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

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

H is lordship had not tortured Charles more that night, though he’d made her strip before him to survey the damage he’d done, inspecting her body a little too closely for her comfort. Wellesley had told her she was to share his bed each night unclothed, unless ordered otherwise, for until more rooms were readied there were no other beds for her. She was to begin airing said rooms forthwith in her new position at Almsdale.

Charles was relieved he’d agreed to make her his housekeeper, even if she’d be enslaved to his bed at night. The arrangement meant she could salvage her reputation and so spare her sister, earning funds she might even set aside.

It was an idea previously unthinkable.

When there’s a will, there’s a way, she quietly told herself—God and Lord Wells willing. She was surprised she felt as calm as she now did, considering how harshly he’d punished her. It was as if her muddled mind had been reset by his egregious beating, the fear and confusion she’d felt since being caught in his coop somehow toppled.

Though she’d not let him know this.

When she’d finally been allowed to crawl into his bed, his lordship had not joined her but remained a while longer in his chair by the fire, looking contemplative. She’d watched him from beneath the covers, then pretended to be asleep when he eventually lay down beside her, polite enough not to spoon her raw backside but instead merely stroke her flank, as if he savored such touch.

Despite herself, she found she savored it too.

“Good morning, Charles,” Lord Wellesley whispered at her ear, pulling her hair aside to nibble the lobe. “Sleep well?”

His tongue tickled, making her startle and roll onto her back. Groaning in pain, she quickly flipped to her side. He rolled her towards him once more, so that she faced him in the bed.

“You snore,” he stated.

“I do not.” She kept her eyes shut tight against him.

“You snore like a fox kit,” he teased. “Tiny little wheezes.”

“My sister snores.” She finally opened one eye, adding, “I do not.”

“And I say you do.” His hand traced the slope of her breast, landing at its tip, lingering there.

She felt a spark run from nipple to gut, hating how readily her body warmed to his touch as he continued to roll the tip between his fingers, as if enjoying how it pebbled.

“You must not hate me that much, Charles.” His hand moved to her other breast.

“I never said I hated you, Lord Wellesley.”

“Then you like me just a little?” He continued to tease the tip of her breast.

Charles squirmed at the sensation. “There is rather a great difference between like and hate, my lord.”

“Yes, there is.” He’d brought her other nipple to a similar peak, admiring his handiwork while she bit back a moan. “Kiss me, Charles, like you mean it.”

Her eyes widened.

“Go on,” he pressed, and when she still hesitated, he added, “You did before,” making her blush to remember her response to him but yesterday. She wished she’d controlled herself better.

“Kiss me,” he insisted.

So she did, timidly at first, lips touching his own softly, yet when he brought her hand to the back of his head, urging her to take charge, she pulled him to her with both hands, eliciting an agreeable rumble from his chest. She explored him more daringly, entering his mouth to twine her tongue about his own, until she felt desire slick her core. Appalled by her reaction, Charles broke off.

“Well done, my dear,” he praised. “Only why stop?” Wellesley’s eyes were half-lidded with lust.

“I thought . . .” She was furious at herself for still blushing.

“You have no idea how arousing you are right now, Charles.”

“I am not trying to arouse, my lord, I am simply obeying your?—”

“Stop hampering your response, girl.” His hand suddenly placed her own upon his erect sex, making her gasp. “I am not”—he pressed her hand more firmly to him—“interested in control right now. I am interested in us enjoying one another, in you letting go your inhibitions and allowing your body to simply feel .”

“Oh,” she breathed, air escaping her lips as he curled her hand around his manhood, forcing her to grasp the full, hard length of him. He guided her hand in strokes though she dared not look at what he was having her do.

“There are many ways a mistress may please her master, Charles, and this is but one. Take me in hand now and coax me to pleasure. I’ve pleasured you enough, girl. It is your turn to please me.”

He lay back, throwing off the covers to expose her hand on his sex, as she gazed in disbelief to see her fingers curled about his massive member.

“Do not disappoint me, Charles.” His hand guided her anew. “Feel my response, bring me to release.” His voice caught on the word, jarring her into action.

Charles knew it was her job to bring Lord Wellesley pleasure, but until now her position as mistress had not fully sunk in.

She must learn to please.

He let her practice, a groan escaping his lips as he urged her to stroke him faster. She did, shocked by both her own awkward actions and his body’s quick reaction, before he suddenly tensed, spilling over her hand, his sex throbbing in her fist. She froze, startled by his response—and oddly proud of herself.

His eyes closed in satisfaction, a smile hovering at his lips, before his gaze flicked to her own.

“Well done, mistress.” His smile deepened. “Now wipe me clean and kiss me again, like you mean it.”

Charles used the sheet to mop his seed, amazed to find he’d shrunk substantially in size. Then she timidly traced the line of hair that led from his gut to his chest, kissing him there before she ran her tongue along the length. He growled low in his throat, his hand grabbing the nape of her neck to pull her to his mouth as his lips hungrily took her own. His tongue thrust with a renewed need she felt echo in her own loins, making her shiver in response to his demanding, searing kiss.

When he broke off he looked at her sharply, his hand still possessive at her neck before he pushed her to his waist, to where his sex showed fresh interest. “Take me in your mouth now,” he ordered, “like your hand, but use lips and tongue, no teeth. Swallow.”

In shock she did as bid, his sex filling her mouth to swell in size until it pressed against her throat, his grip on her neck urging her to take him deeper still, until she thought she might gag.

Charles struggled to breathe even as she struggled to please, having no idea what to do or how the devil to do it. She fast gave up trying, letting him simply use her mouth until he finished in her throat, sated.

He pulled her off, panting almost, as she wiped her lips with the back of her hand in disgust at what he’d just done—had just made her do. She hid her face in abject humiliation, imagining what her mother would think from her grave, to see her daughter reduced to such rank, sick depravity.

***

Wells lay in a warm stupor, suffused with lingering waves of pleasure. “You are a quick study, Charles.” He sighed, content. “And have pleased me well this morning.” He placed a hand at her waist. “Shall I please you in return?”

“Don’t,” she nearly choked, “ touch me.” She turned her entire body from him.

“Charles?” He frowned, reaching for her. “Charles, look at me.”

She hid from him.

“Look at me, girl, what is wrong?” He was confused by her reaction but sensed something was amiss. He pried her head loose from her arms, distraught by what he saw.

“You have made me a whore, sir!” she burst in anguish, her beautiful face stricken. “You have made me a whore and I can no longer stand myself!” Bitter, unchecked tears began to spill in streams down her cheeks.

“Oh, lass,” Wells took her into his arms, the endearment unexpected on his lips. It was a word from his childhood, from nursemaids, perhaps. He held her tight, not letting her go but letting her tears fall wet upon his chest.

“You are no whore, you are but shocked, Fox, by what you have done. But you are not the first to perform such act. Married women please their husbands thus, husbands please their wives thus—it is an act a mistress learns well. There is no shame in what you’ve done, none. So do not weep, Charles, do not weep.” He was suddenly made miserable by her distress. “I should not have . . .” Wells flinched. “I should have waited; it was too soon. I did not mean to demean you.”

She slowly ceased her weeping, clinging to him when but a moment before she’d recoiled from his very being. She suddenly cried, “I do not understand you, sir. I do not understand how you can be both so tender and cruel!”

Wells held her tighter, pressing her naked body more fiercely to his own so that he might absorb her grief. “I am a man, Fox, with base needs, human needs. A brute at times, but never a beast, so you must forgive my actions, Charles. I will go slower moving forward. I see you are more timid than I thought. I should have known better than to rush you, but your body,” he sighed, “your body whispered you were ready, though I see now that your mind is not.”

She brusquely wiped her eyes. “I am not timid, sir.” She sniffed.

He could tell she was trying very hard to be brave.

“I am merely unschooled in such ways, shocked that such acts . . .” She broke off, embarrassed.

Wells thought her tear-streaked face only more lovely in that moment. “I know that now.” He gently stroked her cheek, leaning in to kiss her softly on her forehead, her nose, then tenderly on her lips. “Forgive me,” he murmured, proceeding to kiss her all about her face, neck, hands, and arms. His lips landed like butterflies everywhere upon her in soft attacks, even across her breasts. He coaxed a smile upon her face and vowed right then he’d win her over. Come hell or high water, he’d make this woman beg for him before he took her again.

When he felt at last assured of her improvement, Wellesley got up to dress, thinking the sooner he distanced himself from his mistress this day the better—though it remained a wonder he had a woman in his bed whom he had yet to . . . bed.

He handed her a sheaf of paper and a well of ink from his makeshift desk: his dressing table. “Take note of all I say, Charles, while I shave. Make a list. There is much to do, now that housekeeper joins my staff.” He tossed her a smile before he walked to the room’s corner washbasin to pour water into the bowl, then picked up his straight razor and soap.

“My lord.” She demurely rolled onto her stomach to prop herself up on one elbow.

Wells peeked at her, admiring how her strawberry locks spilled loose about her curves, beckoning yet again. He strolled back to ever so lightly trace the welts still there upon her bottom, planting a kiss on each cheek, declaring, “Even marred you are lovely, woman, perhaps more so.”

To which she inhaled a breath, remaining silent.

He took that as rebuke. “Yet I shall entertain no more thoughts of wickedness, not now at least.” He met her eyes. “If you are to be my housekeeper then a uniform is only proper, is it not? And as such might be procured from said village seamstress?”

She nodded, chewing her lip.

“Then I will measure you now as you jot down numbers.” He jostled the bed as he stretched himself out beside her. “Height you come to my chin, five foot five I imagine. Hips not quite four hand spans, and we will give them another inch as you need fattening, my dear. Waist"—his hands crept around to squeeze her—“barely three, again with room to grow, and chest”—he chuckled as his hands cupped her bosom below her half recumbent position—“ample handfuls here and were you to spill out of your bodice I’d not mind that in the least.”

“My lord!” she protested with a small smile. He was pleased she was in better spirits.

“Solid, sturdy house shoes—you’ve boots still, do you not? Will the cobbler have your size?”

She nodded.

“Good.” He leapt off the bed to return to the washbasin to lather his face.

“And a cloak, sir. I must sew a new one for my father but need fabric.” She scribbled something he could just discern through the mirror’s reflection: 6 yards tweed, 5 skeins yarn.

“Won’t you need one too?” he asked, reaching for his cut-throat.

She crossed out the 6 to write 12 .

“And what is the yarn for, woman?”

“Gloves and shawl, my lord.” She frowned. “Do you not know how cold it gets here? Have you and your men enough warm garments yourselves?”

He pondered that a moment, realizing perhaps they did not, even as he took up the blade to begin shaving his face.

She huffed, adding a 1 to the 5 to make it 15 skeins instead.

“Are you planning to knit us all wool caps?” He laughed.

“You’ll be glad if I do, my lord.” Wells watched her add another line: needles, 6 and 8 size. It gave him a thought.

“With your permission I shall send to London for new underclothes, having now your measurements. Though I daresay you’ll not need many as I intend to keep you mostly underdressed.” He slid the blade neatly down his cheek as he watched her ears pink. “However, a few choice items”—he paused his cut-throat midair—“are always a nice addition to a woman’s wardrobe.” He added to himself almost, “I know just the London shop.”

He saw her leave underclothes off the list, though he insisted she write Madame LeBrecht’s at the top of the page.

“Let me see.” He put down his blade to sit on the bed and review what she’d just written, one hand lazily trailing the length of her bare back. “If you would like another shilling and three towards your debt, I advise you now dress and bake me another three loaves, Charles. No, make it four.”

“That will be one and eight pence, my lord.”

He smirked and rose to wash his face. “I’m glad you’ve a good head on your shoulders. I will visit this Mrs. Jenkins today for your sourdough starter and send Cuthbert into town with your list. But right now I’ve a stonemason to start in on repairs, so have a loaf ready for me when I return.” He reached to pinch her thigh.

“Ow!” she yelped, to which he grabbed the list from her hands before he grabbed her face, bending down to give her a firm, commanding kiss.

Wells whispered in her ear, “Once you are healed, Fox, we will finish what we started. And I promise you will like it, Charles, if only you will let yourself.”