Ah, Mrs. Foxglove. This must be the reverend's dreaded fiancée.

“Here comes my darling daughter now,” Mrs. Foxglove said, turning toward Ellie with open arms.

Ellie dodged the older lady with an artful sidestep. “Mrs. Foxglove is my future stepmother,” she said pointedly. “She spends a great deal of time here.”

Charles bit back a smile, thinking that Ellie was going to grind her teeth to powder if she kept glowering at Mrs. Foxglove that way.

Mrs. Foxglove turned to Charles and said, “Dear Eleanor's mother passed on many years ago. I am delighted to be as a mother to her.”

Charles looked at Ellie. She looked ready to spit.

“My curricle is waiting just outside,” he said softly. “I thought we might make a picnic in the meadow. Perhaps we should—”

“I have a miniature of my mother,” Ellie said, looking at Mrs. Foxglove even though her words were ostensibly directed at Charles. “In case you'd like to see what she looked like.”

“That would be lovely,” he replied. “And then perhaps we should be on our way.”

“You must wait for the reverend,” Mrs. Foxglove said as Ellie crossed the room and took a small painting off of a shelf. “He will be most sore if he misses you.”

Charles was actually rather surprised that Mr. Lyndon had not been present. Lord knew if he had a daughter planning to marry at the drop of a hat, he'd want to have a look at the potential groom.

Charles allowed himself a small, private smile at the thought of having a daughter. Parenthood seemed such a foreign thing.

“My father will be here when we return,” Ellie said. She turned to Charles and added, “He is out visiting parishioners. He is often detained.”

Mrs. Foxglove looked as if she wanted to say something, but she was stopped by Ellie, who brushed rudely by her, holding out a miniature painting. “This is my mother,” she told Charles.

He took the small piece from her hands and regarded the raven-haired woman in the portrait. “She was beautiful,” he said, his voice quiet.

“Yes, she was.”

“She was quite dark.”

“Yes, my sister Victoria resembles her. This”—Ellie touched a piece of red-gold hair that had escaped her neat chignon—“was quite a surprise, I'm sure.”

Charles leaned down to kiss her hand. “A most delightful surprise.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Foxglove said loudly, clearly not enjoying being ignored, “we have never known what to do with Eleanor's hair.”

“I know exactly what to do with it,” Charles murmured, so softly that only Ellie could hear him. She immediately colored beet red.

Charles grinned and said, “We'd best be off. Mrs. Foxglove, it was a pleasure.”

“But you only just—”

“Eleanor, shall we?” He grasped her hand and pulled her through the doorway. As soon as they were out of Mrs. Foxglove's earshot he let out a light laugh and said, “The closest of escapes. I thought she would never let us go.”

Ellie turned to him, hands fiercely on her hips. “Why did you say that?”