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."