The beaming bachelors finished off the last of the wine and the last of the trifle, while Rex contemplated schemes by which he might leave London before the course of true love revealed to half the realm’s solicitors the scandalous state of the Dorset family finances.

*  *  *

“What in fourteen purgatories is Lord Stephen doing with that lift?” Elsmore asked over the incessant pounding reverberating through Ellie’s dwelling.

“He warned me that he’d be making some modifications,” she replied, tossing down her pencil. “He failed to point out that the entire building would be subject to an unrelenting din.”

Elsmore paced Ellie’s parlor, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “How can you work with all this noise?”

The pounding grew louder, which ought not to have been possible.

“I can’t. I made an error this morning. Added 263 and 432 and got 795. If Voltaire hadn’t tried to climb into my lap I might not have caught it.”

Though if Elsmore hadn’t been prowling about in the back of Ellie’s mind, she probably wouldn’t have made the error in the first place. He’d kept her awake last night—again—and he’d rendered her day of rest more of a day of moping.

Him and his kisses.

And his scent.

And the feel of his embrace.

All of which had been of no moment.

“How much longer will this racket go on?” Elsmore asked, tossing himself into Ellie’s reading chair. “I cannot think amid such noise.”

“Installing the lift took weeks. Lord Stephen doesn’t do things by half measures.”

Somebody started singing in rhythm with the hammers, two somebodies, judging from the wretched attempt at harmony.

“Bedlam would be a more productive environment than this,” Elsmore muttered. “And now is no time for Lord Stephen’s queer start to be…”

He fell silent. Today’s version of His Grace was not the charming aristocrat with a few inconsequential peas tucked under his downy financial mattress. Elsmore hadn’t smiled once, hadn’t assayed a single flirtatious aside.

Ellie should have been relieved. Instead she was hard put not to stare at his mouth, or his hands, or the breadth of his shoulders beneath his exquisitely tailored maroon morning coat.

“We need to get out of here,” he said, rising and gathering up the ledgers strewn about the room. “How soon can you pack a few frocks?”

“My entire wardrobe consists of only a few frocks. What are you going on about?”

“I will commit acts of violence to the premises if we remain here much longer. Now, when I need for this audit to forge ahead with all due speed, Lord Stephen Went-to-Blazes has sabotaged even your formidable accuracy with figures. I won’t have it, Mrs. Hatfield. We’re for Ambledown, where a man can hear himself think and a woman can have peace and quiet.”

“Leave Town? With you?”