Charles pondered that, paused, and said, “I apologize if you feel that I have underestimated you in any way. I certainly do not mean to belittle your talents.”

Ellie wasn't entirely certain that fixing an oven qualified as a talent, but she kept her mouth shut.

“It is simply”—he reached out, took a lock of her strawberry-blond hair, and twirled it around his fore-finger— “that I shouldn't like to see this go up in flames.”

She swallowed nervously. “Don't be silly.”

He tugged gently on her hair, drawing her closer to him. “It would be such a shame,” he murmured. “It's so soft.”

“It's just hair,” Ellie stated, thinking that one of them had to keep this conversation grounded in reality.

“No.” He brought the lock of hair to his mouth and ran it across his lips. “It's much more than that.”

Ellie stared at him, unaware that her lips had parted ever so slightly. She would swear she felt that gentle caress on her scalp. No, on her mouth. No, on her neck. No—blast it, she'd felt that bloody sensation all over her body.

She looked up. He was still running her hair across his mouth. She shuddered. She was still feeling it. “Charles,” she croaked.

He smiled, clearly aware of his effect on her. “Ellie?” he countered.

“I think you should…” She gasped and tried to pull away as he pulled her even closer to him.

“You think I should what?”

“Let go of my hair.”

His free arm stole around her waist. “I disagree,” he whispered. “I've grown quite attached to it.”

Ellie looked at his finger, around which were now wrapped several coils of her hair. “Clearly,” she said, wishing she sounded more sarcastic and less breathy.

He held his finger up so that he could regard it against the undraped window. “Pity,” he murmured. “The sun is already well above the horizon. I should have liked to compare your hair to the sunrise.”

Ellie stared at him, dumbfounded. No one had ever spoken to her in such a poetic fashion before. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to interpret his words. “What are you talking about?” she finally blurted out.

“Your hair,” he said with a smile, “is the color of the sun.”

“My hair,” she said loudly, “is ridiculous.”

“Women.” He sighed. “They are never satisfied.”

“That is not true,” Ellie protested, thinking that she ought to defend her gender.

He shrugged. “You are not satisfied.”

“I beg your pardon. I am completely satisfied with my life.”

“As your husband, I cannot tell you how heartened I am to hear it. I must be better at this marriage thing than I thought.”

“I am perfectly satisfied,” she said, ignoring his ironic tone, “because I now have control over my own destiny. I am no longer under my father's thumb.”

“Or Mrs. Foxglove's,” Charles pointed out.

“Or Mrs. Foxglove's,” she agreed.

His face adopted a thoughtful air. “But my thumb, I could do quite a bit with my thumb.”