She reached down into her open trunk, looking for knickknacks that she might use to make the room seem more homey and familiar. Her fingers closed around the miniature of her mother. That would certainly be a beginning. She walked across to her dressing table and set the small painting down, turning it so that the light from the nearby window wouldn't cause the paint to fade.

“There you are,” she said softly. “You'll do nicely there. Just don't pay any attention to all of these dour old women staring down at you.” Ellie looked up at the walls, which were covered with portraits of earlier countesses, none of whom looked very friendly.

“The lot of you are coming down tomorrow,” she muttered, not feeling the least bit foolish for talking to the walls. “Tonight if I can manage it.”

Ellie crossed back to her trunk to look for another item that might lend the room a bit of warmth. She was browsing through her belongings when she heard a knock at her door.

Billington. It had to be. Her sister had told her that servants never knocked on door.

She swallowed and called out, “Come in.”

The door opened, revealing her husband of less than twenty-four hours. He was casually attired, having long since discarded his jacket and cravat. Ellie found herself quite unable to take her eyes off of the little patch of skin that peeped through the unbuttoned top of his crisp white shirt.

“Good evening,” he said.

Ellie forced her eyes up to his face. “Good evening to you.” There, that sounded as if it had come from someone completely unaffected by his nearness. Unfortunately, she had a feeling he could see right through her cheerful voice and bright smile.

“Are you settling in?” he asked.

“Yes, very well.” She sighed. “Well, not so well, actually.”

He raised a brow.

“This room is quite daunting,” she explained.

“Mine is just through the connecting door. You're welcome to make yourself at home there.”

Her mouth fell open. “Connecting door?”

“You didn't know there was one?”

“No, I thought—Well, I didn't really think about where all these doors went to.”

Charles strode across the room and began opening doors. “Washroom. Dressing room. A storage room for clothing.” He made his way to the only door on the east side of the room and pulled it open. “And voilá, the earl's bedroom.”

Ellie suppressed the urge to let out a nervous laugh. “I suppose most earls and countesses prefer connecting rooms.”

“Actually,” he said, “Many don't. My ancestors were a tempestuous lot. Most of the Earls and Countesses of Billington detested each other quite thoroughly.”

“Goodness,” Ellie said weakly. “How positively encouraging.”

“And those that did not…” Charles paused for effect and grinned wolfishly. “Well, they were so passionately enamored of one another that separate rooms—and separate beds—were unthinkable.”

“I don't suppose any of them found a happy medium?”

“Just my parents,” he said with a shrug. “My mother had her watercolors, my father his hounds. And they always had a kind word for each other if they happened to cross paths. Which wasn't very often, of course.”