The Fox: in his Henhouse (The Dubious Mates #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

CUMBERLAND, 1835

“ C harles, please, you can’t! What if you are caught?” Eleanor pleaded in an anxious, insistent whisper. She didn’t want Father to wake. It was late and the house was cold. It was always cold.

It was also dark. They’d not dared light a precious candle.

“There’s barely a soul about, sister,” her sibling hissed back. “A mostly empty Abbey still, no one will notice. They’ll think it was a fox. Same blasted fox that took our hens, crafty beast.”

Eleanor knew Charles had almost wept that morning to find the henhouse emptied of their last two birds, for they had nothing left to trade, nothing at all, and any chicks begged off neighbors now wouldn’t lay till springtime.

“But if you are caught, Charles, the fine . . . We’d never be able to pay!”

“I won’t get caught, hush. Besides, the Abbey’s new lord brought a veritable flock with him; two will hardly be missed. Now go back to bed, and if I’ve not returned by daybreak simply tell Father I’ve gone into town.”

Eleanor was only more alarmed by this. “But if you’re not here come morning?—”

“I’ll return, sister. Go back to bed.”

“Only, Charles, I wish you wouldn’t!”

“Yes, well, I wish I needn’t,” her sibling bit back. “I wish a lot of things, Ellie, but right now I wish simply to keep us alive come winter.”

Eleanor watched Charles wrap tight their father’s heavy cloak and slip out into the chill, black night. She stood a moment longer in the kitchen, Father’s rattling snores from the next room reminding her that she ought to be grateful for a sibling as unreasonable as the one she had. For without Charles to so stubbornly look after them, she and Papa would be in far worse straits.

She stared at the kitchen’s dim, bare shelves, praying for Charles’s safe return. She sat there some while before she crawled back into bed.

Lord Wellesley had just sat down to a glass of whiskey before a roaring hearth in the one room of his crumbling new home that was reasonably comfortable. There were other rooms serviceable, but the work needed to bring this old castle back to life was formidable. He’d not bargained on Almsdale Abbey being in quite such disrepair. Nor had he counted on Cumberland being quite so bloody rustic. It was just what he needed, but it was also damnably bleak. The village hadn’t a bookshop, barely a decent tavern, and no whorehouse he could unearth.

Amusements there were not.

Yet the barren landscape was spectacular and suited his craggy mood perfectly. The work might last years and suited him just as much. He knew he’d need skilled tradesmen come spring, but in all he was glad he’d come. Anything to escape the hell London had become.

He was sipping his whiskey, contemplating lighting a pipe, feet propped on a stool before the blazing fire, when he heard a ruckus in the hall right before his steward, John Cuthbert, wrenched open the parlor door, dragging a mess of skirts behind him.

Wellesley, or Wells as his crew called him, glared at his man for the interruption. “This had better be worth my time, John,” he grumbled.

Cuthbert shoved what looked to be a filthy human before his lordship, declaring, “Caught her stealin’ chickens, Yer Grace.”

“Chickens?” Wells almost laughed but instead frowned at the dirt-streaked face scowling back at him. “Why the hell bring her here and not before the magistrate?” He sensed not an ounce of contrition from the sharp green eyes shooting daggers at him.

“Because y’ are the magistrate here, Yer Grace,” Cuthbert ground out.

“Bloody hell,” Wells muttered, sighing deeply as he rose from his seat. He was as annoyed by the interruption as he was by Cuthbert’s continued, deliberate misuse of what was rightfully his father, the Duke of Allendale’s, title.

“Bring her in,” he ordered, and Cuthbert pushed the skirt forward till she stumbled to her knees.

“Get up,” Wells snapped.

The girl stood and squared off, looking as if she wished to punch him, and this despite the fact he was as tall as his steward and just as broadly built.

“You stink.” Wells registered his disgust.

“Chicken shit, my lord.” Her eyes flitted to his steward. “Your man made me wallow in it.”

Wells held his breath even as he held up his hand to stay Cuthbert from cuffing her one. “Impertinence only adds to your guilt, girl.” He kept his tone terse. “You’ve one chance to explain yourself now before I give my sentence. Be quick.”

“How kind of you, my lord.” Her voice dripped disdain. “Only however should I defend myself? I sought to relieve you of two of your chickens, thinking you might indeed have more than your small household need keep.”

Cuthbert did cuff her then, sending her reeling backwards and showing Wells a pair of well-formed legs beneath her skirts, making his thoughts abruptly shift.

“John, a bath; I can stand the stench no more. And whatever’s left of dinner, bring that as well.”

The girl had gotten up, wiping blood from her freshly split lip as Cuthbert slipped from the room. Wells sank his bulk back into his chair.

“I’d hoped for a quiet evening this night but you’ve gone and ruined that.” He frowned, taking her in more closely. “Step here, into the light, that I might see you better.”

She did as bid but hated him for it, he could tell—yet another proud Cumberland native, as fierce and unyielding as the landscape itself.

“Let down your hair,” he ordered.

“I beg your pardon!” she burst out.

“And take off your cloak. I wish to look at you.”

Her eyes seethed—if eyes could seethe. Wells found the idea amusing. “Or would you rather I remove it?” He smirked.

“I’d like to see you try,” she growled back.

He gave her a slow, salacious grin. “Very well.” He rose, moving towards her even as she backed away, looking cornered. “Not so fierce now, are we?” Wells laughed, to which she spat at his feet.

In an instant he’d grabbed her, ripping off her cloak and tearing her bodice in two before he yanked her hair loose and quickly stepped back to appraise.

She looked shocked by the speed of his actions, her breaths ragged and pupils dilated, but the effect was not lost on Wells, who saw in her potential, and decided in that moment she’d do.

“Not bad.” He surveyed her more critically. Her proportions were pleasing, even if she was too thin. “How old are you, girl?”

She glared at him, tight-lipped.

“I said?—”

“I heard what you said,” she snarled, coming back to life. “And as I am not in a court of law I don’t have to answer you that.”

His lips twitched. “Ah, but it appears I am the law here and therefore you will do exactly as I say unless you wish to make things even worse for yourself.” His eyes stole over her once more, making her visibly shiver. “I believe there is a steep fine for stealing, if not time in the gaol. Or is it still tradition here in Cumberland to lop off a thieving limb?”

That drew her ire; her entire face pinched.

“Why yes, sir, we are so backwards here it is a wonder you grace us with your presence at all.” Her tone was barely civil. “Pray, how long do you plan to remain in Cumberland, my lord? More importantly, how long will your chickens here reside?”

He laughed, full-throated and deep, which seemed to surprise her only more, her eyes growing wider still and her ample bosom heaving nicely where he’d just exposed her stays.

“I imagine I and my chickens will be here for some time, miss, making us neighbors. So you will tell me your name and age forthwith,” he sharpened his tone, “and you will address me with less impudence.”

“You are not the Duke of Allendale,” she jabbed.

“Not yet.” He held her gaze. “But I am his heir apparent, so you will afford me the respect I am due.”

She swallowed before she curtsied inordinately low, allowing him an even better glimpse of bosom. “Charles Merrinan, Your Grace , five and twenty.”

Wells winced. The curtsy impressed, but her abuse of title went too far; bad enough he suffered Cuthbert that liberty.

“Charles?” He chose to ignore her insult, for now. “You appear undeniably female to me.”

“My parents wished for a boy.”

Wells was about to respond to this newest revelation when his steward returned with an ample tub plus six additional men carrying steaming buckets of water they proceeded to pour in. A seventh man unloaded a bar of soap and Wellesley’s banyan, then plunked down a tray of hot stew.

Wells was unsurprised by the look of hunger he saw mar the girl’s face. “Leave us,” he ordered but stopped Cuthbert at the door. “I’ll ring when I am done.”

His man merely nodded before he left.

Wells flicked his gaze to the bath. “I refuse to carry out my sentencing while you still reek. Bathe, and the meal is yours.”

Her jaw dropped.

“Do you not understand me?”

“You . . . cannot . . .” she stammered.

“Order you to strip and bathe before my sentencing? Yes, I believe I can, and just did, so hop to it.” He stared back at her, unflinching.

***

Charles Merrinan wanted nothing more that instant than to weep. Instead, she swallowed her pride and willed herself to remain unaffected by this unbearable, pompous prick . She allowed her mind to shout the word, anger churning deep within her breast, and for a brief moment that anger drowned out her fear. Though to bathe before this man meant . . .

A shudder wracked her body as she silently cursed herself for not heeding her sister’s pleas. She inhaled a shaky breath and forced herself to speak.

“I should expect, as a gentleman, my lord, you will turn the other way while I disrobe.”

“I am no gentleman, Charles, and very much intend to have a look at you.”

Her face flushed with heat.

“ Now ,” he intoned.

She bit her tongue, lifted her chin, and with trembling hands worked to undo the hooks on her tattered dress. It was bad enough she’d been caught thieving chickens, but this latest insult to her person was worse than expected. She’d abased herself before to keep her family fed, but to strip before some lustful lord was without doubt the lowest she’d ever sunk.

Yet her stomach grumbled loudly at the stew.

Charles dropped her dress, struggled a moment with her stays, then in naught but her shift stepped quick as could be into the tub, sinking below the steaming water with a hot hiss of air. She hid from him for as long as she could, glad he’d caught but a brief glimpse of her form.

When she came up for air, he tossed her the soap, which she deftly caught.

Charles scrubbed herself in the tub as Lord Wellesley sipped his whiskey and watched, his eyes on her intense. She did her utmost to ignore his searing gaze, sneaking furtive glances at him as she soaped one leg. He was an imposing lord, thickly built with a dark thatch of hair and a chiseled, angular face—quite unlike the typical London fop. She peeked at the frayed brocade drapes and worn velvet cushions of the room; his lordship’s parlor had seen better days. When she perched a second leg on the edge of the tub for soaping, she heard Lord Wellesley inhale sharply, down his drink with a clink, and firmly set it aside.

“The stew grows cold, Charles. It’s time you stepped out.”

She promptly sank back under, praying she might disappear into the water forever. Instead, she felt a hand grab her arm and haul her, sputtering, to her feet. From there his lordship took a long, hard look at her body, his burning eyes letting her know he liked what he saw beneath her flimsy, clinging shift.

Charles shuddered again.

Lord Wellesley handed her his banyan and stepped away to pour himself another drink. He told her, “Eat.”

She wrapped the robe about her before she perched upon his footstool, bowl in hand, to begin to savor each bite of blessed meat stew. Heaven. She was so engrossed in eating she barely noticed how he watched her from his chair. Yet when she licked the bowl clean without even thinking, she heard his body rustle.

“Now that you no longer offend my olfactories, miss, I am ready to discuss your sentence.”

Charles put down the bowl, stood to attention, and kept her gaze lowered in penance. “My lord.”

“For the two chickens you attempted to steal from me I wager the fine for thieving is likely twenty pounds. Add to this the cost of a hot meal and bath, not to mention my wasted evening, and I’d say the debt you owe me comes to thirty.”

She gasped, but he proceeded, not the least bit rattled.

“Now I am going to assume, as you were thieving chickens, that you haven’t the thirty pounds I am owed, nor does your family. Am I correct?”

She nicked her head yes.

“And as we haven’t a functioning gaol in this crumbling old Abbey I can’t very well lock you in a cell either.”

Charles hung her head lower.

“Therefore, I propose you work off your debt, over time, in service to me.”

She expelled a quick breath of relief. “My lord, you are most generous. I shall happily?—”

Wellesley stopped her with a wave of his hand, then stood up, walked over to her garments, and promptly dropped these into the bath. “It still reeks in here,” he grumbled, leaving her agape at his audacity.

He continued on, oblivious. “And, as I am in need of a mistress for the foreseeable future, I daresay you’ll do well enough.”

Charles nearly choked, her mouth opening and closing as each attempt to speak was overcome by a fresh wave of terror, shame, and sheer outrage. She could scarcely breathe for such tumult as now overwhelmed her, refusing to believe this man had just uttered that word. Her mind panicked, her heart raced, all while Lord Wellesley calmly watched her work to form a coherent response.

It took some time.

At last, her turmoil tamed, Charles steadied herself, drawing all the dignity her battered soul could muster. “I am not a whore, my lord,” she told him, “and so with all due respect I must decline your offer.”

“I realize you are not a whore, girl, else I would not have proposed you become my mistress. They are obviously not one and the same.”

“I am sorry, my lord, but I do not see the difference.” She willed herself to remain calm, to answer him rationally, without emotion.

He let out a sigh. “A mistress, Charles, is not paid outright, but is housed and cared for, given allowances and gifts, and in return, serves my bed how and when I should desire it.”

She bit her lip, wholly unconvinced.

“She beds only me, Charles, not other men. That is the difference.”

Charles desperately tried to overcome the panic she felt overtake her in earnest. “My lord, I am not . . .” She swallowed. “I fear you mistake the kind of woman I am, for I am not?—”

He cut her off, his irritation mounting. “You are not a lady, miss, for a lady does not climb into coops at night stealing chickens. Furthermore, no respectable young lady bathes naked before a man who’s not her . . .” He peered more closely at her. “You’re not married, are you?”

She dropped her head.

“I didn’t think so,” he scoffed.

“Lord Wellesley,” she attempted again to be meek, “I would beg you, please, consider my reputation.”

“Your reputation?” He nearly snorted. “Good God, woman, what tattered reputation would that be, pray, here in Cumberland?”

“My reputation in this community, my lord, remains more than intact, it is untarnished!”

“So you are intact.” His look made her blush all over again. “It appears you will need some educating in your duties then.”

“I have not agreed to your proposition!” she shouted, incensed.

With a flick of his eyes he tore her down. “It was never a proposition, miss, it is your sentence .”

***

The fear that had been lurking beneath the girl’s pride burst upon her face, making Wells flinch a little at his own behavior, for she’d stood up to him admirably; he liked her mettle.

“Come now, don’t look so dismal,” he told her. “I daresay there are plenty of women in London who’d trade places with you in a heartbeat.”

“You flatter yourself, sir.” Her voice was cold. “Besides, if London women are so pleasing, why not return posthaste?”

He suppressed a smirk; she had both pluck and wit.

“Let us say I prefer the challenge of Cumberland’s decidedly more bracing climate.” His eyes locked onto hers, equally cool. “I do not wish to send to London for a mistress, and as you have conveniently presented yourself to me this night I see no reason why I shouldn’t sample more local flavors instead.”

Her fists clenched. “I am not a dish, my lord.” She gritted her teeth. “I am a free human being with the right to?—”

“You lost your freedom the moment you were caught,” he snapped. “And I will brook no more argument from a thief.” He glared at her then, tired of talk and distracted by the curling of her flaxen hair, which was drying nicely by the fire and giving her a decidedly softer look. He strode to the door, pulled the bell, and went to fill his glass, pouring her one as well. “Drink up, Charles,” he told her, “as it will only help improve your mood.”

Yet the moment he handed her the glass she threw its contents in his face and bolted for the door, only to run smack into Cuthbert, who nimbly hauled her back.

Wells pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his dripping brow and equally damp mop of hair. “As always, Cuthbert, your timing is impeccable,” he muttered.

His steward shoved the girl back inside. “Y’ rang, Yer Grace?”

“Yes.” Wells was still drying his face while refusing to meet the girl’s eyes. “I have decided yon thief here will serve her sentence in service to me for the foreseeable future, so I would ask that you deliver her family two chickens tomorrow first thing, informing them of her new employment here at the Abbey and returning with whatever clothing she owns that does not stink . I expect the villagers will know where to find her people. And get rid of this offending water forthwith.” Wells made another face.

“O’ course, Yer Grace.” Cuthbert let out a loud whistle between his fingers to summon the same men who’d delivered the tub. Within seconds the horde arrived to dismantle the contents, in no time emptying the room. And then Wellesley’s steward closed the door behind him, locking it with a click.

Wells watched the girl sink into such despair she looked like she might crumple, like she longed to dissolve into the worn Persian carpet till she was one with the rug’s mottled fibers. He imagined it took every bit of strength she had not to shed a tear before him.

She was made of sterner stuff.

Wells watched her struggle with herself before he poured her another glass, feeling an annoying twinge of conscience. “Now is not the time for self-pity, miss.” He handed it to her. “Drink up.”

This time, she downed it.