gift. But part of her yearned to be an active participant, and she wondered what he would do if she touched him back, if she lifted her head and rained soft kisses on
his neck.
In the end, she couldn't keep her feelings inside. She had always been a doer, and it wasn't in her nature to be passive, even if the activity in question was her own seduction. Her arms wrapped around him and squeezed him tight, and her fingers became passionate claws, and—
"Aaaaargh!" Charles's bloodcurdling scream ripped through the air and quite effectively dampened her ardor.
Ellie let out a surprised yelp and squirmed beneath him, trying to bring her hands down to her sides, and—
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" As screams went, this one was worse.
"What on earth?" she finally demanded, wiggling to the side as he rolled off of her, his face a pinched mask of pain.
"You're going to kill me," he said in a dull monotone. "I will be dead before the year is out."
"What the devil are you talking about?"
He sat up and looked at his arm, which had begun to bleed again.
"Did I do that?"
He nodded. "That was the second scream."
"And the first?"
"A bruise on my back."
"I didn't know your back was bruised."
"Neither did I," he said dryly.
Ellie felt extremely inappropriate laughter welling up within her, and she bit her lip. "I'm terribly sorry."
He only shook his head. "Someday I'm going to consummate this damned marriage."
"You could always try to look on the bright side," she suggested.
"There is a bright side?"
"Er, yes. There must be." But she couldn't think of one.
He sighed and held out his arm. "Stitch me up?"
"Are you going to want more brandy?"
"It'll probably put an end to any amorous intentions I have for the evening, but yes, I would." He sighed. "Do you know, Ellie, but I think this is why people get themselves wives."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I hurt everywhere. Everywhere. It's nice to have someone I can say that to."
"Didn't you before?"
He shook his head.
She touched his hand. "I'm glad you can talk to me." Then she found a spool of thread and a bottle of brandy and got to work.
Chapter 15
As was her habit, Ellie awakened bright and early the next morning. What was out of the ordinary, however, was the fact she was lying on Charles's bed, snuggled up quite close to him, with his arm thrown over her shoulder.
He had fallen asleep very quickly the previous night after she had stitched up his arm for the second time. He'd had a tiring and painful day, and the additional bottle of brandy hadn't helped. Ellie had wanted to leave him to his rest, but every time she tried to ease herself from the bed and creep into her own room, he grew agitated. She had finally dozed off on top of his blankets.
She slipped quietly out of the room, not wanting to awaken him. He still slept quite soundly, and she suspected that he needed his rest.
Ellie, however, was physically incapable of sleeping late; after changing out of her crumpled gown, she wandered downstairs for breakfast. Not surprisingly, Helen was already at the table, perusing the newspaper that arrived in the mail each day from London.
"Good morning, Ellie," Helen said.
"Good morning to you."
Ellie sat down, and it was only a moment before Helen asked, "What was the commotion last evening? I heard that Charles was quite beyond foxed."
Ellie recounted the details of the previous day as she smoothed orange marmalade on one of Mrs. Stubbs's freshly baked scones. "That reminds me ..." she said when she'd finished telling Helen of Charles's second bout with stitches.
"Reminds you of what?"
"I was trying to think of something special we could do for the tenants as winter and the holidays approach, and I thought I might make them homemade jam."
Helen's hand froze in midair as she reached for another scone. "I don't suppose this will involve your entering the kitchen again."
"It will be a special surprise, as they would never expect a countess to actually cook."
"There might be a reason for that. Although in your case, I believe people have given up trying to figure out
what
to expect."
Ellie scowled at her. "I assure you that I have made jam hundreds of times."
"Oh, I believe you. I just don't think anyone else will. Especially Mrs. Stubbs, who is still complaining that she keeps finding soot in the kitchen corners."
"Mrs. Stubbs merely likes to complain."
"That is, of course, true, but I'm still not sure—"
"I'm
sure," Ellie said emphatically, "and that is all that counts."
By the time breakfast was finished, Ellie had convinced Helen to help her prepare the jam, and two kitchen maids were sent to town to buy berries. An hour later they returned from town with large quantities of assorted berries and Ellie was ready to get to work. As expected, Mrs. Stubbs was not pleased to see Ellie in her kitchen.
"No no no!" she yelled. "The oven was bad enough!"
"Mrs. Stubbs." Ellie said in her sternest voice, "may I remind you that I am the mistress of this house, and if I want to smear lemon curd up and down the walls, it is my right."
Mrs. Stubbs paled and looked to Helen in terror.
"She is exaggerating," Helen quickly explained. "But perhaps it would be best if you worked outside the kitchen."
"An excellent idea," Ellie agreed, and she practically pushed the housekeeper out the door.
"Somehow I don't think Charles will be happy to hear about this," Helen said.
"Nonsense. He knows that the fire wasn't my fault."
"Does he?" Helen asked dubiously.
"Well, if he doesn't, he should. Now then, let us begin our work." Ellie instructed a scullery maid to pull out Wycombe Abbey's largest pot, and then she dumped the berries into it. "I suppose we could make several different types of jam," she said to Helen, "but I think a mixed berry jam will be delicious."
"And," Helen said, "we can do it all in one pot."
"You're catching on quickly." Ellie smiled and then proceeded to add sugar and water. "We shall probably have to make another batch, though. I doubt this will be enough for all of the tenants."
Helen leaned forward and peered in. "Probably not. But if it's truly this easy, I don't see why that should be a worry. We can simply make another potful tomorrow."
"This is really all there is to it," Ellie said. "Now we just need to cover it up and let the mixture cook." She moved the pot to the perimeter of the stovetop, away from the firebox which burned at its hottest directly underneath the center of the cooking surface. She didn't need any more accidents in the kitchen.
"How long will it take?" Helen asked.
"Oh, most of the day. I could try to cook it faster, but then I would have to monitor the jam more closely, and stir it more frequently. With all that sugar it's likely to stick to the bottom. As it is, I will have to have one of the maids stir it while I'm gone. I shall come back every hour or so to check on its progress."
"I see."
"My brother-in-law once suggested I put rocks on the lid. He said it would cook even faster."
"I see," Helen said automatically, and then she added, "No, actually I don't see."
"It keeps the steam inside, which increases the pressure. That, in turn, allows the jam to cook at a hotter temperature."
"Your brother-in-law must be quite scientific."
"Yes, he is quite." Ellie set the lid on the pot and added, "It is of no matter, anyway. I'm in no rush. I only have to make sure the maids stir it frequently."
"That sounds easy enough," Helen said.
"Oh, it is. Completely foolproof." Ellie held her hand a few inches above the stovetop one last time to check that the heat was not too high, and then they left the kitchen.
Ellie pinned a watch onto her sleeve so that she would remember to check on the jam at appropriate intervals. It cooked slowly but evenly and, in Ellie's opinion, tasted delicious. The pot was thick and didn't get too hot over the low heat, so Ellie was able to grip the handles as she stirred, which was an added convenience.
Since her preparations did not require her undivided attention, she decided to turn some of her energies over to the smelly mess in the orangery. It irked her to no end that she hadn't yet been able to deduce how the saboteur was killing off all of her favorite plants. All that she had been able to figure out was that the smell was not coming from the plants themselves.
The plants were quite dead, that much was irrefutable. But the smell was coming from discreetly placed piles of kitchen garbage that Ellie suspected had been intercepted on their way to a pigpen. Mixed in with the garbage was a suspicious brown substance that could only have been obtained from the ground of the stables.
Whoever wanted to cause her trouble must be very devoted to the cause. Ellie couldn't imagine hating anyone enough to gather horse droppings and rotten food on a daily basis. However, she did love her little indoor garden enough to don a pair of working gloves and haul the smelly mess outside. She located a few sacks and a shovel, resolved not to breathe through her nose for the next hour or so, and dug in.
After five minutes, however, it became apparent that her skirts were getting in her way, so she found some twine and sat down on a stone bench to tie them up.
"A charming sight."
Ellie looked up to see her husband entering the orangery. "Good morning, Charles."
"I have often wished you would lift your skirts for me," he said with a lopsided grin. "Who is the lucky recipient of so charming a gesture?"
She forgot her dignity and stuck out her tongue at him. " 'What' would be a more appropriate word."
Charles followed her gaze to the stinking pile tucked away behind an orange tree. He stepped forward, sniffed the air, and recoiled. "God in heaven, Ellie," he said with a gag and a cough. "What have you done to the plants?"
"It wasn't me," she ground out. "Do you really think I'm stupid enough to think that a rotting sheep's head would help an orange tree to thrive?"
"A
what?"
He walked back over to the tree to get a closer look.
"I've already cleared it away," she said, pointing to her sack.
"Good God, Ellie, you shouldn't have to do this."
"No," she agreed, "I shouldn't. Someone here at Wycombe Abbey clearly does not appreciate my presence. But if you will pardon my pun, I am going to get to the bottom of this mess if it kills me. I won't tolerate this situation any longer."
Charles let out a deep breath and watched as she plunged her shovel into the mess.
"Here," she said, "you can hold the bag open. Although you might want to use some work gloves."
He blinked, unable to believe that she was cleaning this up on her own. "Ellie, I can ask the servants to do this."
"No, you can't," she said, quickly and with more emotion than he would have expected. "They shouldn't have to do this. I'm not going to ask them to."
"Ellie, that is precisely why we
have
servants. I pay them very generous wages to keep Wycombe Abbey clean. This is simply a ...
smellier
mess than usual."
She looked up at him with suspiciously bright eyes. "They are going to think I did this. I don't want that."
Charles realized that her pride was at stake. Since he knew a thing or two about pride himself, he didn't press her. Instead he said, "Very well. I must insist, however, that you let me wield the shovel. What kind of husband would I be if I sat here and watched while you do all of the hard labor?"
"Absolutely not. You've an injured arm."
"It's not that bad."
She let out a snort. "Perhaps you forget that I am the one who stitched you up last night. I know precisely how bad it is."
"Eleanor, give me the shovel."
"Never."
He crossed his arms and regarded her with a level gaze. God, she was stubborn. "Ellie," he said, "the shovel, if you please."
"No."
He shrugged. "All right. You win. I won't shovel."
"I knew you would see it my—yikes!"
"My arm," Charles said as he yanked her against him, "is working quite well, actually."
The shovel fell to the ground as Ellie twisted her neck to look at him. "Charles?" she asked hesitantly.
He smiled wolfishly. "I thought I might kiss you."
"Here?" she croaked.
"Mmm-hmm."
"But it smells."
"I can ignore it if you can."
"But why?"
"Kiss you?"
She nodded.
"I thought it might get you to stop talking about that ridiculous shovel." Before she could say anything more, he swooped his head down and settled his mouth firmly on hers. She didn't relax right away; he didn't expect her to. But it was so damned fun to hold that overly-determined, wiggling little woman in his arms. She was like a tiny lion, fierce and protective, and Charles found that he wanted all of that emotion directed toward him. Somehow her insistence that he rest while she did the hard labor didn't make him feel like less of a man. It just made him feel loved.
Loved? Was that what he wanted? He'd thought he wanted a marriage like his parents'. He would lead his own life, his wife would lead hers, and they would both be content. Except that he was drawn to his new bride in a way he'd never anticipated, never even dreamed possible. And he
wasn't
content. He wanted her, wanted her desperately, and she was always just out of his reach.
Charles lifted his head an inch and looked down at her. Her eyes were unfocused, her lips were soft and parted, and he didn't know why he had never noticed this before, but she had to be the most beautiful woman in the entire world, and she was right there in his arms, and ...
... and he had to kiss her again. Now. His mouth devoured hers with a new and startling urgency, and he drank in her essence. She tasted like warm berries, sweet and tangy and pure Ellie. His hands bunched the fabric of her skirts, pulling it up until he could reach underneath and grasp the firm skin of her thigh.
She gasped and clutched his shoulders, which only served to make him even hotter, and he slid his hand up until he reached the spot where her stockings ended. He stroked his finger along her bare skin, glorying in the way she shivered at his touch.
"Oh, Charles," she moaned, and that was enough to set him on fire. Just the sound of his name on her lips.
"Ellie," he said, his voice so hoarse he barely recognized it, "we have to go upstairs. Now."
She didn't react for a moment, just sagged against him, and then she blinked and said, "I can't."
"Don't say that," he said, dragging her toward the door. "Say anything but that."
"No, I have to stir the jam."
That stopped him in his tracks. "What the devil are you talking about?"
"I have to ..." She paused and wet her lips. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?" he drawled, his good humor slowly returning.
She planted her hands on her hips and leveled a stern look in his direction. "Like you want to gobble me up."
"But I do."
"Charles!"
He shrugged. "My mother told me never to lie."
She looked as if she were about to stamp her foot. "I really must leave."
"Wonderful. I'll accompany you upstairs."
"I have to go to the kitchen," she said pointedly.
He sighed. "Not the kitchen."
Her mouth clamped itself into a straight, angry line before she ground out, "I'm making jam to give to the tenants as a holiday gift. I told you about it yesterday."
"Very well, then. The kitchen. And then the bedroom."
"But I..." Ellie let her words trail off as she realized that she didn't want to fight him any longer. She wanted his hands on her, she wanted to listen to his soft words of seduction. She wanted to feel like she was the most desirable woman in the world, which was exactly how she felt every time he looked at her with that smoldering, heavy-lidded gaze of his.
Her mind made up, she smiled shyly and said, "All right."
Charles obviously hadn't expected her agreement, because he blurted out, "You will?"
She nodded, not quite meeting his eyes.
"Brilliant!" He looked like an excited young boy, which seemed a little strange to Ellie, considering that she was about to let herself be seduced by him.