"So get that little body of yours upstairs and into the bedroom before I ravish you here on the stairs."

She smiled slyly. "You'd do that?"

He leaned forward, suddenly looking every inch the rake he was reputed to be. "I wouldn't issue any dares, my lady, unless you're prepared to face the consequences."

Ellie scrambled to her feet and started to run. Charles followed, grateful that she'd decided to travel on both of her feet.

* * *

Several hours later, Ellie and Charles lounged in bed, propped up against their pillows as they ate the gourmet dinner they'd had delivered to their room. Neither had been in any state to make an appearance downstairs.

"Quail?" Charles asked, holding up a piece.

Ellie ate it right from his fingers. "Mmmm. Delicious."

"Asparagus?"

"I'm going to get dreadfully fat."

"You'd still be delightful." He popped the asparagus tip between her lips.

Ellie chewed and sighed with contentment. "Monsieur Belmont is a genius."

"That's why I hired him. Here, try a bit of this roast duck. I promise you'll adore it."

"No, no, stop I couldn't possibly eat another bite."

"Ah, ye weak of heart," Charles teased, holding up a dish and a spoon. "You can't possibly stop now. I'm trying to make a complete wanton of you. Besides, Monsieur Belmont will throw a tantrum if you do not eat the custard. It's his masterwork."

"I didn't realize chefs had masterworks."

He smiled seductively. "Trust me on this."

"Very well, I concede. I'll try a small bite." Ellie opened her mouth and let Charles spoon in some custard. "Good heaven!" she cried. "That is divine."

"I gather you would like some more."

"If you don't give me another bite of that custard I shall have to kill you."

"Said with a straight face," he said with admiration.

She shot him a sideways glance. "I'm not joking."

"Here, have the entire pot. I hate to come between a woman and her food."

Ellie paused in her quest to devour every last speck of custard to say, "Normally I would take offense at that remark, but I'm in far too sublime a state to do so at this moment."

"I'm loathe to speculate whether this sublime state is due to my masculine prowess and stamina or merely to a pot of custard."

"I won't answer that. I would hate to hurt your feelings."

He rolled his eyes. "You're very kind."

"Please say Monsieur Belmont makes this on a regular basis."

"All the time. It's my favorite."

Ellie paused, spoon frozen in her mouth. "Oh," she said, looking rather guilty. "I suppose I ought to share."

"Pay it no mind. I can eat this strawberry tart." He took a bite. "I say, Monsieur Belmont must be angling for a raise in pay."

"Why do you think?"

"Aren't strawberry tarts your favorite? It's uncharacteristically thoughtful of him to prepare both our favorites."

Ellie's face sank into a serious expression.

"Why suddenly so somber?" Charles asked, licking a bit of strawberry off of his lips.

"I am facing a very serious moral dilemma."

Charles glanced around the room. "I don't see one."

"You had better eat the rest of this custard," Ellie said, handing him the pot, which was about two-thirds empty. "I shall feel guilty for weeks if I don't share."

He grinned. "I knew that marrying the daughter of a vicar would have its benefits."

"I know," she sighed. "I have never been able to ignore anyone in need."

Charles spooned a bite of the custard into his mouth with considerable enthusiasm. "I don't know if this counts as 'need' but I'm willing to pretend it does for your sake."

"The sacrifices one makes for one's wife," she muttered.

"Here, have the rest of the strawberry tart."

"No, I couldn't," she said, holding up a hand. "It seems somehow sacrilegious after the custard."

He shrugged. "Have it your own way."

"Besides, I feel suddenly rather strange."

Charles put the custard down and assessed her. She was blinking quite rapidly, and her skin held a strange pasty quality. "You do look rather odd."

"Oh, dear Lord," Ellie moaned, clutching at her stomach as she curled into a fetal position.

He quickly removed the rest of the dinner plates from the bed. "Ellie? Darling?"

She didn't answer, just whimpered as she tried to pull herself into a tight little ball. Sweat was breaking out on her brow, and her breath was corning in shallow pants.

Charles felt prickly with panic. Ellie, who had been laughing and teasing just moments earlier, now looked as if she were... as if... Dear God, she looked like she were dying.

His heart slammed into his throat, and he raced across the room and yanked hard on the bellpull. Then he ran to the door, threw it open, and bellowed, "Cordelia!" His aunt was more than a trifle batty, but she did know a thing or two about sickness and healing, and Charles didn't know what else to do.

"Ellie," he said urgently, running back to her side. "What is wrong? Please talk to me."

"It's like burning swords," she gasped, her eyes shut tight against the pain. "Burning swords in my belly. Oh, God, Oh God. Make it go away. Please."

Charles swallowed in fear, then put a hand on his own stomach, which was also throbbing. He ascribed it to terror; clearly he was not feeling the same agony his wife was experiencing.