“Ellie, that is precisely why we have servants. I pay them very generous wages to keep Wycombe Abbey clean. This is simply a…smellier mess than usual.”

She looked up at him with suspiciously bright eyes. “They are going to think I did this. I don't want that.”

Charles realized that her pride was at stake. Since he knew a thing or two about pride himself, he didn't press her. Instead he said, “Very well. I must insist, however, that you let me wield the shovel. What kind of husband would I be if I sat here and watched while you do all of the hard labor?”

“Absolutely not. You've an injured arm.”

“It's not that bad.”

She let out a snort. “Perhaps you forget that I am the one who stitched you up last night. I know precisely how bad it is.”

“Eleanor, give me the shovel.”

“Never.”

He crossed his arms and regarded her with a level gaze. God, she was stubborn. “Ellie,” he said, “the shovel, if you please.”

“No.”

He shrugged. “All right. You win. I won't shovel.”

“I knew you would see it my—yikes!”

“My arm,” Charles said as he yanked her against him, “is working quite well, actually.”

The shovel fell to the ground as Ellie twisted her neck to look at him. “Charles?” she asked hesitantly.

He smiled wolfishly. “I thought I might kiss you.”

“Here?” she croaked.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“But it smells.”

“I can ignore it if you can.”

“But why?”

“Kiss you?”

She nodded.

“I thought it might get you to stop talking about that ridiculous shovel.” Before she could say anything more, he swooped his head down and settled his mouth firmly on hers. She didn't relax right away; he didn't expect her to. But it was so damned fun to hold that overly-determined, wiggling little woman in his arms. She was like a tiny lion, fierce and protective, and Charles found that he wanted all of that emotion directed toward him. Somehow her insistence that he rest while she did the hard labor didn't make him feel like less of a man. It just made him feel loved.

Loved? Was that what he wanted? He'd thought he wanted a marriage like his parents'. He would lead his own life, his wife would lead hers, and they would both be content. Except that he was drawn to his new bride in a way he'd never anticipated, never even dreamed possible. And he wasn't content. He wanted her, wanted her desperately, and she was always just out of his reach.

Charles lifted his head an inch and looked down at her. Her eyes were unfocused, her lips were soft and parted, and he didn't know why he had never noticed this before, but she had to be the most beautiful woman in the entire world, and she was right there in his arms, and…

…and he had to kiss her again. Now. His mouth devoured hers with a new and startling urgency, and he drank in her essence. She tasted like warm berries, sweet and tangy and pure Ellie. His hands bunched the fabric of her skirts, pulling it up until he could reach underneath and grasp the firm skin of her thigh.