Brighter Than The Sun (3 page)

"What's this?" Ellie snapped.

"I have taken the liberty of making a list of eligible bachelors in the district."

Ellie snorted. This she had to see. She unfolded the paper and looked down. Without lifting her eyes back up, she said, "Richard Parrish is engaged."

"Not according to my sources."

Mrs. Foxglove was the worst gossip in Bellfield, so Ellie was inclined to believe her. Not that it made a difference. Richard Parrish was stout and had bad breath. She read on and choked. "George Millerton is past sixty."

Mrs. Foxglove sniffed disdainfully. "You are not in a position to be choosy about such a trivial matter."

The next three names on the list belonged to equally elderly men, one of whom was downright mean. Rumor had it that Anthony Ponsoby had beaten his first wife. There was no way that Ellie was going to shackle herself to a man who thought that marital communication was best conducted with a stick.

"Good God!" Eliie exclaimed as her eyes traveled down to the second-to-last name on the list. "Robert Beechcombe cannot be a day over fifteen. What were you thinking?"

Mrs. Foxglove was about to respond, but Ellie interrupted her. "Billy Watson!" she shrieked. "He is not right in the head. Everybody knows that. How dare you try to marry me off to someone like him!"

"As I said, a woman in your position cannot—"

"Don't say it," Ellie cut in, her entire body shaking with rage. "Don't say a word."

Mrs. Foxglove smirked. "You cannot speak to me like that in my home."

"It isn't your home yet, you old bag," Ellie bit out. Mrs. Foxglove lurched backward. "Well, I never!"

"And
I
have never been moved to violence," Ellie fumed, "but I am always willing to try a new experience." She grabbed Mrs. Foxglove's collar and pushed her out the door.

"You will be sorry you did this!" Mrs. Foxglove yelled from the walkway.

"I will never be sorry," Ellie returned. "Never!" She slammed the door and threw herself on the sofa. There was no doubt about it. She was going to have to find a way to escape her father's household. The Earl of Billington's face danced in her head, but she pushed it aside. She wasn't so desperate that she had to marry a man she'd scarcely met. Surely there had to be some other way.

* * *

By the next morning, Ellie had devised a plan. She wasn't as helpless as Mrs. Foxglove would like to believe. She had a bit of money tucked away. It wasn't a vast sum, but it was enough to support a woman of modest taste and frugal nature.

Ellie had put the money in a bank years ago but had been dissatisfied with the paltry rate of interest. So she took to reading the
London Times,
making special note of items relating to the world of business and commerce. When she felt she had a comprehensive knowledge of the change, she went to a solicitor to handle her funds. She had to do it under her father's name, of course. No solicitor would handle money on the behalf of a young woman, especially one who was investing without the knowledge of her father. So she traveled several towns away, found Mr. Tibbett, a solicitor who did not know of the Reverend Mr. Lyndon, and told him that her father was a recluse. Mr. Tibbett worked with a broker in London, and Ellie's nest egg grew and grew.

It was time to draw on those funds. She had no other choice. Living with Mrs. Foxglove as her stepmother would be intolerable. The money could support her until her sister Victoria returned from her extended holiday on the continent. Victoria's new husband was a wealthy earl, and Ellie had no doubt that they would be able to help her find a position in society—perhaps as a governess, or a companion.

Ellie rode a public coach to Faversham, made her way to the offices of Tibbett & Hurley, and waited her turn to see Mr. Tibbett. After ten minutes, his secretary ushered her in.

Mr. Tibbett, a portly man with a large mustache, rose when she entered. "Good day, Miss Lyndon," he said. "Have you come with more instructions from your father? I must say, it is a pleasure to do business with a man who pays such close attention to his investments."

Ellie smiled tightly, hating that her father received all of the credit for her business acumen but knowing that there was no other way. "Not precisely, Mr. Tibbett. I have come to withdraw some of my funds. One-half, to be precise." Ellie wasn't certain how much it would cost to lease a small house in a respectable section of London, but she had close to 300 pounds stashed away, and she thought that 150 would do nicely.

"Certainly," Mr. Tibbett agreed. "I will simply need your father to come here in person to release the funds."

Ellie gasped. "I beg your pardon."

"At Tibbett & Hurley, we pride ourselves on our scrupulous business practices. I could not possibly release the funds into anyone's hands but your father's."

"But I have been conducting business with you for years," Ellie protested. "My name is on the account as a codepositor!"

"A codepositor. Your father is the primary holder."

Ellie swallowed convulsively. "My father is a recluse. You know that. He never leaves the house. How can I get him to come here?"

Mr. Tibbett shrugged his shoulders. "I will be happy to come out to visit him."

"No, that will not be possible," Ellie said, aware that her voice was growing shrill. "He gets most nervous around strangers. Most nervous. His heart, you know. I really couldn't risk it."

"Then I will need written instructions with his signature attached."

Ellie sighed in relief. She could forge her father's signature in her sleep.

"And I will need these instructions witnessed by another upstanding citizen." Mr. Tibbett's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"You
do not qualify as a witness."

"Very well, I will find—"

"I am acquainted with the magistrate in Bellfield. You may obtain his signature as a witness."

Ellie's heart sank. She also knew the magistrate, and she knew that there would be no way to get his signature on that vital piece of paper unless he actually witnessed her father write out the instructions. "Very well, Mr. Tibbett," she said, her voice catching in her throat. "I will—I will see what I can do."

She hurried out of the office, pressing a handkerchief up to her face to hide her frustrated tears. She felt like a cornered animal. There was no way she was going to be able to get her money from Mr. Tibbett. And Victoria wasn't due back from the continent for several months. Ellie supposed she could throw herself on the mercy of Victoria's father-in-law, the Marquess of Castleford, but she wasn't at all certain that he would be any more amiable to her presence than Mrs. Foxglove. The marquess didn't much like Victoria; Ellie could only imagine how he'd feel about her sister.

Ellie wandered aimlessly through Faversham, trying to gather her thoughts. She had always considered herself a practical sort of female, one who could rely on a sharp brain and a quick wit. She had never dreamed that she might someday find herself in a situation she couldn't talk her way out of.

And now she was stuck in Faversham, twenty miles away from a home she didn't even want to go back to. With no options except—

Ellie shook her head. She was
not
going to consider taking the Earl of Billington up on his offer.

The face of Sally Foxglove loomed in her mind.

Then that awful face started talking about chimneys, and spinsters who ought to be and act grateful for anything and everything. The earl started looking better and better.

Not, Ellie had to admit to herself, that he had ever looked bad to begin with, if one was going to take the word "look" in its literal sense. He was sinfully handsome, and she had a feeling he knew it. That, she reasoned, should be a black mark against him. He was most likely conceited. He would probably keep scores of mistresses. She couldn't imagine he'd find it difficult to gain the attentions of all sorts of females, respectable and otherwise.

"Ha!" she said aloud, then looked this way and that to see if anyone had heard her. The blasted man probably had to beat women away with a stick. She certainly didn't want to deal with a husband with those kinds of "problems."

Then again, it wasn't as if she were in love with the fellow. She might be able to get used to the idea of an unfaithful husband. It went against everything she stood for, but the alternative was a life with Sally Foxglove, which was too horrifying to contemplate.

Ellie tapped her toe as she thought. Wycombe Abbey wasn't so very far away. If she remembered correctly, it was situated on the north Kent coast, just a mile or two away. She could easily walk the distance. Not that she was planning to blindly accept the earl's proposal, but maybe they could discuss the matter a bit. Maybe they could reach an agreement with which she could be happy.

Her mind made up, Ellie lifted her chin and began walking north. She tried to keep her mind busy by guessing how many steps it would take to reach a landmark ahead. Fifty paces to the large tree. Seventy-two to the abandoned cottage. Forty to the—

Oh, blast! Was that a raindrop? Ellie wiped the water from her nose and looked up. The clouds were gathering, and if she weren't such a practical woman, she would swear that they were congrega ing directly over her head.

She let out a sound that one could only call a growl and trudged onward, trying not to curse when another raindrop smacked her on the cheek. And then another pelted her shoulder, and another, and another, and—

Ellie shook her fist at the sky. "Somebody up there is deuced mad at me," she yelled, "and I want to know why!"

The heavens opened in earnest and within seconds she was soaked to the skin.

"Remind me never to question Your purposes again," she muttered ungraciously, not sounding particularly like the God-fearing young lady her father had raised her to be. "Clearly You don't like to be second-guessed."

Lightning streaked through the sky, followed by a booming clap of thunder. Ellie jumped nearly a foot. What was it that her sister's husband had told her so many years ago? The closer the thunder follows the lightning, the closer the lightning is to oneself? Robert had always been of a scientific bent; Ellie was inclined to believe him on this measure.

She took off at a run. Then, after her lungs threatened to explode, she slowed down to a trot. After a minute or two of that, however, she settled into a brisk walk. After all, she wasn't likely to get any wetter than she was already.

Thunder pounded again, causing Ellie to jump and trip over a tree root, landing in the mud. "Damn!" she grunted, probably her first verbal use of the word in her life. If ever there was a time to begin the habit of cursing, however, it was now.

She staggered to her feet and looked up, rain pelting her face. Her bonnet sagged against her eyes, blocking her vision. She yanked it off, looked at the sky, and yelled, "I am not amused!"

More lightning.

"They are all against me," she muttered, starting to feel just a little bit irrational. "All of them." Her father, Sally Foxglove, Mr. Tibbett, whoever it was who controlled the weather—

More thunder.

Ellie gritted her teeth and moved onward. Finally, an old stone behemoth of a building loomed over the horizon. She'd never seen Wycombe Abbey in person, but she'd seen a pen and ink drawing of it for sale in Bellfield. Relief finally settling within her, she made her way to the front door and knocked.

A liveried servant answered her summons and gave her an extremely condescending look.

"I-I'm here t-to see the earl," Ellie said, teeth chattering.

"Servants' interviews are conducted by the housekeeper," the butler replied. "Use the rear entrance."

He started to shut the door but Ellie managed to jam her foot in the opening. "Noooo!" she yelled, somehow sensing that if she let that door shut in her face she would be condemned forever to a life of cold gruel and dirty chimneys.

"Madam, remove your foot."

"Not in this lifetime," Ellie shot back, squeezing her elbow and shoulder inside. "I'll see the earl, and—"

"The earl doesn't associate with your kind."

"My kind?!" Ellie shrieked. Really, this was beyond tolerable. She was cold, wet, unable to get her hands on money that was rightfully hers, and now some puffed-up butler was calling her a
prostitute?
"You let me in this instant! It's raining out here."

"I see that."

"You fiend," she hissed. "When I see the earl, he'll—"

"I say, Rosejack, what the devil is all this commotion?"

Ellie nearly melted with relief at the sound of Billington's voice. In fact, she
would
have melted with relief if she weren't so certain that any sort of softening on her part would prompt the butler to squeeze her out of the doorway.

"There is a creature on the doorstep," Rosejack replied. "It refuses to budge."

"I'm a 'she,' you cretin!" Ellie used the fist she'd managed to wedge inside the house to bat him in the back of the head.

"For the love of God," Charles said, "Just open the door and let her in."

Rosejack whipped open the door and Ellie tumbled in, feeling very much like a wet rat amidst such splendidly opulent surroundings. There were beautiful rugs on the floors, a painting on the wall that she would swear had been done by Rembrandt, and that vase that she'd knocked over as she fell down—well, she had a sick feeling that it had been imported from China.

She looked up, desperately trying to peel the wet locks of hair from her face. Charles looked handsome, amused, and disgustingly dry. "My lord?" she gasped, barely able to find her voice. She sounded decidedly unlike herself, raspy and hoarse from her arguments with God and the butler.

Charles blinked as he regarded her. "I beg your pardon, madam," he said. "Have we met?"

Chapter 3

Ellie had never had much of a temper. Oh, she was, as her father frequently pointed out, a bit mouthy, but on the whole she was a sensible and levelheaded lady, not given to outbursts and tantrums.

This aspect of her personality, however, was not in evidence at Wycombe Abbey.

"What?!?" she screeched, vaulting to her feet.

"How dare you!" she then shrieked, launching herself toward Billington, who was trying to back up, hindered considerably by his injury and cane.

"You fiend!" she finally squawked, pushing him over and tumbling down to the floor with him.

Charles groaned. "If I have been knocked to the ground," he said, "then you must be Miss Lyndon."

"Of course I'm Miss Lyndon," she shouted. "Who the devil else would I be?"

"I might point out that you look remarkably unlike yourself."

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 ...

Ellie caught him looking at her feet and blushed. "Your sister has tiny feet," she said, "and my own shoes were soaked through."

He blinked, as if he were lost in thought, then shook his head slightly and looked her in the eye. "No matter," he said, then let his gaze fall to her feet again.

Ellie dropped her skirts, wondering what the devil was so interesting about her feet.

"You look quite fetching in mint," he said, hobbling over to her side. "You should wear it more often."

"All my dresses are dark and serviceable," she said, her voice containing equal parts irony and wistfulness.

"Pity. I'll have to buy you new ones once we're married."

"Now, see here!" Ellie protested. "I have not accepted your proposal. I am merely here to—" She broke off when she realized she was yelling and continued in a softer tone. "I am merely here to discuss it with you."

He smiled slowly. "What do you want to know?"

Ellie exhaled, wishing that she'd been able to approach this interview with a bit more composure. Not that that would have helped much, she thought ruefully, after the entrance she'd made. The butler was never going to forgive her. Looking up, she said, "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Of course not. How rude of me." He motioned to the sofa, and she took a seat. "Would you care for tea?" Charles asked.

"Yes, that would be lovely." Ellie reached for the tray and began to pour. It somehow seemed a sinfully intimate act, pouring tea for this man in his own home. "Milk?"

"Please. No sugar."

She smiled. "I take mine the same way."

Charles took a sip and assessed her over the rim of his cup. She was nervous. He couldn't blame her. It was a most uncommon situation, and he had to admire her for facing it with such fortitude. He watched as she drained her teacup and then said, "By the way, your hair isn't red."

Ellie choked on her tea.

"What is it they call it?" he mused, lifting his hand and rubbing his fingers together in the air as if that would prompt his brain. "Ah yes, strawberry blond. Although that seems rather inadequate to me."

"It's red," Ellie said baldly.

"No, no, it really isn't. It's—"

"Red."

His lips spread into a lazy smile. "Red, then, if you insist."

Ellie found herself oddly disappointed that he'd given in. She'd always wanted her hair to be something more exotic than just plain red. It was an unexpected gift from some long-forgotten Irish ancestor. The only good thing about it had been that it was a constant source of irritation to her father, who had been known to develop nausea at the merest intimation that there might be a Catholic somewhere in his background.

Ellie had always rather liked the idea of a rogue Catholic hiding out in her family tree. She had always liked the idea of anything out of the ordinary, anything to break up the monotony of her humdrum life. She looked up at Billington, who sprawled elegantly in a chair opposite her.

This man, she decided, definitely qualified as extraordinary. As did the situation in which he'd recently placed her. She smiled weakly, thinking that she ought to be made of sterner stuff. His was a remarkably handsome face, and his charm—well, there was no arguing that it wasn't lethal. Still, she needed to conduct this interview like the sensible woman she was.

She cleared her throat. "I believe we were discussing ..." She frowned. What the devil
had
they been discussing?

"Your hair, actually," he drawled.

Ellie felt a blush creeping along her cheeks. "Right. Well. Hmmm."

Charles took pity on her and said, "I don't suppose you want to tell me what prompted you to consider my proposal."

She looked up sharply. "What makes you think there was a specific incident?"

"You have the look of desperation in your eyes."

Ellie couldn't even pretend to be affronted by his statement, for she knew it was true. "My father is remarrying next month," she said after taking a long sigh. "His fiancee is a witch."

His lips twitched. "As bad as that?"

Ellie had a feeling he thought she was exaggerating. "I am not jesting. Yesterday she presented me with two lists. The first consisted of chores I must perform in addition to those I already do."

"What, did she have you cleaning out the chimney?" Charles teased.

"Yes!" Ellie burst out. "Yes, and it was not a joke! And then she had the effrontery to tell me I eat too much when I pointed out that I would not fit."

"I think you're just the right size," he murmured. She didn't hear him, though, which was probably for the best. He didn't need to scare her away. Not when he was this close to having her name on that blessed marriage certificate. "What was the other list?" he inquired.

"Marriage prospects," she said in a disgusted voice.

"Was I on it?"

"Most assuredly not. She only listed men whom she thought I might have a chance at catching."

"Oh, dear."

Ellie scowled. "Her opinion of me is quite low."

"I shudder to think who was on the list."

"Several men over sixty, one under sixteen, and one who is simpleminded."

Charles couldn't help it. He laughed.

"This isn't funny!" Ellie exclaimed. "And I didn't even mention the one who beat his first wife."

Charles's humor faded instantly. "You will
not
be married off to someone who will beat you."

Ellie's lips parted in surprise. He sounded almost proprietary. How very odd. "I assure you that I won't. If I marry, it will be a man of my own choosing. And I'm afraid to say, my lord, that out of all my options, you do seem to be the best of the lot."

"I'm flattered," he muttered.

"I didn't think I would
have
to marry you, you see."

Charles frowned, thinking that she didn't need to sound quite so resigned.

"I have some money," she continued. "Enough to support myself for some time. At least until my sister and her husband return from their holiday."

"Which is in ..."

"Three months," Ellie finished for him. "Or perhaps a bit longer. Their baby has a small respiratory problem, and the doctor feels a warmer climate would do him good."

"I trust it is not serious."

"Not at all," Ellie said, giving him a reassuring nod. "One of those things one outgrows. But I'm afraid I am still left at loose ends."

"I do not understand," Charles said.

"My solicitor will not give me my money." Ellie quickly recounted the day's events, leaving out her undignified argument with the heavens. Really, the man didn't need to know everything about her. Better not say anything that might lead him to think she was a bit unhinged.

Charles sat quietly, tapping his fingertips together as he listened. "What exactly do you want me to do for you?" he asked when she was finished.

"Ideally, I'd like you to march into the solicitor's office on my behalf and demand that he release my funds," she replied. "Then I could live quietly in London and await my sister."

"And not marry me?" he said, a knowing smile on his face.

"That isn't going to happen, is it?"

He shook his head.

"Perhaps I could marry you, you could get my money, and then, once your inheritance is secure, we could obtain an annulment..." She tried to sound convincing, but her words trailed off as she watched him shake his head again.