Marrying His Cinderella Countess

‘Of course.’

It was like blowing out a candle. All the intensity went, leaving only a meek spinster effacing herself in her corner.

‘Polly, pass me the book from my case, please. I have my notebook here.’

By dint of dropping his gloves, Blake managed to get a glimpse of the spine of the volume. Agricultural Practices of the Mediterranean Lands. He sincerely hoped that she was not going to try and impose those on the farm labourers of Lancashire or she would soon come to grief.

What a strange little female she was. Or not so little—she must be all of five feet and nine inches, he estimated, before he reached for the first letter Jon passed him and became lost in the detail of a land boundary dispute affecting a property he was buying.

Chapter Four

To be closed in with not one but two gentlemen had almost caused her to back out of the carriage in instinctive panic. Ellie was quite proud of herself for not only standing her ground but greeting Mr Wilton with composure. No one would have noticed anything amiss, she was sure.

And, curiously, the secretary’s presence made things easier. He was not as good-looking as his half-brother—more of a muted version—and the fact that the men had soon become engrossed in their work had helped her to relax. She did not like being the centre of attention under any circumstances, and now Lord Hainford—Cousin Blake—had a perfect excuse for virtually ignoring her, and she was sure he much preferred to do so.

She looked up from her book. The carriage was luxurious beyond anything she had travelled in before, with deeply buttoned upholstery and wide seats which meant that she could sit next to Blake without touching him or his clothing. Even though she told herself it was irrational, she had dreaded being shut up in a closed carriage, pressed against another body—or, worse, sandwiched between two men, which would have been quite likely to happen on a stage coach.

Ellie wriggled more comfortably into her corner and put her notebook on the seat. It was an effort to concentrate on date production and wheat yields, especially when she could smell Blake. It had to be him—that elusive scent of starched linen, an astringent cologne and warm, clean man. Mr Wilton was too far away for it to be him setting her nostrils quivering every time the two of them shifted, leaning across to pass papers or stooping to rescue fallen sheets from the carriage floor.

It was very provocative, that intimate trace that he left in the air. And just because the threat of a man touching her made her anxious, it did not mean she did not wish that was not the case. Blake was beautiful to look at—strong and male, the perfect model for both fantasy and fiction… Perfect, that was, when there had been not the slightest danger of getting close enough to speak to him, let alone scent him.

Ellie wrenched her concentration back to the book. Goodness, but the production of dates was dull. She flipped through the pages. Perhaps water management would be a more riveting subject for the tiresome Oscar to explore. He might even fall into an irrigation canal.

The thought cheered her, and she picked up her notebook and began to scribble not notes but an entire scene.

*

‘Bushey,’ Blake said. ‘We are changing horses here. Would you like to get down for a few minutes?’

Ellie almost refused. Oscar was now vividly describing the experience of being hauled out of a muddy irrigation canal, and the scene was giving her great pleasure to write.

Then it occurred to her that this might be a tactful way of suggesting that she might wish to find the privy. ‘Thank you. I would like to stretch my legs.’

Polly looked grateful for the decision, and Mr Wilton helped both of them to descend from the carriage, then turned away, as tactful as his brother, as the two of t

hem went towards the inn.

When they returned Blake himself got out to help them in. ‘You look pleased about something, Cousin Eleanor.’

‘We were admiring the facilities. A most superior stopping place—thank you.’

‘Thank Jon. He sorts everything out.’

Mr Wilton glanced up from his papers and acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his head. ‘Just doing my job, Miss Lytton.’

‘So what does an earl’s confidential secretary do, exactly?’ she asked as the groom closed the doors and swung up behind as the carriage rolled out of the inn yard.

‘I deal with Lord Hainford’s correspondence, keep his appointments diary, monitor all the newspapers for him, organise journeys, settle his accounts, ensure that reports from all his properties and investments are received regularly, scanned, and that any matters requiring his decision are brought to his attention. I make notes on topics he might wish to speak on in the Lords. That kind of thing.’

‘It looks like a great deal more than that.’ Ellie could see a stack of notebooks, bristling with markers. ‘Cousin Blake makes you work exceedingly hard.’

‘And he makes me work exceedingly hard in return,’ Blake countered dryly. ‘Did you imagine that earls sat around all day, reading?’

‘No. I imagined that they spent most of their time enjoying themselves,’ she admitted, surprised into frankness.

‘I do—when I am allowed to escape.’ He cast her a sardonic glance. ‘I do all the things you imagine, Cousin Eleanor. All the things that put that judgmental expression on your face. Clubs, sporting events, my tailor, hatter and bootmaker. Social events, the opera, the theatre, gaming. A positive whirl of dissipation.’

Mr Wilton snorted. ‘Are you attempting to paint yourself as an idle rake to Miss Lytton? Should I not mention the House of Lords, your charity boards, investors’ meetings?’