“Oh,” Ellie said, feeling as if she were trapped in a very strange dream. “Well, I am certain they can't compare to our good, sturdy English ovens.” She walked over to the oven, pulled the door open, then turned back around to suggest, “Do you know, we could avoid all of this if we just used a toasting fork?”

Mrs. Stubbs crossed her arms and said, “I'll never use one of those. Don't trust them.”

Ellie couldn't imagine what could possibly be construed as untrustworthy about a toasting fork, but she decided that it wasn't worth pressing the issue, so she lifted her skirts above her ankles, kneeled, and stuck her head in the oven.

Charles had been hunting for his new bride for several minutes, his quest finally taking him, most improbably, to the kitchens. A footman swore that he had seen Ellie and Helen head that way a quarter of an hour earlier. Charles couldn't credit it, but he decided to investigate, anyway. Ellie wasn't the most conventional of countesses, so he supposed it was possible that she had taken it in her head to introduce herself to the kitchen staff.

He was not prepared for the sight that awaited him. His new wife was on her hands and knees with her entire head—no, rather half her torso—jammed into an oven that Charles was fairly certain had resided at Wycombe Abbey since before the time of Cromwell. Charles's initial reaction was one of terror—visions of flames leaping through Ellie's hair raced through his mind. But Helen appeared unperturbed, so he managed to squelch the urge to run into the kitchen and haul Ellie to safety.

He took a step back from the doorway so that he could watch the proceedings unnoticed. Ellie was saying something—it sounded like nothing so much as a grunt, actually—and then he clearly heard her yell, “I have it! I have it—”

Helen, Mrs. Stubbs, and the two kitchen maids all leaned in closer, clearly fascinated with Ellie's maneuvers.

“Blast. I don't have it,” Ellie finished, rather grumpily, in Charles's opinion.

“Are you certain you know what you're about?” Helen asked.

“Absolutely. All I need is to move this rack. It's much too high.” Ellie began to yank on something that obviously wouldn't budge, for she landed on her behind several times. “When was the last time this oven was cleaned?” she asked.

Mrs. Stubbs huffed. “That oven is every bit as clean as an oven needs to be.”

Ellie muttered something Charles couldn't hear, and then she said, “There. I have it.” She pulled a charred rack out of the oven and then inserted it back in. “Now all I have to do is move this farther from this flame.”

Flame? Charles's blood ran to ice. She was playing with fire?

“There!” Ellie pulled herself out of the oven and landed on her behind on the floor. “That ought to fix it.”

Charles decided that this was a good moment to announce his presence. “Good morning, wife,” he said, strolling in, his stance deceptively casual. What Ellie couldn't see was that his hands were clenched tightly together behind his back. It was the only way he could keep them from wrapping themselves around her shoulders and hauling her back to their room for a blistering lecture on the safety—or lack thereof—of the kitchens.