Ellie caught him looking at her feet and blushed. “Your sister has tiny feet,” she said, “and my own shoes were soaked through.”

He blinked, as if he were lost in thought, then shook his head slightly and looked her in the eye. “No matter,” he said, then let his gaze fall to her feet again.

Ellie dropped her skirts, wondering what the devil was so interesting about her feet.

“You look quite fetching in mint,” he said, hobbling over to her side. “You should wear it more often.”

“All my dresses are dark and serviceable,” she said, her voice containing equal parts irony and wistfulness.

“Pity. I'll have to buy you new ones once we're married.”

“Now, see here!” Ellie protested. “I have not accepted your proposal. I am merely here to—” She broke off when she realized she was yelling and continued in a softer tone. “I am merely here to discuss it with you.”

He smiled slowly. “What do you want to know?”

Ellie exhaled, wishing that she'd been able to approach this interview with a bit more composure. Not that that would have helped much, she thought ruefully, after the entrance she'd made. The butler was never going to forgive her. Looking up, she said, “Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not. How rude of me.” He motioned to the sofa, and she took a seat. “Would you care for tea?” Charles asked.

“Yes, that would be lovely.” Ellie reached for the tray and began to pour. It somehow seemed a sinfully intimate act, pouring tea for this man in his own home. “Milk?”

“Please. No sugar.”

She smiled. “I take mine the same way.”

Charles took a sip and assessed her over the rim of his cup. She was nervous. He couldn't blame her. It was a most uncommon situation, and he had to admire her for facing it with such fortitude. He watched as she drained her teacup and then said, “By the way, your hair isn't red.”

Ellie choked on her tea.

“What is it they call it?” he mused, lifting his hand and rubbing his fingers together in the air as if that would prompt his brain. “Ah yes, strawberry blond. Although that seems rather inadequate to me.”

“It's red,” Ellie said baldly.

“No, no, it really isn't. It's—”

“Red.”

His lips spread into a lazy smile. “Red, then, if you insist.”

Ellie found herself oddly disappointed that he'd given in. She'd always wanted her hair to be something more exotic than just plain red. It was an unexpected gift from some long-forgotten Irish ancestor. The only good thing about it had been that it was a constant source of irritation to her father, who had been known to develop nausea at the merest intimation that there might be a Catholic somewhere in his background.

Ellie had always rather liked the idea of a rogue Catholic hiding out in her family tree. She had always liked the idea of anything out of the ordinary, anything to break up the monotony of her humdrum life. She looked up at Billington, who sprawled elegantly in a chair opposite her.