"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. 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 will 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 fifteen 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 th. iat. "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?"
Chapter 2
Ellie dropped him. He landed in a tangle of arms and legs, yelping with pain as his ankle gave way beneath him.
"That was a terrible thing to say!" she cried out.
Charles scratched his head. "I thought I just asked you to marry me?"
Ellie blinked back traitorous tears. "It is a cruel thing about which to jest."
"I wasn't jesting."
"Of course you were," she returned, just barely managing to resist the urge to kick him in the hip. "I have been very kind to you this afternoon."