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

Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

E leanor Merrinan was worried. The man who’d appeared at their doorstep that morning had politely informed both her and Papa that Charles was now employed at the Abbey. Not only would they be given food this winter in payment, but were there belongings he might take back for her sister? No? Then good day to you, miss. That’s all he’d said before he’d left her agape, a chicken under each arm and a basket of provisions at her feet.

Her father, Sir Benedict, had stood slightly behind her in the course of this conversation, yet he’d not uttered a word to the man, making Eleanor worry as much about Papa now as she did Charles. She’d need to spin Father a fine tale regarding this change in events, for his muddled mind would find no peace with Charles gone. He’d awake each day no doubt demanding to see his eldest daughter, just as he still asked daily for poor Mama.

A struggling chicken jarred Eleanor from her thoughts as she tightened her grip on the bird and continued the short walk up to the coop. The air was brisk and she hadn’t her shawl, both of which made her shiver. Nor had she expected to receive chickens instead of her sister at so early an hour. She wondered what could possibly have happened for Charles to go from thieving to employment in the span of one night. Already she missed her sister as she dumped both birds into the ramshackle run. Eleanor was irritated by her emotion, feeling somehow abandoned, for she and Charles had never been parted before. She wondered what work her sister could possibly be doing for the new Lord of Almsdale Abbey. And then she imagined how miserable the coming long winter would be without her, with only Papa for company in their cold stone house.

Eleanor glanced up at the sky—a brilliant blue horizon over the rock-strewn grey fells, no other cottage for miles. She hurried back to fetch the man’s basket at their doorstep, where it sat like a dog, waiting to be let in. She picked it up, walked inside, and set it on the table where Papa sat staring into space, an empty cup and plate before him. She put the kettle on to boil, then unpacked the basket’s contents, discomfited almost by the abundance of riches she discovered inside.

Father, at least, would dine well this day. Eleanor had lost all appetite.

Wellesley’s men had made quick work of Charles’s loaves, not even bothering to slice pieces but tearing off great hunks with their greedy paws. She’d watched in horror as they’d devoured her hard work, having not witnessed such a rough group of men as these before. Even in Cumberland, where lads were raised on moor and heath, the men had better manners. These Londoners were uncouth in comparison, chewing with open mouths and spitting on the floor. She could scarce imagine where—or why—Lord Wellesley had acquired such lowlifes and merely backed her way out the kitchen door in slow, steady steps, hoping to escape more notice.

Cuthbert, alas, caught her.

“Oi!” he shouted above the din, holding fast to her arm. “You’ll thank Miss Merrinan for the loaves, boys, as she’ll be bakin’ for us now.”

“Bakin’ for his grace, y’ mean,” piped up one, the others erupting into laughter.

“More like a bun in ’er own oven soon enough,” offered another.

“Tell his grace more’n one woman’s needed in this musty ol’ abbey.”

“Aye!” chorused more as Cuthbert pulled her into the hallway.

“Let go!” Charles chafed under his grasp.

“They don’t mean no harm.” His voice sounded less harsh. “Lonely’s all. ’Aven’t seen a woman in months out ’ere.”

“They’re louts, all of them,” she muttered.

“And you’re that much better?” He threw her a look. “Thinkin’ t’ ply yer charms on his grace t’ gain more’n his chickens.”

She opened her mouth in shock, then thought better and closed it.

“I know what you’re about.” His gaze narrowed. “And I’ll make damned sure his grace ain’t tricked by yer fair face.”

Charles stuck out her chin. “Why, aren’t you clever, Mr. Cuthbert, for seeing through my oh-so-devious plan to seduce the future Duke of Allendale. No doubt my body covered in chicken shit makes him wish to marry me tomorrow. If you haven’t thrown me out before, that is.”

Cuthbert’s grip tightened so that Charles’s wrist ached. “You’re a might clever, miss,” he warned, “but I’m no fool and you’re no typical Cumberland gel. I’ve me eye on you—you’re not t’ harm Lord Wells.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Harm him ? How the devil am I to harm a man such as his lordship when he’s harmed me, by God! Do you think I wish to be his mistress, sir? Want to be imprisoned here, baking bread for you ruffians? Please, discard me! By all means, toss me out and I shall happily take leave of you all.”

He let her go, but his parting words stung. “Hurt him and I’ll hurt you, miss.”

Charles kept walking even as he tossed another barb at her. “And put some bloody clothes on afore y’ drive them yobs mad!”

Charles was still fuming, having finally found her way back to his lordship’s bedroom to ransack his wardrobe. She barely noticed the room’s rough condition: a wine-stained rug and dirt-streaked windows, the thick layer of dust that coated the mantlepiece and picture frames. If the steward wished her better dressed she’d don trousers like a man and tell his ‘yobs’ to go to perdition next time they addressed her in such uncouth manner.

She did not like Lord Wellesley’s man, Cuthbert.

In fact, he was just as crass and overbearing as his master, but she did, at last, find a pair of velvet breeches that sat her better than his lordship’s other trousers. She stole a cord of rope from the room’s moth-eaten drapes to hold these up, then found a belt, or leather holster of sorts, to cinch his large shirt at her waist. She even found a short waistcoat to hide her bosom better.

Charles stared at herself in the cloudy mirror of his lordship’s room. A boy in men’s clothes stared back, but she was decent at last, which was all that truly mattered. Hair she twisted into a bun to hide beneath a kerchief tied tight across her scalp. And as for shoes . . . She silently prayed Cuthbert had spared her boots. Stockings Lord Wellesley had in abundance, though they were all much too large. Everything was overly large; even the room seemed largely empty to her, with fewer furnishings than one would expect for a duke’s son.

Still, the less female she looked, the better.

“Where’s the girl?” Wellesley surprised from the door.

Charles froze a moment, her back turned to him, before she dropped her voice. “Dunno, Yer Grace.”

“And what, exactly, are you doing in my room?”

“I . . .” She kept her voice low. “Makin’ the bed, Yer Grace.” Her affected accent rang false.

“Making my bed, eh?” Heavy steps entered the room. “Now that’s a first.”

He approached while she kept her head turned, busying herself by tucking sheets and fluffing pillows.

“Sam, is it?” he asked with suspicion. “Or are you Jack?”

She froze.

“Or is it Charles, perhaps?” He caught her tight about the waist, swinging her around to face him, the look on his face pure delight. “Oh you are priceless, Miss Merrinan, dressed as a boy, my, my.”

She felt her face stain red.

“This is an interesting twist on things, one I rather like. Let me look at you.” He turned her around. “Is this how you were planning to escape me?” Wellesley grinned. “Not a bad plan, my dear. Trouble is, you are decidedly too shapely for a boy, and your hair altogether too resplendent.” He yanked off her kerchief and unspooled her bun with a tug, his eyes approving her cascading locks.

“Decidedly too loose on you, my clothes”—his hands began to appraise—“but I picked up needle and thread for you this morning, so you may take them in a bit.” He cupped her backside. “Especially my old breeches. I think the tighter the better for your figure, Charles. You should turn them more into pantaloons.”

She glared at him for making light of her garb and her situation. “I asked you to bring me bolts of cloth, my lord, not just needle and thread.”

“You did.” He pushed her onto the bed to begin undoing the belt she’d only just notched at her waist, then swiftly unbuttoned her waistcoat— his coat, rather. “Only I was quite unable to choose fabric. I’d no idea where to start. Cuthbert will fetch what you need when next he’s in town.”

She lay there stunned as he continued to talk while undressing her, slipping off the coat and unknotting the rope at her—his—breeches next.

“And I must thank you for the advice regarding Mr. Adams, Charles. After mentioning your name he agreed to start in straight away.” The back of his hand gently traced her cheek as he looked down at her, tenderly almost. “Did you bake more bread as I instructed?” His hand dipped to her neckline.

“Yes, my lord,” she barely got out.

“Good.” His finger fell to the top of her stays through her shirt. “I think I like you best un dressed, Charles, though you may beg to differ.” His other hand slipped inside her breeches. “Or perhaps you won’t.”

She was mortified he’d found her again responsive.

“Tell me what you’d like me to do next, miss,” he whispered at her ear, his hand beginning to caress her sex. “I promise to accommodate your wishes.”

She let out a small gasp, her body arching as he increased pressure, his tongue tracing a line down her bared throat.

“Tell me or I’ll stop.”

“Don’t . . .” she tried.

“Don’t stop?”

“Don’t torture me so.” Her breath came in short little gulps.

“Is that what this is, Charles?” His hand teased further. “Torture?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

“My dear,” he chuckled, “you’ve no idea what torture is.” And he kissed her so that a moan escaped her throat, his body pressed so hard atop her own she felt his sex through his clothes, wanting her, and she him.

Only she hated herself for it.

***

A loud knock at the door made Wellesley’s body tense. “If I am interrupted one more time . . .” He gritted his teeth, calling loudly, “ What? ” as his hands upon his mistress stilled.

“Dinner, Yer Grace,” Cuthbert hollered from hallway.

“Go away!” Wells thundered.

“I did knock this time, sir.”

“You’ll pay for this, Cuthbert!”

“Yes, Yer Grace.”

Wells could ‘hear’ his steward’s smile clear through the closed door.

“Shall I have a tray brought up, or would you and the gel prefer t’ dine downstairs?”

Wells swore beneath his breath. “A tray, damn you, and drink.”

“O’ course, Yer Grace.”

Disappearing footsteps let him know his man had left.

His mistress, meanwhile, had frozen beneath him. Wells removed his body from her, grumbling to himself the day had been ruined by one too many fools and telling her she may as well get dressed. “Wouldn’t want you looking indecent once dinner arrives,” he muttered.

She quickly slipped back into his waistcoat and began rebuttoning the front while he let out a loud sigh, watching her. “Am I never to have the pleasure of debauching you, Charles?”

Her mouth pinched. “I daresay you are trying, my lord.”

“And I daresay you appear now almost willing.”

“I have little choice, my lord.”

“There is no shame in becoming my mistress, woman.”

“So you repeatedly tell me, Your Grace .”

“Then why do you not accept it?” he lashed out. It was one thing when Cuthbert abused the title, but her blatant disrespect crossed a very clear line.

“Why must I accept anything you tell me?” she fired back. “Am I not free in mind, if no longer free in body? You may command my obedience, Lord Wellesley, but you cannot command my thoughts, or my soul.”

He stared at her a moment. “What are you, a revolutionary?”

“No, I am well read.”

“Rousseau, eh?”

“And Locke and Hume and?—”

“Damn it, woman, I don’t want a clever mistress, I want a warm body is all!”

“Then you’ve the wrong woman, my lord, and I suggest you find another!”

He pushed her back to the bed so fast he loomed above her, bearing down. “There isn’t another woman here now but you, Charles, and as I’ve bedded no woman since leaving London, you will do my bidding, and you will keep your mouth shut.”

She glared at him in silence, eyes fierce, provoking in him only greater lust this time, for he wanted her right then and there, dinner be damned, and shockingly, he wanted her to want him just as much.

“Cat got your tongue at last?” he taunted.

For answer, she spat directly in his face.

Wells was stunned a beat to feel wet spittle slide down his face but quickly came to his senses as he gripped her throat. “Do that again and I’ll whip you myself,” he hissed before releasing her.

She gasped for air as he rose from the bed to wipe his face on his sleeve, enraged. “You forget who I am, miss.” His teasing mood was suddenly dry tinder. “You have offended one too many times.”

He remained impervious to the alarm writ large on her face. “Forgive me, my lord.” She bowed her head, the words barely a whisper.

“I can’t hear you,” he goaded, his temple beginning to throb.

“My apologies, my lord.”

“Louder,” he demanded.

He watched her rage bubble right below her fear, igniting his temper even more. Wells admired this girl’s spirit, but if he did not command her obedience she would try him again. He had to end it, because the sheer impudence of her action?—

She bowed her head lower. “I apologize, Lord Wellesley, for my impertinence. It will not happen again, sir, you’ve my word.”

“Better,” he bit back, “but not enough, I think.” He collected his wits. “I think you incapable of obedience without punishment.”

***

In a move that upended her thoroughly, Lord Wellesley dragged Charles to the edge of the bed and roughly bent her over. He yanked down her trousers to bare her buttocks, then fumbled to release the leather holster she’d cinched about her waist.

She knew at once what he intended and gave a silent prayer that he be merciful and quick, but already she heard a whoosh of air precede the harsh sting to flesh, biting her lip not to cry out.

He laid three strokes across her bottom, before his arm abruptly ceased. She thought she felt him shake.

“Fuck,” he expelled, flinging the belt aside. She could hear his heavy breathing behind her, then felt his hand haltingly trace the welts he’d just made, his calloused finger on her skin oddly gentle.

Charles flinched at his touch, though it soothed, rather than increased, the burn from the belt.

“ This is what you do to me.” Hurt seeped from his voice. “I’ve cobbed men at sea for infractions less egregious than yours, but not once,” his voice caught, “not once did I ever beat a woman, God damn you.”

He promptly stepped away and roughly told her to dress, which she did, pulling up his breeches with trembling hands. She kept her face down, awaiting more, while he sank into an armchair. When she snuck a peek, his expression looked sullen, even pained.

“I trust we’ve established an understanding now, Charles.” Wellesley’s tone remained terse.

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

“Come here,” he ordered.

She stepped towards him, only to have him push her to her knees, forcing her chin up so that she looked him in the eye, her tears still wet.

He ran his thumb across her cheek. “I am sorry I hurt you.” He stared straight into her. “But you pushed me too far. I cannot command your soul, miss, but nor will I tolerate disrespect from those who serve me.”

She blinked back more tears, refusing to break before him.

“Now tell me, honestly, that you will heed me in future.”

“I will, my lord.” Charles averted her gaze.

“I don’t believe you.”

“My lord I . . .” Charles almost shook in her struggle to answer this man.

“You have leave, this once, to speak your mind, woman.” His voice remained flat. “Pray, take it.”

She hesitated, unsure what he was offering, but in a rush burst out, “Lord Wellesley, forgive me, sir, but respect is earned, it cannot be forced.” Her eyes dared to meet his, surprised by the look of sorrow therein. “I shall obey your lordship with honest intent, truly, but I cannot always control my response. It is not for lack of respect, my lord, it is a visceral refusal to be,” her voice cracked, “ owned .”

Charles awaited his wrath the way a rabbit awaits the wolf: tense and terrified.

He looked at her a little queerly then, body shifting slightly before he drew her onto his lap to embrace her. He shocked her utterly by folding her into his chest and beginning to stroke her hair. She felt his heart beat wildly in his breast, as fast as her own.

“Yes, Charles, a refusal to be owned is something I know well indeed. I shall endeavor to command you with respect, woman, provided you obey. We shall not lack for disagreement, I fear, but if neither wholly owns the other”—he paused to catch his breath—“we may just get along.”

He kissed the top of her head then, surprising her even more. She felt the faintest, strangest pull towards Lord Wellesley, despite what he’d just done. Instinctively almost, she pressed her palm to the hollow of his chest as heat flooded her hand, then arm, traveling straight into her soul. It felt as if an invisible thread had just unspooled between them, thin enough it might at any moment snap.

When John Cuthbert delivered his lordship’s dinner he set the tray down with a clank, alarmed to see yon chicken thief curled into Wellesley’s lap rather than flat on her back. Already she was proving more meddlesome than he liked, not when his grace could ill afford more drama with the fairer sex. John had just suffered a brutal London season with Wells and witnessed firsthand the kind of pummeling the Ton’s blood-thirsty toffs could issue.

He exited the room as fast as he’d entered, thinking he’d need to find his lordship a different village lass—one a good deal simpler than this miss. He might also find himself a pretty face, he thought as he caught sight of his grace nudging Charles to eat.

Though the lady’s sister, Miss Eleanor, had been a sight for sore eyes this morning. More than pretty, that one. She’d nearly knocked him flat when she’d opened the door with those thick, chestnut locks framing warm brown eyes: the eyes of a docile doe. He’d felt like a proper fool, standing with basket and chickens in hand, looking no doubt sloppy to a young lady like she.

Then again, he’d not expected an honest to God angel to answer his knock.

John shook off the image, wending his way back to the kitchen to eat with the men. He’d be wise to forget Miss Eleanor Merrinan and focus instead on getting rid of her pesky sister. What the devil Wells saw in that gel he’d never understand.

***

Wellesley roused his mistress the moment dinner arrived, pushing her from his lap with an order to bring him his bowl. She did, walking stiffly, and he felt a fresh stab of remorse for having hurt her, as well as a more selfish stab of regret: She’d be too sore now to enjoy his attentions.

He sighed again, still irked by his behavior. What the devil had gotten into him? He’d acted like a brute, reacted to her without thinking, as if she’d been one of his men in need of discipline, rather than his mistress. Had London done this to him? He cursed himself again, though he knew she wasn’t going anywhere; his cock could wait another night.

They ate in relative silence, and he saw again how hungry she was, deciding to hand her the rest of his bowl. He’d not only tired of Tom’s stews but lost his appetite this night. Contrary to what she likely thought of him, Wells did not enjoy meting out punishment.

Charles did not refuse his offer, cleaning his bowl quickly before she placed it back upon the tray to stand and await his pleasure. He liked that she seemed more cowed, but suspected she smarted more for pride than for actual beating.

At least, he hoped he hadn’t hurt her too much.

Fuck.

“Don’t just stand there, girl, fetch me a drink,” he ordered, “and stoke the fire. Pour yourself a drink too, it’ll dull the ache.” He leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames and feeling suddenly worn from the day, smarting inside. Wells did not like to be in charge, did not enjoy having to make decisions and correct his staff when they failed to heed his orders. He knew it was his job and he’d do the job he must, but right then he’d have preferred to be anybody in the world but a bloody duke’s son.

Anybody at all.

***

Charles did as Lord Wellesley bid, wondering at his lordship’s sudden change in mood. Having just learned her lesson, however, she kept her mouth shut and head down. She’d not been whipped since she was a child, and even then only once with a switch, never a leather strap.

His lordship’s lashing still burned.

When she brought him his glass he commanded her to sit again, only she hesitated.

“Well?” he prodded.

“My lord, if I may, sir, I would rather stand.”

“Of course you would.” He huffed a sigh and motioned her over. “Come, kneel before me instead, that I might at least play with your red-gold locks, as the rest of you is too sore for anything more,” he grumbled. “It appears your virtue lives to see another day, miss. I should have fucked you first and only then taken you to task.” He winced at his own words.

Charles was shocked by such coarse language, though his hand at her head was gentle enough. She did not understand how this lord could be both tender and cruel, thinking an unpredictable master was the worst kind there was.

Her heart sank to imagine herself at Wellesley’s every beck and call.

“You must tell me what you are thinking, Fox, amuse me with your mind if not your body.”

She sucked in a breath, fearing anything she now said might be misconstrued. She remembered Cuthbert’s warning that she not be too clever, that she not ‘hurt’ his grace. Hurt ! she thought. As if she could.

“If it pleases my lord to converse, we might discuss the cuisine I have sampled here, as I suspect your lordship prefers finer fare than the stew that continues to disappoint?”

His lips curled. “And just where might I sample such culinary delights?” His hand continued to twine her hair between his fingers.

“Mrs. Jenkins, sir, a widow in town, prides herself on her dishes. She’s an excellent cook and even better baker who may be persuaded to work for your lordship.” Charles deliberated. “I had thought to fetch starter from her, sir, to bake you and your men a proper sourdough.”

“Hmm.” His hand now kneaded the back of her neck as she noticed his gaze assess the curve of her bottom, angled as it was up and out.

“And if I paid this widow a visit, how easily might she be persuaded?” he asked. “Your advice with the stonemason proved useful this morning, Charles; I should appreciate your advice with other locals as well.”

She began, at last, to relax. “Disparage London’s stews, my lord. Appeal to her pride and palate, how you’ve yet to sample true Cumberland cuisine. Tell her you mean to restore the Abbey, and with it, our region.”

His hand gripped her neck possessively. “And that will suffice, you think, to lure her here?”

“She is proud of her heritage sir, as are we all. Just because people are poor in wealth does not mean they are poor in spirit.”

“Yes,” he spoke softly, “I’m beginning to see that, Charles.” His hand massaged her neck more. “I will pay her a visit tomorrow, at midday, in hope she’s a dish to share. And I will tell her you ask for starter. She will know your name, yes?”

“Yes, my lord, only I would beg you, please?—”

“I will tell her you are employed here as chambermaid, Charles.”

“Chambermaid?” She lifted her head in shock.

“Yes.” He frowned. “And a perfectly respectable position, I’m sure. I am aware you wish no one to know you are my mistress.”

“Lord Wellesley,” she began, feeling utterly flustered, “I am not being disrespectful when I tell you she will not . . . She will not believe you if you say I’ve consented to be but chambermaid here. She will think?—”

“Why the devil would anyone not believe something I say?” His voice had risen in pitch, making Charles again fear him.

“My lord, I beg you understand it is not your word that will be disbelieved, sir, it is the meaning of such words as will be misconstrued.”

“Just how damned educated are you, woman?” His brow darkened.

Charles swallowed. “She knows me to be educated, my lord, knows me as my father’s daughter, and knows that he would never agree to such a position.”

“And just who exactly is your father, that he would forbid his daughter such honorable position in service?”

“It matters not who he is, my lord, it matters only Mrs. Jenkins’s perception .” She took another breath. “I do not mean to offend, sir, as there is no offense in being a chambermaid, no offense to any position, in fact, be the work done well and with integrity.”

“Save the position of mistress.” His eyes flashed.

“That is . . . That is a different sort of position, Lord Wellesley. I am speaking of skilled trades, of?—”

“You do not think a mistress skilled to ply her trade in pleasure to her master?” His lips twitched.

“I cannot claim to understand those skills, sir.” Charles met his gaze with resolve. “But in Cumberland, people know their place. My family fell on hard times, my lord, else I should be otherwise engaged.”

“I see.” He was clearly amused. “So chambermaid is beneath your neighbor’s esteem of you and mistress out of the question, hmm.” He was quiet a moment. “If you wish Mrs. Jenkins to be my cook and bake my bread, then what position here do you propose for yourself, miss? As I am decidedly too old to need a governess.” He grinned at his own joke.

Charles decided it was now or never to present her plan. “Housekeeper, my lord.” She steadied herself. “Let me oversee your household, help you hire and manage your staff. I know whom to avoid, know where to gain provisions and supplies. I can manage a budget and run house accounts.” She began to fear the look she watched spread across his face. “I’d remain properly dressed in uniform by day sir, a respectable position to any, including my father, yet at night remain your mistress, fulfilling those duties required to pay down my debt.”

Charles awaited his lordship’s response, nervous as a colt and heart racing with hope.

***

Wells stroked her cheek, absently almost smiling. “Oh you are clever, aren’t you.” His smile deepened. “Clever enough to make the best of any situation, I see.” He leaned in to kiss her, savoring her mouth, pulling at her lips a little with his teeth, and leaving her a little breathless once he’d finished. Then he leaned back in his chair, aroused by the taste of her and the thought of her: proper by day and wanton by night. He liked that thought.

“Very well, Miss Merrinan, I shall consider you for housekeeper—on a trial basis, mind—for I see the merit in your proposal, as it behooves me to fill two positions for the price of one.”

“Price of one, sir? But that is?—!”

“Hush.” He placed a finger to her lips. “I am not so foolish as to let you earn towards your fine in double the time, oh no.” He shook his head, eyes twinkling. “Your thieving is paid with your body only, my dear, and as you have yet to give me what I want that debt remains in full.”

“But—!”

“Shh.” He stopped her with another satisfying kiss. “However, I will pay an honest wage for housekeeper, so you may set those funds aside, funds no doubt your family sorely needs.” His eyes flashed a warning. “I am fair, Charles, but no fool. Your family shall still be looked after this winter provided you serve me well as mistress. And as your employer, by right I may interrupt your household duties at any time and place to demand gratification of my body, understood?”

She swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

“And . . . ?” he prompted.

“Thank you, Lord Wellesley.”

“Better.” He smirked. “You are learning.”

She let out a huff of air.

“Was there anything else you wished to say upon the matter?”

She hesitated. “The three loaves I baked today, my lord, surely those?—”

“Ah yes,” he laughed outright, “paid towards your fine. Let’s see now, how much does flatbread go for at market these days here in Cumberland? I’ll guess five pence? Multiplied by three, Charles. Do the math for me now if you’re to manage my household.”

She sank her head. “Fifteen pence, sir, or one shilling and three.”

“Precisely. You’ve a long way yet towards thirty pounds, my dear.” He once again laid her head upon his lap to massage her scalp, tangling his fingers deeper into her soft, shining hair.

He felt her body relax into the sensation, though he knew she was disheartened by the math.

“Lord Wellesley, may I ask how much I shall earn as housekeeper of Almsdale Abbey?”

Wells laughed out loud, his hand suddenly gripping her neck. “We shall discuss the details tomorrow, Charles. Right now I wish for silence.”

He was going to enjoy this woman. Thoroughly.