“Very well, my lord,” she said, hoping that she hadn't irritated him overmuch. A peer of the realm held much more power than a vicar's daughter, and he could make her life miserable if he chose. She gave up all hope of keeping her dress clean and sat down in the dirt. “Which ankle pains you, my lord?”

He pointed to his right ankle, and then grimaced when she lifted it in her hands. After a moment's examination, she looked up and said in her most polite voice, “I am going to have to remove your boot, my lord. Would that be permissible?”

“I liked you better when you were spitting fire,” he muttered.

Ellie liked herself better that way, too. She smiled. “Have you a knife?”

He snorted. “If you think I'm going to put a weapon in your hands…”

“Very well. I suppose I could just pull the boot off.” She cocked her head and pretended to ponder the matter. “It might hurt just a bit when it gets stuck on your hideously swollen ankle, but as you pointed out, you come from hardy stock, and a man should be able to take a little pain.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

Ellie started to pull at his boot. Not hard—she could never be that cruel. Tugging just enough to demonstrate that the boot wasn't coming off his foot through ordinary means, she held her breath.

He yelled, and Ellie wished she hadn't tried to teach him a lesson, because she ended up with a face full of whiskey fumes.

“How much did you drink?” she demanded, gasping for air.

“Not nearly enough,” he groaned. “They haven't invented a drink strong enough—”

“Oh, come now,” Ellie snapped. “I'm not that bad.”

To her surprise, he laughed. “Sweetheart,” he said in a tone that told her clear as day that his usual occupation was rake, “you're the least bad thing that has happened to me in months.”

Ellie felt an odd sort of tingling on the back of her neck at his clumsy compliment. Thankful that her large bonnet hid her blush, she focused her attention back on his ankle. “Have you changed your mind about my cutting your boot?”

His answer was the knife he placed in her palm. “I always knew there was some reason I carried one of these things around. I just never knew what it was until today.”

The knife was a bit dull, and soon Ellie was gritting her teeth as she sawed through his boot. She looked up from her task for a moment. “Just let me know if I—”

“Ow!”

“—poke you,” she finished. “I'm dreadfully sorry.”

“It is astonishing,” he said, his voice liberally laced with irony, “how much sorrow I hear in your voice.”

Ellie caught another giggle in her throat.

“Oh, for the love of God,” he muttered. “Just laugh. Lord knows my life is laughable.”

Ellie, whose own life had descended into the miserable ever since her widower father had announced his intention to marry the village of Bellfield's biggest busybody, felt a pang of empathy. She didn't know what could have prompted this remarkably handsome and well-heeled lord to go out and get himself blindingly drunk, but whatever it was, she felt for him. She stopped her work on his boot for a moment, leveled her dark blue eyes at his face, and said, “My name is Miss Eleanor Lyndon.”