“Just my cousin Cecil,” Charles replied, clearly trying hard not to laugh. “But he doesn't live here. He's quite a toad, actually.”

“A toad in the family,” Ellie murmured, the barest hint of a smile brushing along her lips. “How peculiar. I had no idea the Wycombes had an amphibian branch.”

Charles chuckled. “Yes, we are all very accomplished swimmers.”

This time it was Ellie's turn to laugh. “You shall have to teach me someday. I have never managed to learn.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “It should be my honor, my lady. We shall journey out to the pond just as soon as the weather turns warm.”

And to all the onlookers, they looked very much like a young couple madly in love.

Several hours later, Charles was sitting in his study, his chair tipped back and his feet balanced against the edge of his desk. He had sensed that Ellie might like a few moments alone to unpack her belongings and adjust to her new surroundings. So he had come here, telling himself that he had a number of business concerns that called for his attention. The responsibilities of administering an earldom were quite time-consuming if one wanted to do a decent job of them. He would complete some work here in his study, take care of all the tasks he had let pile up in the past few days. He'd go about his business while Ellie went about her business and—

He let out a loud rush of air, trying very hard to ignore the fact that his entire body was tense with desire for his wife.

He wasn't succeeding.

He certainly hadn't expected to want her quite this badly. He had known he was attracted to her; that was one of the reasons he had decided to ask her to marry him. He had always considered himself a sensible man, and there wasn't much sense in marrying a woman for whom one couldn't muster up a bit of excitement.

But there was something about those little half-smiles of hers—as if she had a secret that she would never divulge—that drove him mad. And her hair—he knew she detested the color, but he wanted nothing other than to run his fingers through the length of it, and—

His feet slipped off the desk and his chair crashed down onto the floor with a loud clunk. How long was his wife's hair? It seemed like something a husband ought to know.

He pictured it reaching her knees, swaying about her as she walked. Not likely, he decided. Her chignon hadn't been that big.

He pictured it reaching her waist, teasing her navel and flaring gently as it settled upon her hip. He shook his head. Somehow that didn't seem right, either. Ellie—how he liked that nickname!—didn't seem the sort to have the patience for hair that long.

Perhaps brushing along the curve of her breasts. He could see it tucked behind one shoulder, one of her breasts covered by a fall of red-gold hair, and the other laid bare—