"I cannot believe you didn't see that rut," Ellie said, managing to look supercilious even as she sat in the dirt.

Charles thought about strangling her. He thought about getting her fitted for a muzzle. He even thought about kissing her just to wipe that annoying expression off of her face, but in the end he just laid there, trying to find his breath.

"Even I could have driven the curricle with greater skill," she continued, rising to her feet and brushing off her skirts. "I hope you haven't damaged the wheel. They're terribly expensive to replace, and Bellfield's wheelwright is drunk more often than not. You could travel to Faversham, of course, but I wouldn't recommend—"

Charles let out an agonized groan, although he wasn't quite sure what was paining him most: his ribs, his head, or her lecture.

Ellie crouched back down, concern growing on her face. "I say, you're not hurt, are you?"

Charles managed to stretch his lips out far enough to show his teeth, but only the most optimistic sort could have called it a smile. "Never felt better," he croaked.

"You are hurt," Ellie exclaimed, her tone rather accusatory.

"Not too much," he managed to get out. "Just my ribs, and my back, and my—" He broke off into a fit of coughing.

"Oh, dear," she said. "I'm terribly sorry. Did I knock the breath out of you when I fell?"

"You knocked it clear to Sussex."

Ellie frowned as she touched her hand to his brow. "You don't sound well. Do you feel hot?"

"Christ, Eleanor, I don't have a bloody fever."

She brought her hand back to her side and muttered, "At least you haven't lost your wide and varied vocabulary."

"Why is it," he said, his breath coming out in a long-suffering sigh, "that whenever you are near, I emerge injured?"

"Now see here!" Ellie exclaimed. "This was not my fault. I wasn't driving. And I certainly didn't have anything to do with your falling out of a tree."

Charles didn't bother to reply. His only sound was a groan as he tried to sit up.

"At least let me tend to your injuries," Ellie said.

He shot her a sideways look that reeked of sarcasm.

"Fine!" she burst out, standing up and throwing her arms in the air. "Tend to yourself, then. I hope you have a splendid time walking home. What is it— ten, fifteen miles?"

He touched his head, which was beginning to throb.

"It should be a lovely stroll," she continued, "especially on that ankle."

Charles jammed his fingers more tightly against his temple, hoping the pressure would somehow dull the pain. "I'd wager you have a vengeful streak a mile wide," he muttered.

"I am the least vengeful person I know," she said with a sniff. "And if you think otherwise, then perhaps you ought not to marry me."

"You're marrying me," he ground out, "if I have to drag you to the altar bound and gagged."

Ellie smiled waspishly. "You could try," she taunted, "but in your condition you couldn't drag a flea."

"And you say you're not vengeful."

"I seem to be developing a taste for it."

Charles grabbed at the back of his skull, which felt as if someone were stabbing long, rusty needles into it. He winced and said, "Just don't say anything. Not a word. Not a"—he gasped as he felt another rush of pain—"single damned word."

Ellie, who had no idea that he even had a headache, interpreted that to mean he thought she was inconsequential, stupid, and a general nuisance. Her spine stiffened, her teeth clenched, and her hands curved into involuntary little claws. "I have done nothing to deserve this kind of treatment," she said in a haughty voice. And then, with a loud, "Hmmmph," she turned on her heel and marched toward home.

Charles lifted his head long enough to see her stride off, sighed, and promptly passed out.

* * *

"Why that little snake," Ellie muttered to herself. "If he thinks I'm going to marry him now... He's worse than Mrs. Foxglove!" She scrunched up her brow, decided that it wouldn't do to start lying to herself at the ripe old age of three and twenty, and then added, "Well, almost."

She tramped along the lane a few more steps, then leaned down when something shiny caught her eye. It looked like a metal bolt of some sort. She picked it up, rolled it around in her hand for a moment, then slipped it into her pocket. There was a little boy in her father's parish who loved trinkets like this. Perhaps she could give it to him next time she went to church.

Ellie sighed. She'd have plenty of time to give the bolt to Tommy Beechcombe. It certainly didn't look as if she'd be moving out of her father's house any time soon. She might as well start practicing her chimney sweeping techniques that afternoon.

The Earl of Billington had brought a brief measure of excitement into her life, but it was now clear they wouldn't suit. She did, however, feel a touch guilty about leaving him lying by the side of the road. Not that he didn't deserve it, of course, but Ellie always tried to be charitable, and ...

She shook her head and rolled her eyes. One look back wouldn't kill her. Just to see if he was all right.

She twisted around but realized that she'd gone over a little hill and couldn't see him any longer. She let out a deep breath and trudged back toward the scene of the accident. "This doesn't mean you care about him," she told herself. "It just means that you are a fine and upstanding woman, one who doesn't abandon people, however rude and vile"—she allowed herself a tiny smile here—"when they are incapable of looking after—Good God!"