“Billington!” Ellie exclaimed in surprise. “You're awake.”

“Obviously.”

She scrambled to her feet. “I must look a fright.”

Charles pulled out a snowy handkerchief. “You do have a bit of soot here” —he wiped the cloth against her left cheek— “and here” —he wiped it against her right— “and of course a bit here.” This time he applied the handkerchief to her nose.

Ellie grabbed the cloth out of his hand, not liking the drawl in his voice. “That's really not necessary, my lord,” she said. “I'm perfectly capable of wiping my face.”

“I don't suppose you would like to tell me what you were doing inside the oven. I assure you that we have ample foodstuffs here at Wycombe Abbey without you offering yourself up as the main course.”

Ellie stared at him, not at all certain whether he was funning her or not. “I was fixing the oven, my lord.”

“We have servants for that.”

“Clearly you don't,” Ellie replied, bristling at his tone. “Or you wouldn't have been eating burnt toast for the past ten years.”

“I like my toast burnt,” he bit out.

Helen coughed so hard that Mrs. Stubbs whacked her on the back.

“Well, I don't,” Ellie returned, “and neither does Helen, so you are outvoted.”

“I like my toast burnt.”

Every head swiveled to face the doorway, where Claire stood, her arms planted on her hips. Ellie thought the girl looked rather militant for a fourteen-year-old.

“I want the oven the way it was,” Claire stated firmly. “I want everything the way it was.”

Ellie's heart sank. Her new cousin was clearly not excited about her arrival into the household. “Fine!” she said, throwing her arms up in exasperation. “I'll change it back.”

She made it halfway back into the oven by the time Charles's hand closed around the collar of her dress and yanked her back out. “You will not be repeating this dangerous stunt,” he said. “The oven will remain the way it is.”

“I thought you liked your toast burnt?”

“I will adjust.”

At that point, Ellie really wanted to laugh, but she wisely kept her mouth shut.

Charles glared belligerently at the rest of the kitchen's occupants. “I would like a few words alone with my wife.” When no one moved, he roared, “Now!”

“Then perhaps we should leave,” Ellie cut in. “After all, Mrs. Stubbs and the kitchen maids work here. We do not.”

“You appeared to be doing a rather fine imitation of it,” he grumbled, suddenly sounding more petulant than angry.

Ellie gaped at him. “You are quite the most strange and contrary man I have every met.”

“I did not have my head in an oven,” he shot back.

“Well, I do not eat burnt toast!”

“Well, I—” Charles's head snapped up, as if he suddenly realized that he was not only having a most bizarre argument with his wife, but that he was doing it before an audience. He cleared his throat and wrapped his hand around her slender wrist. “I believe I would like to show you the blue room,” he said loudly.