“You don't befuddle me.”

“No?” he murmured, touching his finger to the corner of her mouth. “Then why are your lips quivering as if you have something you desperately wish to say, only you don't know how to say it?”

“I know exactly what I want to say, you fiendish little snake.”

“I stand corrected,” he said with an amused laugh. “Evidently you are in complete command of your rather extensive vocabulary.”

“Why must everything be such a game to you?”

“Why shouldn't it be?” he countered.

“Because…because…” Ellie's words trailed off when she realized that she didn't have a ready answer.

“Because why?” he prodded.

“Because marriage is a serious thing,” she said in a rush. “Very serious.”

His answer was swift, and his voice was low. “Believe me, no one knows that as well as I do. Were you to back out of this marriage, I'd be left with a pile of stones and no capital to keep it up.”

“Wycombe Abbey deserves a more gracious moniker than ‘pile of stones,’” Ellie said automatically. She'd always held a deep admiration for good architecture, and the abbey was one of the more beautiful buildings in the district.

He cast a sharp look in her direction. “It will be a literal pile of stones if I do not have the funds to support it.”

Ellie had the distinct impression that he was warning her. He would be most unhappy with her if she backed out of the marriage. She had no doubt he could make her life utter hell if he so chose, and she had a feeling that should she leave him at the altar, spite alone would be motivation enough for him to devote his life to ruining hers.

“You needn't worry,” she said crisply. “I have never broken my word, and I do not intend to begin doing so now.”

“I am much relieved, my lady.”

Ellie frowned. He didn't sound relieved. He sounded more self-satisfied than anything else. She was contemplating why this disturbed her so when he spoke again.

“You should know something about me, Eleanor.”

She turned to him with widened eyes.

“I may treat much of life as a game, but I can be deadly serious when I so choose.”

“I beg your pardon?” Then she bit her lip for saying it.

“I am not a man to cross.”

She drew back. “Are you threatening me?”

“My future wife?” he said blandly. “Of course not.”

“I think you are threatening me. And I think I don't like it.”

“Really?” he drawled. “Is that what you think?”

“I think,” she shot back, “that I liked you better when you were drunk.”

He laughed at that. “I was easier to manage. You don't like it when you are not firmly in control.”

“And you do?”

“We are two of a kind in that regard. I believe we shall suit each other admirably as husband and wife.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “Either that or we'll kill each other in the process.”