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.
"But I have to go to the kitchen first," she reminded him.
"The kitchen. Right. The kitchen." He shot her a sideways glance as he pulled her into the hall. "It takes a bit of the spontaneity away, don't you think?"
"Charles," she said in a warning tone.
"Very well." He switched direction and started dragging her toward the kitchen, moving even faster than he had when he'd been dragging her toward the bedroom.
"Trying to make up for lost time in advance?" she joked.
He pulled her around a corner, pinned her against a wall, and joined his mouth to hers for a brief, proprietary kiss. "You have three minutes in the kitchen," he said. "Three. That is all."
Ellie giggled and nodded, willing to allow him this dictatorial streak because it made her feel all warm inside. He released her again, and they made their way downstairs, Ellie practically having to run to keep up with him.
The kitchen was beginning to bustle with activity as Monsieur Belmont and his staff began their preparations for the day's meals. Mrs. Stubbs was off in a corner, trying to ignore the Frenchman as she supervised the three maids who were cleaning up after breakfast.
"That's my jam on the stove right over there," Ellie said to Charles, pointing to the large pot. "Mixed berry. Helen and I prepared it together, and—"
"Three minutes, Eleanor."
"Right. I just need to stir it, and then—"
"Just stir it," he said.
She walked halfway to the stove and then said, "Oh! I really should wash my hands first. I was wearing work gloves in the orangery, of course, but the mess was so foul."
Charles sighed impatiently. Really, the chit could have been done and gone by now. "Wash your hands, stir, and be done with it. There's a bucket right over on that table."