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

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

“’ T ’ain’t right,” said Tom, banging about the pots. “They’re at it all the time now. Ruttin’ beasts, those two. Why should he get all the fun while we get none?”

“She ain’t fit t’ call ’erself housekeeper, orderin’ us about when she’s friggin’ ’im at all hours. ’Tis a wonder anythin’ gets done on ’er watch at all!”

“Aye, an’ if he’s payin’ her t’ keep house when she’s but earnin’ on ’er back, I says he?—”

John cut them off. “Oi, shut up now, all o’ you!” He scowled at the men. “Miss Merrinan is now housekeeper here and you’ll treat her as such. His grace orders it. And as for her duties as mistress”—his eyes blazed—“well, that’s twixt him and her, and none o’ yer goddamned business.”

The men all fell silent a moment before Tom piped up. “Sure, John, ’tis none of our business, only they’re loud enough, an’ often enough, as t’ make it our business, y’ ken?”

“Hear, hear!” and “’Tis true!” came the bevvy of retorts.

John’s lips pinched. “I’ll talk to him,” he grumbled. “But you’d best treat that gel with more respect, ’specially with a new cook comin’ on. Lest you want yon housekeeper runnin’ to Capt’n Wells with tales o’ yer abuse.” He knitted his brow. “Y’ know how he can get, boys.”

Which quieted the room, for they’d all borne his lordship’s anger at one point or another.

“Well, you tell ’im we’re sick of hearin’ her cries o’ delight at ’is lovemakin’,” Tom repeated. “’Tis enough t’ drive a man mad with yearnin’ ’imself.”

“Don’t I know it,” John muttered as he made a quick exit.

“My lord, please, I can’t!”

“Hush, woman, there’s no one about.”

“Yes but I’ve work to?—”

“It is as much your job to please me, Charles, and it pleases me to have you now.” Lord Wellesley had pushed her palms up against the dark hall paneling, lifted her skirts, and undone his fall all in a matter of seconds. Before she knew it he was inside her.

Charles sucked in her next breath, hands planted against the wall as he angled her hips back towards him.

“Now, Fox”—he nipped her neck before he let his tongue trail her cheekbone—“tell me what work you still have. Tell me what housekeeping duties make it so difficult”—he thrust again—“to enjoy”—he ground into her harder—“my attentions.”

The man made her moan out loud. “You cannot . . . I’m not . . .” Words failed her, for it was impossible to think coherently with his lordship inside her, demanding submission. She puddled beneath his touch, pure putty in his hands. For days now he’d taken her at will, all over the house, in impossibly indecent positions. Worst of all, she’d welcomed it. She’d wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

And clearly, this devil of a man knew it.

“Come now, housekeeper, obey my order. It is not your mouth I now occupy, so give your report while you’ve breath left to speak.”

And an almost guttural, low groan escaped her. Charles was furious at him and equally aroused by him, a state he knew well how to coax from her body, as she ground her hips deeper against him, urging him to give her what she wanted.

“Not yet, my sweet,” he breathed the words hot into her ear, unrelenting. “Not till you’ve given your report. Come, housekeeper, I wish to hear you talk. Speak.”

Only the sounds he rent from her were far from decent, or coherent.

“And . . . ?”

John was annoyed by his lordship’s many questions. Wells sat by the parlor’s fire, whiskey in hand, grilling him on the housekeeper’s visit to the village madam.

“And I escorted her back, Yer Grace,” he finished, hoping this spelled an end to the interrogation. “She’s in yer room now, I should think.”

John neglected to tell his lordship how surprised Mamie Griswald had been to discover Charles Merrinan on her doorstep, though by now the whole village knew the Duke’s son was in residence at Almsdale. John had listened in on their conversation, his ear pressed to the door, and heard Mamie tell Charles she knew the new lord would want his pound of flesh, like any blasted blueblood. She just wished he’d come to her first.

Charles had sounded mortified to admit she was that flesh instead.

His lordship continued to stare into the liquid amber of his glass. “She didn’t try to flee?”

“No, Yer Grace. Perfectly annoyed by me presence, sir, but not a lick o’ trouble otherwise. Dunno what you’ve done t’ settle her, but she’s?—”

Wells scowled. “That woman will never settle.”

John frowned. “Yer Grace, if I may speak freely a moment, sir?” He figured now was as good a time as any.

Wells nodded.

“The yobs’ve been makin’ noises, sir, ’bout you and yer housekeeper.”

His lordship’s scowl deepened. “What kinds of noises, Cuthbert?”

“More like you and she ’ve been makin’ noises lately, sir.” John looked pointedly at his lordship.

“Do you mean to tell me they’re complaining I have a mistress?”

John worried his lip. “Yer Grace, it’s less about you havin’ a mistress, and more about how often and how, well, loudly you’ve been havin’ said mistress.”

Wells paused. “She is rather vocal, I’ll grant you that.” He grinned. “But why the devil should they care, eh? Bunch of whining ninnies, that crew, and after all I’ve done for them.”

John leveled his gaze. “With respect, Yer Grace, you’ve fed and housed and kept ’em from trouble, sir, ’tis true, but there’s little entertainment here, not like in London. They need a night out now and then—a few pints, a good brawl, a warm body t’ bed.”

Wells sighed loudly. “I am not about to procure that gang of thugs a harem, John.”

“’Course not, Yer Grace.” He smirked. “Only y’ might, y’ know, temper yer attentions t’ Miss Merrinan some. Be a mite more discreet about the Abbey.”

Wells nearly sputtered for outrage. “Cuthbert, if you so much as?—”

The steward kept a straight face, though inside he chuckled. “’Course, Yer Grace, shuttin’ me trap. Just . . . have a word with her, is all.” And then he made for the door, but not before he’d thrown at his lordship, “That much pleasure comin’ from a woman’s mouth, sir, ’tis enough t’ drive any man mad.”

John grinned to himself all the way down the hall, knowing exactly how it was Lord Wells had tamed Charles Merrinan: She was a glutton for rutting same as he. The two deserved each other.

His mistress was asleep when Wells slipped into bed, and he had every intention of waking her but then thought better. He could wait till morning; he wasn’t an animal, despite what his men might think.

He reached a hand to stroke her soft, sleek skin. Not even his London mistresses had responded so quickly, so effortlessly, to his advances. They’d been skilled and willing—they were paid to be willing—but this girl . . . He was growing stiff just pressed against her in the bed. This girl, he knew in his core, enjoyed him too. It was an added delight he’d not expected when she’d been tossed at his feet, covered in chicken shit, and it made his desire for her that much more intense. But Cuthbert was right; as more staff came on they could ill afford to continue rutting about the Abbey. Well he could. His housekeeper could not.

He sighed, letting his hand trace the line of her spine before he settled at the sweet swell of one buttock. Wells lingered there a moment, pressing his fingers into her flesh to make the luscious cheek dimple.

Then he took himself in hand, rather than wake her, for if he didn’t relieve himself soon he’d find no rest this night. None.

Only it was she who woke him the next morning, peppering a trail of feather-light kisses down the middle of Wells’s chest, landing at his swollen sex before mounting and riding him awake. His eyes opened, half-lidded with lust.

“My lord,” she greeted, her hands tracing stomach muscle as she ground her hips along his length.

“Christ, woman.” He shook the sleep from his brain. “Who taught you how to wake a man thus?”

She leaned forward, her breasts tantalizingly close to his lips. “You did, Lord Wells.”

He awoke fully in that moment, grabbing hold of her haunches to urge her faster on until he could wait no more and pulled her off, spilling his seed against her thigh as she collapsed atop him, her body a warm and welcome weight upon his own.

“You lovely, lovely creature.” He nuzzled her neck.

“Mmm . . .” The sound purred in her throat. “Good morning, Roland.”

He flinched at so intimate an address, but then remembered he’d given her permission to use his name in bed. And so she had, only not as he’d expected.

“Charles,” he warned.

She immediately resumed formality. “Forgive me, my lord. I merely missed your attentions last night.”

“Missed me, eh?” He drew her closer, wrapping his arms tight about her. “I did not wish to wake you, and so, it seems, you chose to wake me instead.”

“But you have woken me plenty in past.” She frowned. “Why hesitate last night?”

Wells had the distinct impression his mistress was trying to puzzle out what made him tick both in and out of bed, alarmed to imagine her so cunning. Then again, she was his Fox. And a mistress was expected to anticipate her master’s desires. She was learning the role. Isn’t that what he’d wanted?

“The men have been complaining to Cuthbert about us.” He decided to be frank. “I suppose it gave me pause.”

“Complaining?” She seemed instantly piqued. “Well I’ve a complaint or two myself when it comes to that passel of good-for-nothings who barely keep their?—”

“Charles,” he warned again.

“My lord.” She met his eyes with disdain. “They are uncivilized.”

He burst into laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” She looked doubly aggrieved.

“Because . . .” He was in stitches. “Because you look so appalled, woman!” He tried to calm his laughter, yet he could not quell his mirth. “Forgive me, Fox, I am thinking only of how . . . Well, let us be honest, Charles.” He gathered his wits. “You are rather the pot calling the kettle black, my dear.”

“I do not comprehend you, my lord.” She stiffened.

He merely raised a brow as his hand stroked the tip of one pink, delicious nipple into a perfect, pretty peak, causing her cheeks to blush a lovely hue of red.

“I happen to like how uncivilized you’ve become of late, Charles, and only find it amusing to discover you still think yourself?—”

“Moral? Principled?” she burst out, fast removing her body from his grasp. “It was you , sir, who insisted I distinguish mistress from whore, but apparently I am no better, and you have made me one in the eyes of all your men.” She scrambled from the bed to hurriedly begin to dress.

“Charles,” he sighed deeply from the pillows, “why must our every interaction turn so swiftly into disagreement, woman?”

“Why?” Her eyes blazed. “Because our interactions are based not on respect, my lord, but on abuse of power. Your power. I’ll not deny I enjoy our sexual congress. It shocks me that I do, but that is not what fuels our debate. What fuels our continued disagreement is that you see me as mere body upon which to slake your lust, rather than a thinking, feeling, being with needs equal to your own.” She was vibrating with anger. “So do not call me a pot, sir, when your kettle is just as black.”

His mistress abruptly turned from him and impossibly, stormed out.

Wells lay there, stunned. The way this woman took him to task was inconceivable. Why, he ought to bend her over his lap for another sound thrashing! A thought which only made his cock twitch in response as he forced the image from his mind. Why the devil he allowed her to talk to him as she did baffled, for it was not the first time she’d been so brazen in her speech—and no doubt would not be the last. Yet each time her words pushed and poked his conscience, he felt as aroused as he felt enraged, and a part of him also undeniably chastened. He wanted her to think better of him, damn it, which only maddened him more.

Bloody hell, he hissed as he got out of bed to dress and head to the south wall, to that pile of rubble, as far from his infuriating housekeeper as possible.

Charles stormed straight from Lord Wellesley’s bed into the kitchen, where she knew his blasted men would be breaking fast before commencing the day’s work. She launched herself into their midst, picking up a ladle and saucepan on her way in, before she stepped atop a chair and cracked both loudly over her head.

They fell quiet to a man, staring at her in shock.

No doubt she looked like a witch perched up there: hair akimbo, spoon and pan gripped fiercely in both hands.

“Miss Merrinan,” Cuthbert cautioned from a corner.

“Don’t you Miss Merrinan me, John Cuthbert.” Her eyes shot daggers at him before she glowered at the lot. “I’ve your attention at last and will damn well use it.”

One could have heard a pin drop, the room fell suddenly so still.

“Now, you louts, listen up. I will no longer tolerate the disrespect you continue to show me. I may be Lord Wellesley’s mistress, but I am housekeeper here too, and that position affords me control of the Abbey, under which roof you reside. So unless you wish to eat in the filthy stables where you sleep, you will behave yourselves in this kitchen, in these halls, and towards my person. Have I made myself clear, gentlemen ?” The word was vinegar on her tongue.

They stared at her, slack-jawed with equal parts horror and horn.

“Today our new cook, Mrs. Jenkins, arrives—a respected, upstanding widow whose culinary powers will have you slobbering like dogs. And though you don’t deserve to lick the pots she cooks in, you will behave yourselves in her presence or I swear to God I’ll castrate every one of you in your sleep.”

They continued to stare up at her, rapt, though it might have been her bosom that enthralled them most, she wasn’t sure. Even Cuthbert looked impressed.

“And if a one of you so much as breathes a hint of my relations with his lordship to Mrs. Jenkins or anyone else in all of Cumberland, I’ll have no qualms informing his lordship you dared lay hands on me. And then , gentlemen, we’ll see what ‘his grace’ does with you. And this only after I’ve cut off your puny cleppets.”

“Now that’s not fair, lass,” one of them piped up, looking confused by the word cleppets. “We’ve ne’er once laid a finger on yer, an’ y’ knows it.”

She narrowed her eyes to slits. “Aye,” she hissed, “yet I’ll perjure myself to hell, I will. I shall knowingly swear lies upon the Holy Bible just to see you louts suffer.”

That seemed to finally cow them.

“But neither am I cruel, lads, for if you promise me this, if you treat me with respect, keeping my reputation intact, I’ll give you what you want most of all.”

“What we want?” scoffed a voice. “Said yerself you’ll not splay yer legs fer us, woman.”

She bit her tongue from lashing back and instead inhaled a breath. “’Tis true, boys, I do but one man’s bidding in bed and that’s his lordship.” It almost physically hurt Charles to say this. “However, I’ve arranged for the village madam to service you all, two a night she’ll take for modest coin. But only if you give me your word, each of you now, that you will keep my relations with Lord Wells secret.”

She’d been appalled by all Miss Griswald had told her—more appalled, in fact, that she’d not been more shocked by the woman’s crass words. Because what Charles now did daily with his lordship at the Abbey was no different, really, than what Mamie did for blunt. Wellesley had told her a mistress was no whore, but from what the village madam had explained, little seemed to separate the two.

And the idea these men all saw her as such was unbearable.

She caught Cuthbert’s eye, who nicked his head in tacit approval before he stepped forward to interject.

“Oi!” he shouted above the fray. “You’ve me word, Miss Merrinan.” He looked serious. “I’ll keep me mouth shut.” He poked the man next to him.

“Aye, you’ve mine, too,” the man grumbled.

“An’ mine,” said another.

“Hell, if there’s a woman for us I’ll stay mum,” shouted one.

“Aye!” came shouts from several more until each man, at last, had sworn an oath.

Charles exhaled relief. “Good,” she told them. “Decide who sees Miss Griswald first, and I’ll arrange she take those men tonight.”

The room burst into raucous debate as she caught Cuthbert looking displeased he’d have to manage the ruckus she’d just caused. Then she quietly slipped out, grabbing a bite of yesterday’s loaf for breakfast and making her way to the sea room for some blessed peace and quiet.