He took a step back from the doorway so that he could watch the proceedings unnoticed. Ellie was saying something—it sounded like nothing so much as a grunt, actually—and then he clearly heard her yell, "I have it! I have it—"

Helen, Mrs. Stubbs, and the two kitchen maids all leaned in closer, clearly fascinated with Ellie's maneuvers.

"Blast. I don't have it," Ellie finished, rather grumpily, in Charles's opinion.

"Are you certain you know what you're about?" Helen asked.

"Absolutely. All I need is to move this rack. It's much too high." Ellie began to yank on something that obviously wouldn't budge, for she landed on her behind several times. "When was the last time this oven was cleaned?" she asked.

Mrs. Stubbs huffed. "That oven is every bit as clean as an oven needs to be."

Ellie muttered something Charles couldn't hear, and then she said, "There. I have it." She pulled a charred rack out of the oven and then inserted it back in. "Now all I have to do is move this farther from this flame."

Flame? Charles's blood ran to ice. She was playing with fire?

"There!" Ellie pulled herself out of the oven and landed on her behind on the floor. "That ought to fix it."

Charles decided that this was a good moment to announce his presence. "Good morning, wife," he said, strolling in, his stance deceptively casual. What Ellie couldn't see was that his hands were clenched tightly together behind his back. It was the only way he could keep them from wrapping themselves around her shoulders and hauling her back to their room for a blistering lecture on the safety—or lack thereof—of the kitchens.

"Billington!" Ellie exclaimed in surprise. "You're awake."

"Obviously."

She scrambled to her feet. "I must look a fright."

Charles pulled out a snowy handkerchief. "You do have a bit of soot here"—he wiped the cloth against her left cheek—"and here"—he wiped it against her right—"and of course a bit here." This time he applied the handkerchief to her nose.

Ellie grabbed the cloth out of his hand, not liking the drawl in his voice. "That's really not necessary, my lord," she said. "I'm perfectly capable of wiping my face."

"I don't suppose you would like to tell me what you were doing inside the oven. I assure you that we have ample foodstuffs here at Wycombe Abbey without you offering yourself up as the main course."

Ellie stared at him, not at all certain whether he was funning her or not. "I was fixing the oven, my lord."

"We have servants for that."

"Clearly you don't," Ellie replied, bristling at his tone. "Or you wouldn't have been eating burnt toast for the past ten years."

"I like my toast burnt," he bit out.

Helen coughed so hard that Mrs. Stubbs whacked her on the back.

"Well, I don't," Ellie returned, "and neither does Helen, so you are outvoted."

"I like my toast burnt."

Every head swiveled to face the doorway, where Claire stood, her arms planted on her hips. Ellie thought the girl looked rather militant for a fourteen-year-old.

"I want the oven the way it was," Claire stated firmly. "I want everything the way it was."

Ellie's heart sank. Her new cousin was clearly not excited about her arrival into the household. "Fine!" she said, throwing her arms up in exasperation. "I'll change it back."

She made it halfway back into the oven by the time Charles's hand closed around the collar of her dress and yanked her back out. "You will not be repeating this dangerous stunt," he said. "The oven will remain the way it is."

"I thought you liked your toast burnt?"

"I will adjust."

At that point, Ellie really wanted to laugh, but she wisely kept her mouth shut.

Charles glared belligerently at the rest of the kitchen's occupants. "I would like a few words alone with my wife." When no one moved, he roared, "Now!"

"Then perhaps we should leave," Ellie cut in. "After all, Mrs. Stubbs and the kitchen maids work here. We do not."

"You appeared to be doing a rather fine imitation of it," he grumbled, suddenly sounding more petulant than angry.

Ellie gaped at him. "You are quite the most strange and contrary man I have ever met."

"I did not have my head in an oven," he shot back.

"Well, 1 do not eat burnt toast!"

"Well, I—" Charles's head snapped up, as if he suddenly realized that he was not only having a most bizarre argument with his wife, but that he was doing it before an audience. He cleared his throat and wrapped his hand around her slender wrist. "I believe I would like to show you the blue room," he said loudly.

Ellie followed. She didn't have much choice, really. He left the room in quite a hurry, and since her wrist was now attached to his hand, she went with him. She wasn't certain where they were going—probably to the first chamber he found with enough privacy for him to rail at her without anyone else hearing.

Blue room, indeed.

Chapter 8

Much to Ellie's surprise, the room Charles eventually pulled her into actually was decorated in blue. She looked around her— taking in the blue sofas, blue drapes—and then let her eyes slide to the floor, which was covered with a blue-and-white carpet.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?" Charles demanded.

Ellie said nothing, temporarily mesmerized by the interlocking pattern on the carpet.

"Ellie," he growled.