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

Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

W ells made no mention to Charles of the visit he’d paid her family. He’d enough to chew on from his conversation with Miss Eleanor—not to mention the strange ramblings of her father—to keep his mind busy even as his hands labored at the south wall. That his mistress’s family had been of some repute in the past was now abundantly clear. That she was still an obstreperous hellion was another matter.

He kept his distance, and she hers, their only communication now relegated to household matters. He noticed she’d nearly finished with the staff rooms, and he’d put in solid work every day alongside stonemason Adams’s men. Thus progress, at least on the Abbey, was being made.

Yet at night his bed was empty, and the fact that she slept but a few doors down the hall was a temptation he’d nearly succumbed to several times. It would be easy to slip into her room and kiss her into submission, carry her back to his bed, kicking and screaming even. Only he wanted her to come to him. He wanted her apology and her admission of guilt. He wanted her to desire him , and in so doing, willingly give herself to him again.

And still she did not.

Cuthbert grudgingly handed Wells another letter.

“’T’ain’t right, sir,” he grumbled again.

Wells merely glared back. “I’ll be the judge of my own conscience, John. Wait while I read it, then you may give it to her.”

Dearest Charles,

How your words fill me with joy, sister! I am so grateful for your news, yet I have news of my own this time. Imagine my surprise the other morning when Lord Wellesley himself arrived alongside Mr. Cuthbert. I nearly died of shame that he should enter our lowly home. Yet he behaved with such absolute decorum, as if to sit and breakfast with us were the most natural thing in the world! He was kind to Papa, too, whom you can imagine said all manner of disagreeable things. Yet Wellesley treated him with the utmost respect. It made me nearly weep, to see a lord such as he regard our father with such gentleness.

He’d made a good impression on the sister, at least.

So I cannot in good faith comprehend, Charles, why you disparage his lordship in your letters. He struck me as the very picture of nobility. He admitted, even, that John Cuthbert was his best friend. Imagine a lord and layman friends! He took me on a walk about our sorry garden—can you picture how absurd it must have looked? Frumpy me promenading the Duke of Allendale’s handsome, charming heir. It was a scene from a fairytale almost! And yet your letters tell of a very different man who is anything but a prince, and I cannot reconcile this with the lord who came to visit. Perhaps I only dreamt him after all, because Lord Wellesley was not the least bit awful, sister. So you must explain your low opinion of him, Charles, else I shall not believe you.

Low opinion, eh? What the devil had Charles written to her sister about him?

Father is well, the chickens lay daily, and . . .

He skimmed ahead.

. . . as to your offer, I must refuse. You cannot save every penny you earn solely for me. Why do you not see yourself also someday wed? I love you more than anyone in this world, Charles, (except for Papa, of course) yet you baffle me at times. I suspect you baffle others as well. Lord Wellesley must surely find you a difficult housekeeper if you question him at every turn. He is heir to a dukedom, Charles. You cannot speak to him as if you were his equal when clearly you are not.

Write to me soon! Ever yours, Ellie

Wells carefully folded the letter back into its original creases and handed it to Cuthbert without a word. Then he leaned back in his chair, mulling. At least Miss Eleanor thought highly of him. Yet she’d no reason not to. Charles, of course, had reason in plenty, reasons he knew all too damn well. No wonder she’d been desperate to become anything but his mistress. Miss Eleanor would be horrified if she knew the truth. And no wonder she’d reacted with such horror when he’d publicly chastised her before Adams’s men.

He sighed. Perhaps her sister’s letter would make Charles at last see reason, for she could not continue to speak to him as she did. She must submit to his will or he’d have no choice but to cast her out and find himself a new mistress—and new housekeeper—because she tempted him too much, even traipsing about the Abbey in that dull new uniform of hers.

The trouble was, Wells did not want just any mistress anymore. He wanted her , bloody hell.

In between her work, Charles read over her sister’s letter, still shocked his lordship had visited her family and still stewing over why the devil he had. Did he somehow mean to injure her further? Or was he simply making sure she’d not lied to him about her father and sister? Perhaps he was simply curious? He couldn’t be. He was too self-centered for that. She’d need to query Cuthbert, for if the steward truly were a ‘friend’ to Wells, as Ellie had written, he’d have some opinion as to why his lordship had sought out her family. Why indeed! And devil take the blasted man for even occupying her thoughts!

Truth be told, Eleanor’s letter had only inflamed Charles’s own roiling temper more. She remained disgusted at herself for wishing Lord Wells would demand his gratification. It had been days since he’d done so, and she ought to be relieved. Instead, she missed the wicked ways with which he disturbed her work in the middle of the day: passionately crushing her up against a wall, a table, or even splaying her out across the floor.

She grew flushed just picturing past encounters, at war with herself for reliving such lustful, primitive acts. Because tender or cruel, she’d relished Lord Wellesley’s attentions, so what did that say about her? Surely her parents had not been so rough in their lovemaking. She remembered them softly touching one another during the day—secret, gentle touches—nothing remotely lewd. She could think of no more loving couple than her parents. Indeed, her entire understanding of romantic love was based on the model of their marriage and precisely what she wished for Eleanor someday.

She, alas, would never be so lucky.

Wells had just slipped the shirt off his head that evening when he heard a knock at the door.

“Enter,” he called, expecting Cuthbert.

Yet it was his housekeeper instead who marched inside, making his heart skip to think she might relent at last.

“My lord, have I leave to speak?” She bobbed a proper curtsy with her question.

“You do.” He motioned her to continue before removing his boots.

“The rooms are ready for tomorrow’s arrivals, sir. I’ve arranged for Cuthbert and Fergus to fetch the new help and have given your men strict orders not to hassle the girls.” She paused. “Although it might impress them even more, my lord, were you to reinforce this yourself.”

“Done.” He began to unbutton his fall.

She swallowed, looking away. “I also received a letter today from my sister, sir, who informed me you visited her and my father this week.”

“I did.”

She rushed to speak. “I should like to thank you for the kindness she wrote you showed our father given his infirmity. He is not the man he once was, my lord, and she tells me you were most respectful towards him despite his own lack of courtesy.” She swallowed again. “I am sure it brought him great pleasure to have you visit, Lord Wellesley.”

“It brought me pleasure too, Charles.” He spoke without emotion, looking straight at her enough that she blushed. “Your sister was perfectly delightful and your father, in his way, quite the gentleman.” Wells flashed her a small smile.

She wagered a timid one in return. “He was once, my lord, a gentleman, and both soldier and scholar, sir.”

“And your mother?” he asked.

“A lady, sir, of the finest caliber.” She hesitated. “Theirs was a love match, which is why he took her passing so hard. We believe he suffered a fit upon her death, likely apoplexy.”

“I see.” He chose not to press her more.

“My lord, I should also like to offer an apology for the manner in which I behaved before, in the courtyard regarding the saddle.” She hurried to finish. “I should not have spoken as I did, in such coarse terms, nor responded as I did to your lordship’s chastisement.” She looked down. “Were my mother alive she would find great fault in the manner in which I have behaved, and I give you my word I shall improve my behavior in future.” He watched her hands ball into fists at her sides. “It is not easy for me, my lord, to serve under your . . . direction.”

His mistress’s apology had come, but not as he’d expected. She’d not thrown herself at his feet, begging his forgiveness, nor had she thrown herself into his arms, begging for his bed. Instead, she’d humbled herself rather nicely, owning up to her errors. Wells was not sure how to respond.

“Apology accepted, Miss Merrinan. Your sister asked that I be forgiving of your . . . spirited nature, I believe she called it.” He exhaled a breath. “It is not something I wish to quell in you, Charles. It is something I admire, even, in you.” He searched for words. “But I have a role to play, a role which demands obedience and respect here at Almsdale. And if I show you too much favor, tolerate too oft your impertinence, then I become weak. And I cannot show weakness before my subjects. It is a role I must take seriously, Charles, even if I am not yet the Duke of Allendale—and even if it gives me little pleasure to imagine myself one day Duke. What pleasure I have found here, has been only with you, lass, in your arms.”

He watched her eyes grow wide—likely at his slip in speech—for that word lass had again tumbled from his lips as if he were a wholly different man. He upbraided himself as her dark green irises stared deep into his eyes, as if she wished to devour him with her gaze.

And then she bolted from his chamber, footsteps pounding down the hallway’s flagstone like a spooked colt. Unbelievable!

Wells shook his head in arousal, confusion, and then sheer frustration. Maybe he did, in fact, need a different mistress. He’d tell Cuthbert as much tomorrow—see if his man couldn’t find him a simpler, pretty enough village girl. Because Charles Merrinan was too much for him to handle. He didn’t care anymore how well she argued, or how well she fucked. He could not comprehend this woman’s behavior, nor would he likely ever.

***

Charles scurried down the hall to her closet of a room and slammed the door shut with a bang. The hammering in her heart was so loud, so deafening, she thought the poor organ might expire in her chest. She could scarcely breathe for her heart’s terrific pounding. She wanted to run straight into Lord Wellesley’s arms and crush her body to his. Yet she could not, dared not, let him see her so completely overcome by his words.

His tenderness, this time, had torn her open. Charles felt more alone than ever before.