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

Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

C uthbert had brought not only a uniform back from town that afternoon but news that Mrs. Jenkins would arrive at week’s end to take over as cook, sending Charles into a fresh tizzy.

“And just where are we to put her?” She settled both hands at her hips.

“Well, seein’ as you’re now housekeeper here,” Cuthbert’s voice jeered, “I ’spect you’d know better’n me, miss.”

“But we haven’t . . . ” She bit her lip. “We haven’t even begun yet to air the servants’ quarters, Cuthbert. I know of but one room there barely suitable for sleeping.”

“Y’ look right upset, miss.” He grinned. “Too much for yer, is it? Better t’ serve the master in bed than serve his house, eh?”

She scowled at him. “You wipe that look off your face, John Cuthbert. I’m your equal in this house, Lord Wells said so himself, so you’ll address me with respect.”

“True, miss, only you’ve two positions here, and one of ’em’s neither upright nor respectful, now innit.” He laughed until she kicked his shin, making him yelp, “Whadya go and do that for, damn it?”

“Because you deserved it!”

“Well you’ve a mite better t’ do than kick folks, seein’ as how this Jenkins’ll no doubt wonder where Lord Wellesley’s housekeeper sleeps nights.”

Charles grew grave, for she’d had the very same thought not a second before. She steadied herself. “Apologies for the kick, Cuthbert, but you must help me find a room close to Lord Wellesley. Somewhere I may purport to bed.” Her eyes pleaded with him for help.

His face softened. “Well, ’tis true the master’ll want you close by.” He chewed his lower lip above his burly beard; Cuthbert was decidedly unkempt. She wondered how old he truly was beneath the forest on his face, for though large in frame his body did not look or move as one much older than his lordship. He might be younger even, for all she knew.

And Charles suddenly realized she’d no idea how old Lord Wellesley was either. God help her, she knew next to nothing of the man who’d just . . .

She shook off all thought of debauchery. “Help me, Cuthbert, and I shall return the favor, I swear,” she begged outright.

“And just what favor might that be, miss?” His look was canny.

She met his eyes, stating, “Butter,” and knew at once he was in.

Later that day Cuthbert proposed to Charles that they turn a linen closet near Lord Wellesley’s bedroom into the housekeeper’s office. It was just wide enough for a narrow bed and table, even a small chair, with shelves lining both walls high enough to clear one’s head when seated below. There was a single window opposite the door for light, with panes blessedly intact. Charles would surely freeze in such a room come winter, but given she’d like as not be sleeping in Lord Wellesley’s bed it wouldn’t matter. What mattered was that she’d have a respectable room of her own, where she might also store supplies.

It was perfect. There were even hooks below the shelves to hang clothes and cloak. She smiled “yes” at Cuthbert before he left to go procure the room a bed.

Charles remained in the space a moment longer, looking about her little closet with hope. She’d not had a room of her own in so long—not slept alone in so long—that the idea felt strange. She wondered if Lord Wellesley wouldn’t desire her less anyway, now that he’d had her. Perhaps he’d tire of her, and she could keep this room all to herself. Perhaps he’d send to London for a proper mistress and she would be only housekeeper here at Almsdale. She imagined what that might feel like, to be free of him, yet was surprised to discern a tingle of dismay. Did she enjoy his attentions after all? Or was it simply her body responding, not her mind? What did she care if he bedded another woman? She was but flesh to him—he’d told her as much himself—and he but flesh to her too.

Albeit handsome flesh.

Charles exited her new bedroom to fetch a mop and pail. There was work to do aplenty before Mrs. Jenkins would arrive. Best get to it.

The new uniform Cuthbert had delivered chafed. Oh it fit well enough, the dark grey wool even properly somber. Charles at last looked like a housekeeper and need only sew herself an apron for it, yet she missed the ease of breeches. For over two weeks she’d dressed like a man, lived only with men, even been debauched by a man. It had changed her. Attired again as a woman, she felt suddenly constrained—not that Lord Wells or his men had treated her differently in trousers.

Still, she’d felt more liberated in her movement, more like their equal. Even though she was anything but free .

Charles had scrubbed and polished her small closet spotless and now worked on Mrs. Jenkins’s room next. The servant’s wing was in need of significant repairs, but one bedroom was intact enough to house Almsdale’s new cook. Charles wished to make the space as hospitable as possible for the widow, knowing the cozy cottage she was leaving behind. She would find curtains and rug and a small painting even to hang in the room. She wanted Almsdale’s cook to feel at home here, for she’d be Charles’s sole female companion—not to mention staunch arbiter of propriety. It would not do for Mrs. Jenkins to think her anything but perfectly suited to the position of housekeeper. Nor would it do for her to witness what utter ruffians Lord Wellesley employed here otherwise.

When Wells snuck into the kitchen that evening—having successfully avoided his mistress all day—he grabbed a bowl of what he hoped would be the last damn stew he’d need ever eat. And then he went in search of his steward, hoping John might shed light on their housekeeper’s current mood.

“Busy today, that one. Looks the part in her new uniform too. Picked it and the rest o’ the items up as ordered. Jenkins movin’ in end o’ the week has her in fits though, lookin’ t’ find herself and the cook proper bedrooms. It’s all worked out, Yer Grace. She’s started in on both. All should be ready by arrival, rest assured.”

Wells merely stared at Cuthbert, shocked to imagine the day had progressed so productively, normally even. It seemed his housekeeper knew how to complete her duties well. He was impressed by her efficiency, if not a little irked she’d been so unaffected by him.

“And she seemed otherwise fine to you, did she? Not overly upset about anything?” he pressed.

“No sir, ought she’ve been?” Cuthbert gave him a look. “You two quarrel again? I warned Yer Grace that gel were trouble, yet you insisted she?—”

“John, I did not ask for a lecture. I asked your opinion as to her mood, that is all. And it is none of your business how she and I get along otherwise. It appears her housekeeping skills are admirable enough, and as to her other skills?—”

“She ain’t workin’ out as mistress near so good, is she?” Cuthbert spoke frankly, a liberty accorded him only because of their shared past. “Y’ ain’t fooled me, Yer Grace. Known yer too long I have. And the offer still stands, sir, t’ find you a different gel.”

But Wellesley’s mood only darkened. “We don’t need yet another woman in this house.” He snorted. “Miss Merrinan and Mrs. Jenkins will be enough. Nor would it help to have more skirts about for our fair-weather crew to leer at.” He knew his men were growing bored, and boredom did not bode well with their lot.

“Fine, sir,” Cuthbert ground out; his steward always knew when something ate at Wells. “You up for another match then?” he asked, though the hour was late.

“Not tonight, John, though you could use some lessons from Charles. She’s damned good at chess.”

His man harrumphed. “Too clever, sir. I said as much. A clever woman makes for trouble, Yer Grace, always does. Now her sister, on the other hand, she’s a?—”

“Her sister?” Wells had forgotten. “I should like to meet this sister of hers, and the father, Cuthbert. When are you due to deliver them food again?”

“Day after t’ morrow, Yer Grace.” He frowned. “Though you’ll not learn much, sir. Their old man’s daft as a March hare, but Miss Eleanor’s a delight.” His face flushed, a fact not unnoticed by Wells. “She’s the opposite o’ yer mistress, that’s for damn sure,” he added with feeling.

“Good,” said Wells, surprised by Cuthbert’s emotion. “I intend to meet her myself.”

At long last Charles sat soaking in his lordship’s large tub. As housekeeper she’d had the authority to order Cuthbert’s crew to bring it to Lord Wellesley’s chamber, on the pretext that Wells himself wished to bathe. But once they’d gone it was she who stripped and lowered herself in, reveling in the hot balm of water on her aching bones.

A night of lovemaking and a day of labor made for sore limbs. Only she’d not call it lovemaking, she corrected in her head. She’d call it fucking , as he had. It deserved the crude term.

Charles sank deeper into the water, luxuriating in its caress, letting it buoy her almost. She soaped her hair, rinsing the grime and dust of the house from every strand, then scrubbed her skin until it shone with health. She’d put on weight, she could tell, and this, too, felt good. She’d eaten well ever since arriving at the Abbey, the gnawing need in her belly lessening with each meal. She sighed, content. Regardless of what Lord Wellesley should say or do to her tonight, she had this moment, all to herself.

She relished it.

***

Wells slipped inside his room, stealthy as ever, as his mistress soaked in his tub. He’d wanted to bathe himself, the minx, and would now have to share her water. He began to strip quietly, thinking any moment she would hear him and turn her head. But she did not, or chose not to. He couldn’t tell which.

“May I join you?”

She made something of a splash. “My lord, I did not hear you enter, sir. Forgive me, I’ll leave you the?—”

“No.” He laid a hand upon her shoulder to push her back down. “No need to get out, I shall simply let myself in.” Which he did, though the fit was tight. His long legs stuck up at angles to fold her smaller body into his chest. He pulled her back against him, feeling the water embrace him with warmth.

“You read my mind.” He wrapped his arms about her waist, his back against the tub’s hard edge.

“How was your day, my lord?” she asked—a little stiffly, he thought.

“Fine, Charles. And yours?”

“Productive, sir.” She began to relax more into him as his hands slowly travelled from her waist to her chest.

“Cuthbert says our new cook will arrive by week’s end.” He was going to keep their conversation as banal as possible not to scare her off.

“Yes, my lord. I started readying a room in the servant’s wing for her. And Cuthbert found a room for me close by your own.”

“You share my room, Charles.”

“Of course, my lord, only there’s a closet down the hall but a short distance to this chamber, which will do nicely should Mrs. Jenkins?—”

“—need you at night only to discover you in my bed,” he finished for her. “I see you think of everything, Fox.”

“It is my job to think of everything, Lord Wellesley.”

“And what of your job as mistress, Charles?” He was almost afraid to ask. “Tell me, are you sore today?”

“A little, sir.” She blushed. “The bath has helped.” She surprised him by taking his hand to give his palm a quick kiss.

“And what is that for?”

***

“For asking after my wellbeing, my lord.” Charles decided in that instant that what Lord Wellesley needed most from her this night was not more fight but more accord. Perhaps that’s what he’d needed all along.

“Well, I suppose I am in charge of your wellbeing,” he grumbled.

She snuggled deeper into his embrace, backing her hips into his, feeling him rise behind her in arousal. She slid his hands lower to her thighs, saying coyly, “I thought of you today, my lord.”

“Did you?” He seemed surprised.

“Yes,” she purred and felt him harden more.

“I thought of you too, Fox.” His tongue dipped into her ear while one hand slipped lower still, making her slowly exhale. “All day I have sworn to do better by you, if you’ll still have me.”

It was another shocking attempt at apology, which made Charles respond to his touch only more. “You can be most persuasive when you wish, my lord.” She twisted herself around to plant a kiss upon his lips.

He looked again surprised, and pleased. Perhaps he needed a softer woman than she, one who would accommodate and anticipate, rather than one who perpetually riled. Perhaps she could be this for him. She must at least try.

He returned her kiss with gentle pressure, his tongue questioning almost, and she responded with more intent. When she broke off, he stared at her a moment, as if unsure, until she smiled, eliciting a smile from him in return.

“I take it you are no longer angry with me, Fox?”

“I have forgiven your lordship,” she told him firmly, “and mean to prove myself more than just your housekeeper.” She turned around in the bath to straddle his lap, a little worried he might laugh at her for this, but he did not.

“Then I am indeed pleased, Fox.” His smile deepened, hands now cupping her buttocks, drawing her only closer to his crotch until she felt him notched beneath her.

“And will this please my lord too?” She lowered herself, inch by daring inch.

“God, yes,” he exhaled.

“ Your Grace ,” she whispered, impaling herself now fully, “take me to bed.”

***

With one swift move Wells lifted her, still joined to him, out of the tub and onto the bed, where he lost not an inch as he laid her down, throbbing inside her, wishing only to undo her utterly. He did not care that she’d flaunted the damn title. Did not care if she did it again. This time he’d give her what she wanted. This time he’d satisfy his mistress by granting her a less frustrating, and far more pleasurable, end.

He’d grant himself a better end too, he hoped: a more willing mistress in future whom he might play with more vigorously. One who would desire him as much as he desired her.

He bent his head to her lips and tasted possibility.