That gave Ellie pause. She was certain she bore more than a passing resemblance to a drowned rat, her clothes were liberally streaked with mud, and her bonnet... She looked around. Where the devil was her bonnet?
"Lose something?" Charles inquired.
"My bonnet," Ellie replied, suddenly feeling very sheepish.
He smiled. "I like you better without one. I was wondering what color your hair was."
"It's red," she shot back, thinking that this must be the final indignity. She hated her hair, had always hated her hair.
Charles coughed to cover up yet another smile. Ellie was spitting mad, well beyond furious, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun. Well, actually he could. Yesterday, to be precise, when he'd fallen out of a tree and had the good fortune to land on her.
Ellie reached up to push a wet and sticky lock of hair from her face, causing her sodden dress to tighten around her bodice. Charles's skin grew suddenly warm.
Oh yes, he thought, she'd make a very fine wife.
"My lord?" the butler interjected as he leaned down to help Charles up. "Do we know this person?"
"I'm afraid we do," Charles replied, earning himself a scathing glare from Ellie. "It appears that Miss Lyndon has had a trying day. Perhaps we might offer her some tea. And"—he eyed her dubiously—"a towel."
"That would be very nice," Ellie said primly. "Thank you."
Charles watched her as she stood. "I trust you have been considering my proposal."
Rosejack halted in his tracks and turned around. "Proposal?" he gasped.
Charles grinned. "Yes, Rosejack. I am hoping that Miss Lyndon will do me the honor of becoming my wife."
Rosejack went utterly white.
Ellie scowled at him. "I was trapped in a rainstorm," she said, thinking that that ought to be self-evident. "I am usually a bit more presentable."
"She was trapped in a rainstorm," Charles repeated. "And I can vouch for the fact that she is usually much more presentable. She will make an excellent countess, I assure you."
"I have not yet accepted," Ellie muttered.
Rosejack looked as if he might faint.
"You will," Charles said with a knowing smile.
"How can you possibly—"
"Why else would you have come?" he interjected. He turned to the butler. "Rosejack, the tea, if you please. And don't forget a towel. Or perhaps two." He glanced down to where Ellie was leaving puddles on the parquet floor, then looked back toward Rosejack yet again. "You had better just bring in a stack of them."
"I have not come to accept your proposal," Ellie sputtered. "I merely wanted to talk with you about it. I—"
"Of course, my dear," Charles murmured. "Would you like to follow me to the drawing room? I would offer you my arm, but I fear I cannot provide much support these days." He motioned to his cane.
Ellie let out a frustrated breath and followed him into a nearby room. It was decorated in cream and blue, and she didn't dare sit on anything. "I don't think mere towels are going to be sufficient, my lord," she said. She didn't even want to step on the carpet.
Not with the way her skirts were dripping.
Charles surveyed her thoughtfully. "I fear you are correct. Would you like a change of clothing? My sister is married and now lives in Surrey, but she keeps some dresses here. I'd wager she is about your size."
Ellie didn't like the idea of taking someone's clothing without asking permission, but her other option was coming down with a raging case of lung fever. She looked down at her fingers, which were shaking from the cold and damp, and nodded her head.
Charles rang the bellpull, and a maid entered the room within the minute. Charles gave her instructions to show Ellie to his sister's room. Feeling as if she had somehow lost control of her destiny, Ellie followed the maid out.
Charles sat down on a comfortable sofa, let out a long sigh of relief, then sent up a silent thanks to whomever it was who was responsible for her arriving on his doorstep. He had started to fear that he was going to have to go to London and marry one of those awful debutantes his family kept throwing his way.
He whistled to himself as he waited for tea and Miss Lyndon. What had made her come? He'd been still a bit past tipsy when he'd blurted out that bizarre proposal the day before, but he hadn't been so drunk that he had not been able to gauge her feelings.
He'd thought she would refuse. He'd been almost certain of it.
She was a sensible sort. That much was obvious even after such a brief acquaintance. What would make her give her hand in marriage to a man she barely knew?
There were the usual reasons, of course. He had money and a title, and if she married him, she'd have money and a title as well. But Charles didn't think that was it. He had seen the look of desperation in her eyes when she'd—
He frowned, then laughed as he got up to look out the window. Miss Lyndon had attacked him. Right there in the hall. There really wasn't any other word for it.
Tea arrived a few minutes later, and Charles instructed the maid to leave it in the pot to steep. He liked his tea strong.
A few minutes after that, a hesitant knock sounded at the door. He turned around, surprised at the sound since the maid had left the door open.
Ellie was standing in the doorway, her hand raised to knock again. "I thought you didn't hear me," she said.
"The door was open. There was no need to knock."
She shrugged. "I didn't want to intrude."
Charles motioned for her to come in, watching her with an appraising eye as she crossed the room. His sister's dress was a shade too long for her, and she had to hold up the pale green skirts as she walked. That was when he noticed she wasn't wearing any shoes. Funny how the sight of a foot could cause his midsection to tingle this way ...