“No,” she said thoughtfully, “I think you're just a nicer person than you'd like people to believe.”

He scoffed. “I am far from—hic—nice.”

“I'll wager you give your entire staff extra wages at Christmas.”

Much to his irritation, he blushed.

“A-ha!” she cried out triumphantly. “You do!”

“It breeds loyalty,” he mumbled.

“It gives them money to buy presents for their families,” she said softly.

He grunted and turned his head away from her. “Lovely sunset, don't you think, Miss Lyndon?”

“A bit clumsy as changes of subject go,” she said with a knowing grin, “but yes, it is quite.”

“It's rather amazing,” he continued, “how many different colors make up the sunset. I see orange, and pink, and peach. Oh, and a touch of saffron right over there.” He pointed off to the southwest. “And the truly remarkable thing of it is that it will all be different tomorrow.”

“Are you an artist?” Ellie asked.

“No,” he said. “I just like the sunset.”

“Bellfield is just around the corner,” she said.

“Is it?”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Don't really want to go home, I suppose,” he replied. He sighed, thinking about what was waiting for him there. A pile of stones that made up Wycombe Abbey. A pile of stones that cost a bloody fortune to keep up. A fortune that would slip through his fingers in less than a month thanks to his meddling father.

One would think that George Wycombe's hold on the pursestrings would have loosened with death, but no, he still found a way to keep his hands firmly around his son's neck from the grave. Charles swore under his breath as he thought about how apt that image was. He certainly felt like he was being strangled.

In precisely fifteen days, he would turn thirty. In precisely fifteen days, every last unentailed scrap of his inheritance would be snatched away from him. Unless—

Miss Lyndon coughed and rubbed a piece of dust from her eye. Charles looked at her with renewed interest.

Unless—he thought slowly, not wanting his still somewhat groggy brain to miss any important details—unless sometime in these next fifteen days, he managed to find himself a wife.

Miss Lyndon steered him onto Bellfield's High Street and pointed south. “The Bee and Thistle is just over there. I don't see your curricle. Is it 'round back?”

She had a nice voice, Charles thought. She had a nice voice, and a nice brain, and a nice wit, and—although he still didn't know what color her hair was—she had a nice set of eyebrows. And she felt damned nice with his weight pressed up against her.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Lyndon.”

“Don't tell me you misplaced your carriage.”

“Miss Lyndon, I have something of great import to discuss with you.”

“Has your ankle worsened? I knew that putting weight on it was a bad idea, but I didn't know how else to get you into town. Ice would—”

“Miss Lyndon!” he fairly boomed.

That got her to close her mouth.