“My bonnet,” Ellie replied, suddenly feeling very sheepish.

He smiled. “I like you better without one. I was wondering what color your hair was.”

“It's red,” she shot back, thinking that this must be the final indignity. She hated her hair, had always hated her hair.

Charles coughed to cover up yet another smile. Ellie was spitting mad, well beyond furious, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd had so much fun. Well, actually he could. Yesterday, to be precise, when he'd fallen out of a tree and had the good fortune to land on her.

Ellie reached up to push a wet and sticky lock of hair from her face, causing her sodden dress to tighten around her bodice. Charles's skin grew suddenly warm.

Oh yes, he thought, she'd make a very fine wife.

“My lord?” the butler interjected as he leaned down to help Charles up. “Do we know this person?”

“I'm afraid we do,” Charles replied, earning himself a scathing glare from Ellie. “It appears that Miss Lyndon has had a trying day. Perhaps we might offer her some tea. And”—he eyed her dubiously—“a towel.”

“That would be very nice,” Ellie said primly. “Thank you.”

Charles watched her as she stood. “I trust you have been considering my proposal.”

Rosejack halted in his tracks and turned around. “Proposal?” he gasped.

Charles grinned. “Yes, Rosejack. I am hoping that Miss Lyndon will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

Rosejack went utterly white.

Ellie scowled at him. “I was trapped in a rainstorm,” she said, thinking that that ought to be self-evident. “I am usually a bit more presentable.”

“She was trapped in a rainstorm,” Charles repeated. “And I can vouch for the fact that she is usually much more presentable. She will make an excellent countess, I assure you.”

“I have not yet accepted,” Ellie muttered.

Rosejack looked as if he might faint.

“You will,” Charles said with a knowing smile.

“How can you possibly—”

“Why else would you have come?” he interjected. He turned to the butler. “Rosejack, the tea, if you please. And don't forget a towel. Or perhaps two.” He glanced down to where Ellie was leaving puddles on the parquet floor, then looked back toward Rosejack yet again. “You had better just bring in a stack of them.”

“I have not come to accept your proposal,” Ellie sputtered. “I merely wanted to talk with you about it. I—”

“Of course, my dear,” Charles murmured. “Would you like to follow me to the drawing room? I would offer you my arm, but I fear I cannot provide much support these days.” He motioned to his cane.

Ellie let out a frustrated breath and followed him into a nearby room. It was decorated in cream and blue, and she didn't dare sit on anything. “I don't think mere towels are going to be sufficient, my lord,” she said. She didn't even want to step on the carpet. Not with the way her skirts were dripping.