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

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

L ord Wellesley’s morning was not going to plan. He’d been denied the satisfaction of debauching his new mistress in order to meet with a stonemason he’d then managed to offend— stubborn Cumberland fool —which would only delay repairs further if he had to send to London for tradesmen. Not to mention the fact he’d missed his shave and breakfast so now found himself both irritable and hungry.

Also, he’d still not looked at the letter from his mother.

As he made his way to the kitchen, mood darkening and stomach grumbling, his sole consolation was the knowledge a certain fetching female remained bound to his bed, awaiting his return. Yet even this, it seemed, he’d be denied, for upon entering said kitchen, who should he spy but the girl herself, rolling out dough, sleeves pushed up and hair escaping its loose knot. He thought again what raucous hair she had—strawberry blond now came to mind. But how the devil had she escaped his bed?

He snuck up on her softly, stepping from behind to quickly encircle her waist, eliciting a shriek and a struggle, which he quashed with his voice. “I thought I gave you strict orders to remain in my chamber,” he grumbled into her ear, hands reaching up to cup her breasts beneath what he could only surmise was one of his own damn shirts.

“You left me to languish,” the girl ground through her teeth, “with nothing to eat or drink, not even clothes to wear. What did you think I’d do, Lord Wellesley?”

“Remain tied to my bed.” He gently bit her ear, making her yelp with surprise.

“Then tie better knots!”

He laughed, once again enjoying this girl’s pluck while he loosened his hold and reached for a biscuit beside her. Only she slapped his hand so fast he was shocked, but no more than she. She recoiled from his grasp, immediately sucking in her breath.

“My lord, I did not mean to?—”

“Swat at me as if I were a child?” His mood swiftly darkened as he twisted her arm behind her and pressed her body flush against the table. “I’ll grant a mistress some allowances, Charles, but cross me too far and you’ll be punished for it.”

“Truly, my lord, I did not mean to?—”

“I’ve a mind to take you right now,” he hissed, “whether you want me or not.” He slid his free hand up her thigh, there between her legs, as her body trembled with what he could only assume was rage and fear and . . . Wells clucked low in his throat. “Or maybe you won’t mind at all, goodness you’re slick.”

***

Charles scowled at him, furious yet again at the awful effect this man had on her disastrously disloyal body. “The pan was hot, sir, and I did not wish your fingers burnt.” She slowed her breathing to try to calm her racing pulse. “But by all means, please, scald yourself.”

He relaxed his grip but did not release her, his hand still plying her slippery folds until she had to bite her sore lip to keep from moaning.

“Go on then,” he breathed in her ear. “Don’t let me stop your biscuit making.” She could hear the mirth in his voice. “I shall simply wait until the pan’s cooled and you’ve grown warmer still for me.”

She let out a growl of pure frustration then, for his hand was now working her in earnest, even as he bid her finish the dough, teasing her in a low tone that he was hungry, and wasn’t she hungry too? He’d like to feed her, he whispered lower still, feed her and fill her till she was fit to?—

And she burst, legs shaking from the waves of pleasure that crashed over her as he kept her upright, then turned her about to read her face, beaded with sweat and rife with what Charles hoped was abundantly clear: unadulterated fury.

Wells removed his hand from her legs and before her very eyes licked his fingers clean, making her blush to the roots of her hair.

“You are one delicious fox,” he told her, smiling wickedly. “Let us see if your biscuits taste just as good.” He reached for the pan, this time with care. “I see they are indeed quite hot still. You were right to warn me off.”

His words only infuriated her more.

“Perhaps I will believe you next time,” he taunted.

And that did it. She grabbed the rolling pin from the table and wriggled out from under him, inching towards the door, clutching it tight.

“Now don’t do anything rash, Charles.” Lord Wellesley bit into her biscuit. “These are quite good, you know. I assume you bake bread too?”

She stared him down, attempting to gauge his next move, and her own. “My lord,” she leveled at him, “any woman worth her salt can bake.”

“Then it is indeed good we have a woman now at Almsdale. I shall expect a fresh loaf daily from you, miss.”

She studied him from a distance as she continued her slow creep towards the door, testing the rolling pin’s heft as if weighing her fate. She considered again her options, reconsidered why she’d made biscuits at all, and in a flash she had decided. “May I ask, sir, how long you intend to remain in Cumberland without a cook?”

“I intend to bring a chef from London eventually.” He grabbed another biscuit before he moved to fetch a kettle and set this upon the stove. “Or send for one from France.”

She was amazed he knew how to boil water, further amazed to see this lofty lord open a sack of beans, grind them in a mill, and retrieve two mugs from a kitchen cupboard. It struck her again how he did not behave like a duke’s heir. And the smell of fresh ground coffee began to make her mouth water.

“We’ve some fine cooks here, my lord,” she carefully chose her words, “who’d suit your kitchen well, should you look to hire sooner.”

“Do you now?” he asked over his shoulder. “I suppose I might sample their cuisine.” He smiled at her. “I am beginning to think there are some hidden treasures here in Cumberland.” His eyes met hers. “Unexpected, but most pleasing.”

“Not all that glitters is gold, Lord Wellesley.” Charles inched closer to the room’s threshold.

“Yet still you stand in my kitchen, miss, not made off with my rolling pin and halfway out the Abbey.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You took my clothes, sir, so I am hardly in a position to flee—for now.” She halted her step.

“You do seem to care an awful lot about your reputation.”

She watched him remove the boiling kettle to pour hot liquid over the beans, the smell hitting her nose so deliciously she could not help but inhale. The scent brought back such bittersweet, long-buried memories that she involuntarily stepped forward.

“Would you like a cup before you attempt escape?” He half-grinned. “I’m afraid Cuthbert burned your offending garments last night, though he traded your family two chickens for fresh clothes this morning.”

She felt all the blood drain from her face even as he approached her with a mug.

“Sit, girl, you look faint. Drink this and eat a biscuit; for God’s sake put some meat on your bones.”

Charles let him guide her to a chair and push her into the seat, feeling numb to his touch, numb to all but a deep sense of despair. She let the rolling pin drop to table in order to curl her hands around the mug. And then she stared into its dark, steaming center, feeling utterly and completely lost.

***

Wells watched her, perplexed. “Do you not drink it black? I’m afraid we’re out of milk again, need a more reliable source here. So many bloody details to consider.” He grabbed another biscuit to stuff into his mouth, placing one beside her.

She continued to gaze into her mug, unresponsive.

“Charles,” he raised his voice, “you were not without words but a minute ago yet appear now catatonic, woman. Eat. ”

“You burned my clothes.” Her head whipped around to face him. “You had the audacity to simply . . . without asking, without considering . . .” She shook her head at him, the hurt on her face undeniable. “How could you be so cruel?”

“Cruel?” He was taken aback. “They were ruined, what else should Cuthbert have done with them?”

“What else should he have done with them?” She was aghast. “Men,” she spat the word with disgust. “Worthless, utterly, every damned one of?—”

“Now look here.” His hackles rose. “I’m certain there’s a seamstress or two about your village and I dress my mistresses in far better clothes than the rags you sported last night. So there’s no need to twist yourself in?—”

“You donnat!” she shouted, incensed.

Wells could only guess at the meaning of her vernacular.

“I cannot simply walk into Timmon’s Dress Shop to order myself a frock, courtesy of Lord Wellesley,” she fumed. “What do you think people will say? They will know at once I am being kept here, a fallen woman. And what do you think they will say of my sister then, eh? That she is an equal disgrace, equally ruined. And then the men in town will all come sniffing about after her, thinking to sample her wares just as you have sampled mine.”

Wells was shocked but impressed by the passion vibrating through her, which made her even more attractive to him than she doubtless knew.

He watched her take a deep, steadying breath. “You had no right to burn my clothes, my lord; they were the only clothes I had. Your man brought no other dress back with him this morning, no valise of finery from my father’s home, because we’ve had to sell everything we own to keep from starving. And now you’ve gone and destroyed the only?—”

He put down his mug to take her hand in his. “Charles, I am sorry I?—”

She yanked it from his grasp. “You are sorry for nothing! You don’t give a fig about anyone but yourself. And I could have salvaged my dress. Are all titled Londoners so removed from reality they do not understand filth washes out? Bloody hell, it is almost winter and you burned my father’s sole cloak!”

Her voice had risen to such a fine pitch he thought she might implode, making Wells do something he rarely did: apologize twice. “Charles, I repeat, I am sorry I . . .”

She put her face in her hands to breathe.

He was for once rendered speechless, staring at this woman who’d landed in his house last night and was proving to be quite the arousing handful.

She finally looked up at him, those sharp green eyes boring into his own. “You will not dress me like a tart,” she bit off, “and I will not suffer the humiliation of visiting the village seamstress. You will provide me with needle and thread and simple, functional cloth that I may sew myself a new dress and new cloak for my father. And I am going to pray your man had the sense not to burn my stays last night, for if he?—”

“If he did,” Wells interrupted, taking her hand again in his, more gently this time, “I will send to London for new smallclothes. We will measure you here so you are not subjected to a village fitting.” He did not point out the fact her words had sounded suspiciously close to an order, for one did not command a duke’s son. Ever.

This time she did not pull from his touch, but merely breathed, nostrils flaring as she inhaled the steaming coffee.

***

Charles felt suddenly drained of anger. She was still amazed by Lord Wellesley’s words, shocked a man of his position even knew how to apologize. Although too much had happened in too short a time for her to know quite what to do with this revelation.

“I am sorry if my tone overstepped, my lord,” she added for good measure, recognizing she had likely offended his lordship and was still wholly at this man’s mercy.

It was a sobering thought.

He patted her hand before he let it go, getting up to pour himself another cup. “Then let us say the matter is settled and you will give me a list of items to purchase. It appears my morning is going decidedly poorly for me to offend first the stonemason and now you.” He sat down across from her, asking himself almost, “Is everyone in bloody Cumberland so easily riled?”

“Only when London comes to visit,” she muttered under her breath, then asked him point blank, “You met with Mr. Adams, I presume?” Charles finally took a sip of the delicious black liquid, followed by a small bite of biscuit.

Her taste buds bloomed with delight.

“Yes, stonemason Adams refused the work.” Wellesley grimaced. “Said he wasn’t interested, which is only going to set me back a good?—”

“Oh, he needs the work, my lord. He’ll not refuse you twice.” She chewed more biscuit and immediately felt better for it.

“He was quite clear he didn’t want it, miss. Quite .”

She pursed her lips. “Lord Wellesley, might I offer your lordship some advice?”

He arched a brow at her.

“Rather than command the people of Cumberland, you may wish to cajole them a bit instead, flatter them some. I am sure it is a foreign concept to your lordship, but men here like to feel valued, competent. Mr. Adams is the best stonemason these parts. You’d be wise to hire him and he’d be wise to take the job. Offer fair compensation and he’ll do excellent work for you.”

Wellesley looked at her. “And what would you know of masonry, woman?”

She stuck out her chin. “I’ve managed my father’s house these ten years past, my lord, and seen firsthand Adams’s work. He is skilled and efficient, and takes pride enough in his craft not to cut corners.”

He merely stared at her.

“Or don’t take my word for it, my lord, it is nothing to me.”

He grinned outright. “You are a gem, Charles, truly. Thank God you fell into my lap last night.”

She glowered at him for that.

“I think we shall get along well here this winter, don’t you?”

She took another bite of biscuit. “I have no intention of spending the winter trapped in your Abbey, Lord Wellesley, and intend to settle my fine as soon as possible.” She allowed a faint smile to play at her mouth. “If you wish for daily bread, sir, I expect such labor to pay down my debt. And I should like to see a running tally of services rendered towards the thirty pounds I owe.”

He laughed out loud. “A running tally, eh? And would your pretty head even know how to read my accounting, Charles?”

“Try me, Your Grace .” She dared to insult him again.

“Oh I will, Charles.” His eyes glittered savagely. “I will try you in every conceivable position, in every room of this house, upon every surface and in every manner most wicked.”

His words made her cheeks flame and her insides flip, even as her resolve to survive him hardened. “Then I imagine my debt will be paid quickly, Your Grace. ” She abused the title again, just like she’d heard his steward do. If Wellesley’s man could get away with it, she’d push too. She’d insult this overbearing lord as often as he insulted her.

“Pray tell me what I earn for each loaf baked, my lord—and for each manner of pleasure your appetite demands.”

He met her gaze with a look of equal determination. “That shall depend entirely on how well you bake, girl, and how well you bed me.”