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

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

C harles Merrinan wished to God this arrogant lord would pour her another drink, for she could hope only for complete stupor now to survive Wellesley’s next move. That she should be forced so low—all for but attempting to feed her family—was a thought her muddled mind could not shake. Yet she’d no one to blame but herself. Herself and that damned thieving fox.

“Tell me what you are thinking, Charles.” His lordship interrupted her thoughts, patting his large lap with his thick, large hands. “That I may assuage your fears.”

His hulking shape was a blur as she stumbled over, having downed enough whiskey to stop putting up a fight. She allowed him to settle her across his thighs, leaning into him a little even, propped against his broad chest. She mumbled drunkenly, “Bloody fox caused my bloody ruin.”

“A fox, eh?” He began to pull back her hair, tracing a rough fingertip along her jawline. “What fox, pray tell?”

She sighed, shifting in his lap, the motion causing her robe to reveal more than she liked as she tried to draw it closed. “The fox that stole our chickens, my lord. Took the last two last night, and without eggs we shall never manage another winter.”

“I see,” he murmured into her neck, softly kissing her there and running his tongue to the hollow of her throat, making her shiver. “Which makes you, my dear, the fox in my henhouse.”

“Our father’s in poor health, my lord, and my sister’s not strong enough to?—”

“Wrestle chickens?” He interrupted her again, leaning her back to part her robe and reveal more flesh, dipping his dark head of curls to kiss her there between her breasts, and there across the tops, his fingers pulling open her damp shift.

Charles felt her heart beat faster. “I’d no choice, my lord. Surely you must see we have but fallen on hard times. It is not my nature to thieve, sir, truly it is not.”

“Of course not,” his deep voice rumbled into her bosom, opening the banyan to her waist now to palm one orb through her shift, his lips seeking the other’s pert point.

“My lord!” She gasped as he sucked the pink tip through the cloth into a tight knot of pleasure.

“You are not a whore, Charles, you are my mistress now. No shame in that. I will ensure your family is cared for this winter; they shall not want for food. Nor shall you.”

She let out another gasp as he sucked her other bud into a similar taut peak.

“And despite what you may think of me, Charles, you shall not lack for enjoyment from our pursuits, I promise.”

“But my lord I know nothing of?—”

“You’ll be a quick study, girl, I can tell.”

“But what if?—?”

“We shall make sure that does not happen.”

“But how?—?”

“Hush now, woman, I do not wish to speak.” And his whiskey-flavored breath stole over her mouth to part her lips with his tongue, until he’d entered and silenced her completely.

Lord Wellesley had poured the girl a second and third drink, just to loosen her up, but had stopped at a fourth, lest she be no fun at all. He’d put up with enough this evening to deserve something in return, bloody hell. Besides, he may not be a gentleman but he was also no cad.

He had given Charles Merrinan one glass too many, however, for she’d fallen asleep while still on his lap, despite all attempts to rouse her. He’d simply carried her to his bed then and crawled in beside her, none too sure she wouldn’t sneak off come morning just as soon as she was sober.

Yet where the devil would she run? he mused. London? Wells grinned at the thought. He could easily haul her back from whatever hovel her family inhabited here, for it would be simple enough to find a woman with her rare features in a village as small as this. He gazed at the mass of red-gold hair strewn across his pillow and longed to knot it in his fist, grasping the thick, smooth strands. She was quite the specimen, this Charles, with her strikingly symmetrical features and alabaster skin. She’d be a feast once he fattened her up, because he could count the poor girl’s ribs she was so slim. Still, laid out on his bed she was shaped like Venus, like a statue of the goddess—and a far cry from any other female he’d encountered here in Cumberland.

Before he drifted into slumber Wells decided Charles Merrinan would make a dull winter at Almsdale a damn sight more delightful. If nothing else, she’d keep his wits sharp for when he’d be forced to return to London, to suffer that godawful circus again.

Charles awoke to the sound of snores, only they were not her sister Eleanor’s breathy little snorts, nor were they her father’s disjointed honks. They were light and rhythmic, confusing the dream-like images that threatened to upend her: a fox, two chickens, a warm bath, bare skin . . .

She startled awake, stifling the urge to shriek as she discovered a robust, naked man beside her. Everything returned in a rush. She took precisely two seconds to steady herself as she felt his weight shift, tensing before she made to bolt.

An arm snaked out to check her. “Not so fast, Fox.”

She froze?—

“Can’t fly the coop now.”

—before she groaned at his terrible pun.

“I think I shall enjoy irritating you,” Lord Wellesley’s low voice chuckled.

“You do it well, my lord,” she grumbled back.

His hand began to stroke her flank, making her involuntarily quiver as she realized with fresh horror that she was naked too.

“It pleases me to get a rise out of you.” He pushed himself against her, something hard pressing into her backside, making her suck in her breath. “Literally and figuratively, my dear.”

Charles stilled, the pounding in her head the throb of her own frantic heartbeat. He pushed his body deeper against her own, his hand at her waist creeping up to fondle one breast while she remained paralyzed by his touch.

“Shall we continue what we started last night, Charles?”

She swallowed hard, desperate to dissuade him. “My lord, I beg you: By light of day now please reconsider my sentence.”

“I could not be more pleased with my sentencing, miss.” He planted his lips to the back of her neck, beginning to nibble flesh. “And have no intention of changing my mind, none.” He nipped skin with his teeth. “In fact, I am more than pleased. I am”—she gasped to feel his hand slide between her legs—“utterly delighted.”

Charles came alive, breathing short gulps of air as his fingers began to ply her most intimate parts in earnest. She didn’t know what to do. She was frozen by fear and more horrifying yet, the stirrings of growing arousal.

“Tell me you have touched yourself before, Charles,” he taunted as she inhaled another hiss of air. “That you know how to pleasure yourself.” His hand continued its maddening strokes while she grew only warmer and weaker, furious at how thoroughly her body betrayed her.

“Ah,” his tone teased, “I see you do, Fox. You welcome me already.” And he suddenly slipped a finger inside her, coaxing an involuntary gasp from her lips even as she reflexively arched her hips to accept him, his sex still hard at her backside, eager.

“I should like to see you enjoy yourself, I think.” He quickly rolled her onto her back, making her eyes flash up at him in panic. “Ladies first, my dear.” He slipped another finger inside, making her mouth fall open with surprise, his face grinning down at her before he fell to feasting on her breasts, all while his maddening, stroking touch made Charles feel as if she would burst. She hated herself for reacting as she did yet was wholly unable to stop her response.

“Please,” she begged. “My lord!”

“Please what?” His mouth left her bosom long enough to say.

“I . . .”

“You shall have to be more explicit than that to get what you want, girl.” His hand teased deeper as he lifted his head from her breasts, his eyes liquid with heat.

But she was beyond words, beyond all rational thought it seemed. Raw bodily instinct overwhelmed self-control as she rashly, shockingly pulled his head down to kiss him fast and fierce. Charles did not know herself in that moment, her mind having fled its normally sane self.

Lord Wellesley, tongue down her throat and hand at her core, merely pushed her over the edge in response, making Charles shatter exquisitely beneath him.

***

Yet before Wells could further his own pleasure, Cuthbert walked in without so much as a knock. Cursing the man with his next intake of breath, Wells rolled off the girl while she yanked up the covers to hide herself.

“Damn blast it, John, announce yourself!”

“Beg pardon, Yer Grace.” His man worked to suppress a smile. “But the stonemason’s here, says he’s not got all day.” His steward’s gaze barely registered the girl in Wellesley’s bed. “And her family’s been told.” He nodded towards Charles. “Pleased as punch t’ get the chickens.”

At this she peeked above the covers.

“There’s a letter from the Duchess as well,” Cuthbert stated before tromping back out, making Wells expel a loud sigh, all desire having shriveled at the mention of his mother. He sat up in bed and stretched his arms wide before he poked the girl beneath his covers.

“Ow!” she got out, muffled.

“We shall continue your instruction later, Charles. I’ve business to attend to.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, flexing his torso once more.

Her head emerged from the covers to stare as he strolled across the room to piss the pot. “Looking your fill, are you?” he taunted above the stream, back still turned to her. Wells knew he had an admirable backside.

“I am not,” she said stiffly.

“Are too.” He turned to grin at her even as her mouth fell open the moment he stepped forward to retrieve his clothes from the chair. Wells took pride in the fact he looked like no ordinary blueblood, his body more that of a common laborer than lord. God knew he’d worked it to the bone his many years at sea.

He pulled on his trousers over his muscled thighs while the girl appeared as flustered by his nudity as she was flummoxed by her plight.

“Given your behavior last night,” he declared, “I don’t trust you not to bolt the moment I leave this room.” He eyed her close. “Meaning you are to remain naked in my bed till I return, understood?”

She bit her lip, defiant.

“Ah.” He met her look. “I see you do not.” He strode to a tall chest of drawers to begin pulling out an assortment of silk neckties. “We shall resort to other methods then.” He grabbed her arm in a sudden move to tie her to the bedpost, overpowering her enough to secure the other arm just as fast.

“You cannot bind me to this bed as if I were your?—!”

“Prisoner?” he cut in. “How apt, considering your sentence. We shall simply make my bedroom Almsdale Abbey’s new gaol.”

She looked aghast at his suggestion.

“You are most attractive when angry, Fox.” And she was, inordinately so. It wasn’t her fiery-gold hair alone, but the fire in those emerald eyes and the round contours of her rich curves.

His finger traced her cheek to land upon her lip, still fat from Cuthbert’s slap last night, pulling it down a little before he leaned in for a kiss. “I look forward to exploring your foxlike, predatory nature when I return,” he murmured before he grabbed his waistcoat and shut the door firmly behind him.

Wells smiled to think he’d left his new mistress both tongue-tied and tied-up: quite the sight.

***

Charles Merrinan was not dumbstruck for long, for within seconds of Lord Wellesley’s departure she began to work free of her restraints. Silk ties made for slippery knots, though those knots had been shockingly well made, requiring no small degree of effort. Once released from her binds she searched in vain for his lordship’s banyan, or her clothes from last night, anything to don, before she remembered with sinking heart what had been tossed into a tub of bathwater.

With a snort of frustration she grabbed the first item of clothing she spotted, one of his lordship’s long shirts, and slipped this over her head as she stole a chair’s throw for shawl. Then Charles snuck out of the room and down the Abbey’s dark hall in search of food first, clothes next, and after . . . some way out of this mess.