Brighter Than the Sun, Page 2

  “Why, Miss Lyndon, I do believe you are beginning to care for me.”

  Her answer was a marginally ladylike grunt. With fisted hands, she began to march toward town. Charles hobbled behind her, smiling all the way. She was walking much more quickly than he, however, and the space between them grew until he was forced to call out her name.

  Ellie turned around.

  Charles offered her what he hoped was an appealing smile. “I cannot keep up with you, I'm afraid.” He held out his hands in a gesture of supplication and then promptly lost his balance. Ellie rushed forward to straighten him.

  “You are a walking disaster,” she muttered, keeping her hand on his elbow.

  “A limping disaster,” he corrected. “And I cannot—” He lifted his free hand to his mouth to cover an inebriated burp. “I cannot limp quickly.”

  She sighed. “Here. You can lean on my shoulder. Together we should be able to get you into town.”

  Charles grinned and slid his arm over her shoulder. She was small, but she was a sturdy little thing, so he decided to test the waters by leaning on her a little more closely. She stiffened, then let out another loud sigh.

  Slowly they moved toward town. Charles felt himself leaning on her more and more. Whether his incompetence was due to his sprain or his drunkenness he didn't know. She felt warm and strong and soft all at once next to him, and he didn't much care how he had gotten himself into this fix—he just resolved to enjoy it while it lasted. Each step pressed the side of her breast up against his ribs, and he was finding that to be a most pleasant sensation indeed.

  “It's a beautiful day, don't you think?” he inquired, thinking he ought to make conversation.

  “Yes,” Ellie agreed, stumbling slightly under the weight of him. “But it is growing late. Is there no way you can move a little bit faster?”

  “Even I,” Charles said with an expansive wave of his hand, “am not such a cad that I would feign lameness merely to enjoy the attentions of a beautiful lady.”

  “Will you stop waving your arm about! We're losing our balance.”

  Charles wasn't sure why, and maybe it was just because he was still decidedly unsober, but he liked the sound of the word we from her lips. There was something about this Miss Lyndon that made him glad she was on his side. Not that he thought she would make a vicious enemy, just that she seemed loyal, level-headed, and fair. And she had a wicked sense of humor. Just the sort of person a man would want standing beside him when he needed support.

  He turned his face toward hers. “You smell nice,” he said.

  “What?” she screeched.

  And she was fun to torture. Had he remembered to add that to his list of attributes? It was always good to surround oneself with people who could take a bit of teasing. He schooled his face into an innocent mask. “You smell nice,” he said again.

  “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 throat. “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?” br />
  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.”

  “Very kind,” he echoed.

  “I did not have to stop and help you.”

  “No,” he murmured, “you did not.”

  “I'll have you know that I could be married if I so wished it. I am on the shelf by choice.”

  “I wouldn't have dreamed otherwise.”

  Ellie thought she heard mocking in his voice, and this time she did kick him.

  “Curse it, woman!” Charles exclaimed. “What the devil was that for? I am being utterly serious.”

  “You're drunk,” she accused.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “but I've never asked a woman to marry me before.”

  “Oh, please,” she scoffed. “If you are trying to tell me that you fell head over heels blindingly in love with me at first sight, let me tell you that it won't wash.”

  “I am not trying to tell you anything of the sort,” he said. “I would never insult your intelligence in such a fashion.”

  Ellie blinked, thinking that he might have just insulted some other aspect of her person, but not sure which.

  “The fact of the matter is—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Do you think we might continue this conversation elsewhere? Perhaps somewhere where I might sit in a chair rather than in the dirt.”

  Ellie frowned at him for a moment before grudgingly holding out her hand. She still wasn't certain that he wasn't making sport of her, but her recent treatment of him had been less than gentle, and her conscience was nagging her. She didn't believe in kicking a man when he was down, especially when she was the one who had put him there.

  He took her hand and eased himself back onto his feet. “Thank you,” he said dryly. “You are clearly a woman of great strength of character. It is why I am considering taking you to wife.”

  Ellie's eyes narrowed. “If you do not cease mocking me….”

  “I believe I told you I am utterly serious. I never lie.”

  “Now that is a clanker if ever I heard one,” she retorted.

  “Well, then, I never lie about anything important.”

  Her hands found their way to her hips and she let out a loud, “Harumph.”

  He exhaled in a vaguely annoyed manner. “I assure you I would never lie about something like this. And I must say, you have developed an exceedingly poor opinion of me. Why, I wonder?”

  “Lord Billington, you are considered the biggest rake in all of Kent! Even my brother-in-law has said so.”

  “Remind me to throttle Robert the next time I see him,” Charles muttered.

  “You very well might be the biggest rake in all of England. I wouldn't know, since I haven't left Kent in years, but—”

  “They say rakes make the best husbands,” he interrupted.

  “Reformed rakes,” she said pointedly. “And I sincerely doubt that you have any plans in that direction. Besides, I'm not going to marry you.”

  He sighed. “I really wish you would.”

  Ellie stared at him in disbelief. “You are mad.”

  “Thoroughly sane, I assure you.” He grimaced. “It is my father who was mad.”

  Ellie suddenly had a vision of crazy, cackling babies and lurched backward. They said insanity was in the blood.

  “Oh, for the love of God,” Charles muttered. “Not truly mad. He simply left me in a cursed bind.”

  “I don't see what this has to do with me.”

  “It has everything to do with you,” he said cryptically.

  Ellie took another step backward, deciding that Billington was beyond mad—he was ready for Bedlam. “If you'll beg my pardon,” she said quickly, “I'd best be getting home. I'm sure you'll be able to manage from here. Your carriage…you said it was around back. You should be able to—”

  “Miss Lyndon,” he said sharply.

  She stopped in her tracks.

  “I must marry,” he said plainly, “and I must do it within the next fifteen days. I have no choice.”

  “I cannot imagine that you would do anything that did not suit your purposes.”

  He ignored her. “If I do not marry, I will lose every drop of my inheritance. Every last unentailed farthing.” He laughed bitterly. “I will be left with only Wycombe Abbey, and believe me when I tell you that pile of stones will soon fall into disrepair if I lack the funds to keep it up.”

  “I have never heard of such a situation,” Ellie said.

  “It is not wholly uncommon.”

  “It seems uncommonly stupid, if you ask me.”

  “On that matter, madam, we are in complete agreement.”

  Ellie twisted some of the fabric of her brown skirt in her hand as she considered his words. “I don't see why you think I should be the one to aid you,” she finally said. “I am certain you could find a suitable wife in London. Don't they call it ‘The Marriage Mart?’ I should think you would be considered quite a catch.”

  He offered her an ironic smile. “You make me sound like a fish.”

  Ellie looked up at him and caught her breath. He was devilishly handsome and thoroughly charming, and she knew she was far from immune. “No,” she admitted, “not a fish.”

  He shrugged. “I have been putting off the inevitable. I know that. But here you are, dropped into my life at my most desperate—”

  “Excuse me, but I believe you dropped into my life.”

  He chuckled. “Did I mention that you're also vastly entertaining? So I was thinking, ‘Well, she'll do as well as any,’ and—”

  “If your aim was to woo me,” Ellie said acidly, “you are not succeeding.”

  “Better than most,” he corrected. “Really, you're the first I've come across I think I could bear.” Not, Charles thought, that he had any plans to devote himself to a spouse. He didn't really need anything out of a wife save for her name on a marriage certificate. Still, one had to spend some time with one's wife, and she might as well be a decent sort. Miss Lyndon seemed to fit the bill nicely.

  And, he added silently, he'd have to get himself an heir eventually. Might as well find someone with a bit of a brain in her head. Wouldn't do to have stupid progeny. He eyed her again. She was staring at him suspiciously. Yes, she was a smart one.

  There was something damned appealing about her. He had a feeling that the process of getting that heir would be just as pleasant as the result. He gave her a jaunty bow, clutching onto her elbow for support. “What do you say, Miss Lyndon? Shall we have a go at it?”

  “‘Shall we have a go at it?’” Ellie choked out. Really, this was not the proposal of her dreams.

  “Hmmm, I'm a bit clumsy at this. The truth is, Miss Lyndon, that if one's go to get oneself a wife, she might as well be someone one likes. We'd have to spend a bit of time together, you know.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. How drunk was he? She cleared her throat several times, trying to find words. Finally she just blurted out, “Are you trying to say you like me?”

  He smiled seductively. “Very much.”

  “I shall have to consider this.”

  He inclined his head. “I wouldn't want to marry anyone who would make such a decision on the spur of the moment.”

  “I shall probably need a few days.”

  “Not too many, I hope. I have only fifteen before my odious cousin Phillip gets his paws on my money.”

  “I must warn you, my answer will almost certainly be no.”

  He didn't say anything. Ellie had the u
npleasant sensation that he was already trying to decide who he would turn to if she refused him.

  After a moment, he said, “Shall I see you home?”

  “That won't be necessary. I am only a few minutes down the road. You will be able to manage on your own from here?”

  He nodded. “Miss Lyndon.”

  She bobbed the tiniest of curtsies. “Lord Billington.” Then she turned and walked away, waiting until she was out of his sight before falling back against the side of a building and mouthing, “Oh my God!”

  The Reverend Mr. Lyndon did not tolerate his daughters taking the Lord's name in vain, but Ellie was sufficiently stunned by Billington's proposal that she was still muttering, “Oh my God,” when she walked through the front door of their cottage.

  “Such language is entirely unbecoming in a young woman, even if she is not so young any longer,” a woman's voice said.

  Ellie groaned. The only person worse than her father when it came to moral standards was his fiancée, the recently widowed Sally Foxglove. Ellie smiled tightly as she tried to make a beeline for her room. “Mrs. Foxglove.”

  “Your father will be most displeased when he hears of this.”

  Ellie groaned again. Trapped. She turned around. “Of what, Mrs. Foxglove?”

  “Of your cavalier treatment of the name of our Lord.” Mrs. Foxglove stood and crossed her plump arms.

  Ellie had half a mind to remind the older woman that she was not Ellie's mother and had no authority over her, but she held her tongue. Life was going to be difficult once her father remarried. There was no need to make it downright impossible by deliberately antagonizing Mrs. Foxglove. Taking a deep breath, Ellie placed her hand over her heart and feigned innocence. “Is that what you thought I was saying?” she said, making her voice deliberately breathless.

  “What were you saying, then?”

  “I was saying, ‘So I thought.’ I hope you did not misunderstand me.”

  Mrs. Foxglove stared at her with patent disbelief.

  “I had misjudged a certain, er, problem,” Ellie continued. “I still cannot believe I did. Hence I was saying, ‘So I thought,’ because, you see, I held a certain thought, and if I had not held that thought, I would not have been mistaken in my logic.”