Brighter Than the Sun Page 9

  He let out a loud rush of air, trying very hard to ignore the fact that his entire body was tense with desire for his wife.

  He wasn't succeeding.

  He certainly hadn't expected to want her quite this badly. He had known he was attracted to her; that was one of the reasons he had decided to ask her to marry him. He had always considered himself a sensible man, and there wasn't much sense in marrying a woman for whom one couldn't muster up a bit of excitement.

  But there was something about those little half-smiles of hers—as if she had a secret that she would never divulge—that drove him mad. And her hair—he knew she detested the color, but he wanted nothing other than to run his fingers through the length of it, and—

  His feet slipped off the desk and his chair crashed down onto the floor with a loud clunk. How long was his wife's hair? It seemed like something a husband ought to know.

  He pictured it reaching her knees, swaying about her as she walked. Not likely, he decided. Her chignon hadn't been that big.

  He pictured it reaching her waist, teasing her navel and flaring gently as it settled upon her hip. He shook his head. Somehow that didn't seem right, either. Ellie—how he liked that nickname!—didn't seem the sort to have the patience for hair that long.

  Perhaps brushing along the curve of her breasts. He could see it tucked behind one shoulder, one of her breasts covered by a fall of red-gold hair, and the other laid bare—

  He smacked the heel of his hand against his fore-head, as if that could knock the mental picture out of his head. Hell, he thought irritably, he didn't want to knock that image just out of his head. He wanted to send it clear across the room and out the window. This particular line of thought was not doing anything to ease his discomfort.

  He needed to take some action. The sooner he seduced Ellie into his bed, the sooner this madness would leave his blood and the sooner he could get back to the normal routine of his life.

  He pulled a piece of paper from his desk and scrawled across the top:

  TO SEDUCE ELLIE

  He used capital letters without thinking, later deciding that this must be an indication of just how urgent this need to possess her had become.

  He tapped the tips of his fore- and middle fingers against his temple as he thought, and then finally began to write.

  Flowers. All women like flowers.

  A swimming lesson. This will require her to remove a great deal of clothing. Drawback: weather is quite cold and will remain so for months.

  Dresses. She loved the green dress and has remarked that all her clothes are dark and serviceable. As a countess, she will need to be outfitted in the first stave of fashion, anyway, so this does not constitute an additional expense.

  Compliment her business acumen. Typical, flowery compliments will most likely not work on her.

  Kiss her.

  Of all the items on the list, Charles was most enamored with the fifth option, but he did worry that this might merely lead to an intensified state of frustration on his part. He wasn't at all certain that he could manage her seduction with just one kiss; it was probably going to require repeated attempts over the course of several days.

  And this would mean several days of rather difficult discomfort on his part. Their last kiss had left him dizzy with desire, and he was still feeling the pain of unfulfilled need several hours later.

  Still, the other options weren't viable at this time. It was too late in the evening to go hunting through the hothouse for flowers, and it was definitely too cold for a swim. A full wardrobe would require a trip to London, and as for complimenting her business acumen—well, that would be difficult before he had a chance to assess it, and Ellie was too smart not to see through a false compliment.

  No, he thought with a grin. It would have to be a kiss.

  Chapter 7

  Ellie looked around her new bedchamber, wondering how on earth she could turn this imposing space into her own. Everything in the room screamed of wealth. Old wealth. She doubted there was a piece of furniture less than two hundred years old. The countess's bedchamber was ornate and pretentious, and Ellie felt about as at home there as she would have in Windsor Castle.

  She reached down into her open trunk, looking for knickknacks that she might use to make the room seem more homey and familiar. Her fingers closed around the miniature of her mother. That would certainly be a beginning. She walked across to her dressing table and set the small painting down, turning it so that the light from the nearby window wouldn't cause the paint to fade.

  “There you are,” she said softly. “You'll do nicely there. Just don't pay any attention to all of these dour old women staring down at you.” Ellie looked up at the walls, which were covered with portraits of earlier countesses, none of whom looked very friendly.

  “The lot of you are coming down tomorrow,” she muttered, not feeling the least bit foolish for talking to the walls. “Tonight if I can manage it.”

  Ellie crossed back to her trunk to look for another item that might lend the room a bit of warmth. She was browsing through her belongings when she heard a knock at her door.

  Billington. It had to be. Her sister had told her that servants never knocked on door.

  She swallowed and called out, “Come in.”

  The door opened, revealing her husband of less than twenty-four hours. He was casually attired, having long since discarded his jacket and cravat. Ellie found herself quite unable to take her eyes off of the little patch of skin that peeped through the unbuttoned top of his crisp white shirt.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  Ellie forced her eyes up to his face. “Good evening to you.” There, that sounded as if it had come from someone completely unaffected by his nearness. Unfortunately, she had a feeling he could see right through her cheerful voice and bright smile.

  “Are you settling in?” he asked.

  “Yes, very well.” She sighed. “Well, not so well, actually.”

  He raised a brow.

  “This room is quite daunting,” she explained.

  “Mine is just through the connecting door. You're welcome to make yourself at home there.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Connecting door?”

  “You didn't know there was one?”

  “No, I thought—Well, I didn't really think about where all these doors went to.”

  Charles strode across the room and began opening doors. “Washroom. Dressing room. A storage room for clothing.” He made his way to the only door on the east side of the room and pulled it open. “And voilá, the earl's bedroom.”

  Ellie suppressed the urge to let out a nervous laugh. “I suppose most earls and countesses prefer connecting rooms.”

  “Actually,” he said, “Many don't. My ancestors were a tempestuous lot. Most of the Earls and Countesses of Billington detested each other quite thoroughly.”

  “Goodness,” Ellie said weakly. “How positively encouraging.”

  “And those that did not…” Charles paused for effect and grinned wolfishly. “Well, they were so passionately enamored of one another that separate rooms—and separate beds—were unthinkable.”

  “I don't suppose any of them found a happy medium?”

  “Just my parents,” he said with a shrug. “My mother had her watercolors, my father his hounds. And they always had a kind word for each other if they happened to cross paths. Which wasn't very often, of course.”

  “Of course,” Ellie echoed.

  “Obviously they saw each other at least once,” he added. “My very existence is proof of that.”

  “Goodness, but look how faded the damask is,” she said in an overloud voice as she reached forward to touch an ottoman.

  Charles grinned at her obvious attempt to change the subject.

  Ellie moved forward and peered through the open doorway. Charles's room was decorated with far less fuss and opulence and was much more to her liking. “Your decor is very nice,” she said.

  “I had it redon
e several years ago. I believe the last time the chamber had been refurbished was by my great-grandfather. He had abysmal taste.”

  She looked around her room and grimaced. “As did his wife.”

  Charles laughed. “You should feel free to redecorate in any manner you choose.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. Isn't that what wives are meant to do?”

  “I wouldn't know. I've never been a wife.”

  “And I've never had one.” He reached out and took her hand, his fingers stroking her sensitive palm. “I'm rather glad I do.”

  “You're glad you've managed to keep hold of your fortune,” she retorted, feeling the need to keep a bit of distance between them.

  He dropped her hand. “You're right.”

  Ellie was a bit surprised he'd admitted to it when he'd been working so hard to seduce her. Materialism and greed were generally not considered seductive topics.

  “Of course I'm rather glad to have you, too,” he continued, his voice rather jaunty.

  Ellie didn't say anything, then finally blurted out, “This is terribly uncomfortable.”

  Charles froze. “What?” he asked cautiously.

  “This. I barely know you. I don't—I just don't know how to act in your presence.”

  Charles had a very good idea how he'd like her to act, but it required that she remove all of her clothing, and somehow he didn't think that concept would appeal to her. “You didn't seem to have any difficulty being your rather blunt and entertaining self when we first met,” he said. “I found it quite refreshing.”

  “Yes, but now we're married, and you want to—”

  “Seduce you?” he finished for her.

  She blushed. “Must you say it out loud?”

  “It is hardly a secret, Ellie.”

  “I know, but—”

  He touched her chin. “What happened to the fire-breathing woman who tended my ankle, bruised my ribs, and never once let me get the last word?”

  “She wasn't married to you,” Ellie retorted. “She didn't belong to you in the eyes of God and England.”

  “And in your eyes?”

  “I belong to myself.”

  “I'd prefer to think that we belong to each other,” he mused. “Or with each other.”

  Ellie thought that was rather a nice way of putting it, but she still said, “It doesn't change the fact that legally, you can do anything you want with me.”

  “But I have promised that I won't. Not without your permission.” When she didn't say anything, he added, “I would think that that would give you leave to relax a bit in my presence. To act more like yourself.”

  Ellie considered this. His words made sense, but they didn't allow for the fact that her heart raced at triple speed every time he reached out to touch her chin or smooth her hair. She could manage to ignore her attraction to him when they were talking—conversations with him were so enjoyable that she felt as if she were chatting with an old friend. But every so often they would fall silent, and then she'd catch him looking at her like a hungry cat, and her insides would quiver, and—

  She shook her head. Thinking about all of this was not helping her in the least.

  “Is something wrong?” Charles inquired.

  “No!” she said, more forcefully than she'd intended. “No,” she said again, this time with a bit more grace. “But I do need to unpack, and I'm very tired, and I'm sure you're very tired.”

  “Your point being?”

  She took his arm and nudged him through the connecting door into his own room. “Just that it has been a most tiring day, and I'm certain we both need some rest. Good night.”

  “Good—” Charles let out a curse under his breath. The minx had shut the door right in his face.

  And he hadn't even had a chance to kiss her. Somewhere somebody was laughing about this.

  Charles looked down at his hand and curled it into a fist, thinking that he'd feel a lot better if he could find that “somebody” and plant him a facer.

  Ellie awoke early the next morning, as was her habit, donned her finest dress—which she had a suspicion was still a touch too shabby for the Countess of Billington—and set off to explore her new home.

  Charles had said she might redecorate. Ellie was thrilled at the thought. She loved nothing better than to have projects to plan and tasks to accomplish. She didn't want to redo the entire house; she rather liked the idea that this old building reflected the tastes of generations of Wycombes. Still, it would be nice to have a few rooms that represented the taste of this generation of Wycombes.

  Eleanor Wycombe. She mouthed her new name a few times and decided that she could get used to it. It was the Countess of Billington part that might take some time.

  She reached the bottom floor and made her way to the great hall, then poked into various rooms. She stumbled into the library, letting out a loud sigh of approval. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, their leather spines glistening in the early morning light. She could live until she was ninety and not finish reading all of these books.

  She peered more closely at some of the titles. The first she came across was called Christian Hellfire, the Devil, Earth, and Flesh. Ellie smiled, deciding that her husband must not have been responsible for the purchase of that particular book.

  She saw an open door in the west wall of the library, and she moved forward to explore. Poking her head in, she realized that she must have discovered Charles's study. It was neat and tidy, with the exception of his desk, which was covered with just enough clutter to show that he used the room frequently.

  Feeling as if she were somehow intruding, Ellie backed out of the room and made her way to the front hall. Eventually, she found the informal dining room. Helen Pallister was there, sipping a cup of tea and munching on a marmalade-coated piece of toast. Ellie couldn't help but notice that toast was burnt.

  “Good morning!” Helen called out, rising to her feet. “You're up and about early. I have never had the pleasure of anyone's company at breakfast before. No one in this household rises as early as I do.”

  “Not even Judith?”

  That gave Helen cause to laugh. “Judith rises early only on days when she doesn't have lessons. On days like today her governess practically has to dump a bucket of water over her head to get her out of bed.”

  Ellie smiled. “A most intelligent young girl. I myself have tried to sleep past the sunrise, but I never quite manage it.”

  “I am the same way. Claire calls me barbaric.”

  “As did my sister.”

  “Is Charles awake?” Helen asked, reaching for another teacup. “Would you like a spot?”

  “Please. Milk, no sugar, thank you.” Ellie watched while Helen poured, then said. “Charles is still abed.” She wasn't sure whether her new husband had revealed the true nature of their marriage to his cousin, and she certainly wasn't comfortable enough to do so. Nor did she think it was her place.

  “Would you care for some toast?” Helen inquired. “We have two different kinds of marmalade and three jams.”

  Ellie eyed the black crumbs littering Helen's plate. “No, but thank you.”

  Helen held her toast in the air and regarded it. “Not very appetizing, is it?”

  “Couldn't we possibly teach the cook to make a proper piece of toast?”

  Helen sighed. “The housekeeper prepares breakfast. Our French chef insists that the morning meal is beneath his notice. And as for Mrs. Stubbs, I'm afraid she is too old and stubborn to change her ways. She insists that she prepares the toast correctly.”

  “Perhaps it is the fault of the oven,” Ellie suggested. “Has anyone taken a look at it?”

  “I haven't the faintest idea.”

  Feeling a rush of determination, Ellie pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. “Let us go and investigate, then.”

  Helen blinked several times before asking, “You want to inspect the oven? Yourself?”

  “I have been cooking all my life
for my father,” Ellie explained. “I know a thing or two about ovens and stoves.”

  Helen rose to her feet, but her expression was hesitant. “Are you certain you want to venture into the kitchens? Mrs. Stubbs won't like it—she's always saying it's unnatural for gentlefolk to be belowstairs. And Monsieur Belmont throws fits if he thinks anyone has touched anything in his kitchen.”

  Ellie eyed her thoughtfully. “Helen, I think we have to remember that this is our kitchen, correct?”

  “I don't think Monsieur Belmont will see it that way,” Helen replied, but she followed Ellie through the doorway back into the great hall. “He's very temperamental. As is Mrs. Stubbs.”

  Ellie took a few more steps before she realized she had no idea where she was going. She turned to Helen and said, “Perhaps you should show me the way. It is difficult to play the crusading avenger when one doesn't know the way to the holy land.”

  Helen giggled and said, “Follow me.”

  The two women wound through a labyrinth of hallways and staircases until Ellie could hear the unmistakable sounds of a kitchen through the door in front of her. She turned to Helen with a smile on her face.“Do you know, but at my house, our kitchen was right next to our dining room. Exceedingly convenient, if you ask me.”

  “The kitchen is much too loud and hot,” Helen explained. “Charles has done what he can to improve ventilation, but it is still quite stifling. It must have been unbearable when Wycombe Abbey was built five hundred years ago. I cannot blame the first earl for not wanting to entertain his guests so close to the kitchens.”

  “I suppose,” Ellie murmured, and then she opened the door and immediately realized that the first earl had been very smart indeed. The Wycombe Abbey kitchens were nothing like the homey little room she'd once shared with her father and sister. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling, large worktables took up space in the center of the room, and Ellie counted no less than four stoves and three ovens, including a beehive oven set into a large hearth with an open fire. There wasn't much activity at such an early hour, and Ellie could only wonder what the scene would be like before a large dinner party. Utter chaos, she imagined, with every pot, pan, and utensil in use.