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

Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

J ohn imagined things could be worse. After all, the gale had trapped him with Eleanor Merrinan for Christmas, not some snow bank somewhere he’d like as not freeze to death. He was used to storms at sea but this was something else entirely. He’d never seen so much snow in all his life. He wondered, briefly, how Lord Wells was faring at the Abbey and then promptly forgot about him; his grace’s housekeeping mistress was competent enough to see the Abbey through both holiday and snow.

He snuck another peek at Eleanor, who was busy unraveling a moth-eaten wool shawl he held stretched between his thick hands. She worried her lip while she worked, making him want to kiss the pretty pout so badly he’d nearly dropped the shawl a few times already. He constantly had to keep himself in check, in the presence of this lady. For he still thought of her as one, even though she waited on him the same way she served her father. He wasn’t used to such attention. He wasn’t used to being alone in a small space with a woman either, forever bumping into her. Of course her old man was with them too, but the sad fellow existed on such a wholly different plane it felt to John as if Merrinan himself were but furniture and he were in truth alone with Miss Eleanor, unchaperoned.

Except, that is, when Merrinan had one of his fits, yelling and flailing and gnashing his teeth. It was on those occasions when he relived his wife’s death that he acted so out of character. John had seen it twice now and felt deeply for poor Eleanor, who managed her father as best she could during these episodes. Once, his wild gestures had knocked her flat to floor and John had barely stopped himself from throttling the old man. He’d forcibly removed him from her presence and locked him in his bedroom, yet by the time he’d returned she was back on her feet, dismissive of the incident. She may not have her sister’s temper, but Eleanor was no lightweight. She couldn’t be, to live alone with her father as she did.

“John.” He thought he heard her voice. “ John. ”

“Beg pardon, miss.” He looked up. “Lost in thought I s’pose.”

“And just what thought might that be, sir?” Her wide brown eyes were luminous in the firelight—eyes a man could get lost in.

“Oi, naught what needs concern yerself, miss.” He might have blushed; he did not wish to reveal the nature of his thoughts or feelings to her.

She frowned. “I should think I may be the judge of that, sir. You needn’t treat me like a child, you know.”

“Why, I . . .” John was distraught. “I meant no offense, miss, truly. ’Twas only work at the Abbey I were mullin’, and surely ’tis borin’ t’ one such as yerself.”

She cast him an earnest look. “ Nothing is boring to me, John, absolutely nothing. You see how I live out here with Papa. Can you tell me, honestly, that I should ever be bored by anything you might say?”

He’d not thought of it that way. Come to think of it, she was always making him think of things in new ways.

“I beg yer pardon, Miss Merrinan, for assumin’ anythin’ at all, you’re right. Only I’d rather speak o’ things other’n work when I’m with you, miss. Finer, better things.”

“Like what, John?” She smiled again, more warmly still, and his heart wrenched to see her face light up. “And I must insist you call me Ellie, please, as there is surely no need for formality here.”

It was his turn to frown. “No miss, I won’t. Lord Wells—not t’ mention yer sister—wouldn’t stand for such behavior, and I’ll not?—”

Her hand snaked out to grip his warmly as he glanced down at it in alarm.

“John Cuthbert, look about you, sir. Neither Lord Wellesley nor Charles is here right now, and I have given you permission to call me by my name. Now will you or won’t you be man enough to do so?”

He stared at her in shock, seeing yet another side to this woman who with each passing day revealed she was not one to trifle with. “Very well, Ellie,” he grumbled, looking away. “Only I still don’t think it’s right t’—”

“Well I think it is perfectly right, and it pleases me to hear you say my name, John.” She squeezed his hand. “Now sit closer, I beg, that you might block the draft from the door with your great hulking frame, please.”

Her eyes twinkled with mirth, for it had become their running joke in the storm that Cuthbert keep her and her father warm by simply standing his bulky self in front of drafty windows.

John did as she asked and pulled his chair nearer to hers, a little closer than was necessary so he could smell the sweet scent of her. She, meanwhile, put down her skein and took the half unraveled wool from his hands, setting both aside before she smoothed her skirts and laid her head upon his shoulder, as if it were the most natural thing in all the world.

“I shall use you as a pillow too, John, if you don’t mind. See how useful you are?” She teased him with another smile. “Tell me a story, please, any story at all.”

And John Cuthbert, nearly frozen with surprise, was not so shy as to let an opportunity like this one pass him by. He slipped an arm about her waist and drew her closer still, hearing her exhale the softest little sigh. Then he mustered a deep, warm voice and told her of his adventures at sea with Lord Wells, lulling her into visions and dreams most fantastic, he hoped, until she’d closed her eyes in sleep.

“But surely yer lordship can’t mean to . . . !”

Clarice stood nervously twisting her apron next to Marta, both girls hovering behind Lord Wellesley, whose sleeves were rolled up, forearms plunged into soapy dishwater, as Charles watched from the doorway. She folded her own arms and secretly grinned to herself.

“Of course I mean to,” he snapped at them. “Now out of my kitchen, both of you. It is St. Stephen’s, for God’s sake, and you are in my way,” he ordered.

To which they scurried out, quick as could be.

Charles snuck up behind him, casting a furtive glance towards the door before slipping her arms about his middle to whisper, “I like you on my staff, Roland.” She deliberately used his name. “You make a fine scullery, my lord.”

To which he spun about, soapy arms fast drawing her to him. “Command me today, Miss Merrinan, while you still may. Tonight, too, whatever my mistress asks shall be hers.”

And Charles blushed to think Lord Wells would do her bidding this day too. She kissed him hard. “I shall spend the day in thought, sir, as to how you might please me this night, for I’ll expect no objections, only strict obedience.”

“Just you wait, Fox.” He kissed her fiercely. “I will not disappoint.”

For the rest of St. Stephen’s, Wells remained as good as his word, shocking Mrs. Jenkins most of all, that he should commandeer her kitchen. He fried them all eggs for dinner, he scrubbed sheets for Ginny in the laundry; he even beat rugs for Ruby.

As for his crew, they knew the drill, for he’d served them on St. Stephen’s even at sea, hauling rigging and swabbing decks. They laughed and jeered at him good naturedly as he went about their tasks, telling him he were better on a ship, aye, than here on land, useless blueblood! To which he played along, cussing and cursing them roundly, telling them they were worthless good-for-nothings he’d fire on the morrow. They could rot in hell for all he cared!

It was a game played and enjoyed by all, most especially Wells, for it was the one day each year he could pretend to be one of them, when he could forget all about the damn Dukedom. He reveled in belonging, if but a little while. It felt briefly as it had on his ship, when his crew had been his family. He’d missed that.

That night, Charles snuck into his lordship’s room to slip into his bed.

Immediately, he grabbed her to him. “You’ve an hour at most, miss, before St. Stephen’s ends. Speak now what you desire of me, Fox.”

She hesitated, for all day she’d been mulling what she wished from him. And the longer she’d mulled the more she’d come to such a simple request she knew it was impossible for him to fulfill. But she blurted it anyway, because he’d pleasured her body enough in past it was not as though she needed more of that . What she desired was something far more intimate, which he’d never be able to give her, even if he tried.

“I wish you weren’t the Duke’s son, my lord.” She told him in a rush. “I wish you were a village gadgie instead, a simple lad to court me. Treat me like your equal in bed tonight, please; I do not wish to be your mistress. Make love like a man loves a woman. Can you do that, Roland? Sir?” He suddenly struck her as far away, and she feared her words had upset him.

“I meant no harm by it, truly you needn’t . . .” Charles struggled. “If it displeases your lordship then you needn’t play along. I should be content if you merely?—”

His lips silenced her swiftly, passionately. He stole her breath away.

“I shall try, Fox. I shall try my best to be that man. I wish I were but a simple lad and not the future Duke. I wish I could steal you away to some snug little cottage, to a life of simple harvests, children tall as weeds, memories grown ripe with age.”

She kissed him quiet. “Then give me that, Roland, pretend we have that life. Just for tonight, I beg. Tomorrow I am your mistress and you my lord, but this night be master of none, stonemason only.”

“Aye and you but my lusty village lass.” He grinned at her, his mood lifted, even as his lips caught her own in a kiss that lasted through the night, tasting of freedom.

John dried the dishes as Eleanor washed. It was St. Stephen’s so he’d insisted on helping. He still found it hard to call her Ellie, but he’d tried a few times, her name on his tongue altogether too sweet. She was telling him something, talking again, but he’d not heard a word, his eyes drifting to the nape of her neck bent over the sink, the tendrils of hair curling there like pea shoots in spring. How he longed to reach out and . . .

With a crash the plate dropped to floor as John, horrified, looked down at his feet. Why the devil had he let it slip from his hands? He bent at once to collect the shards but then knocked into Eleanor, who’d bent down too, their foreheads colliding in a bump that sent them both reeling backwards.

“Ellie!” he exclaimed, rushing to pull her back up, his hand reaching out to touch her scalp tenderly, fearing he’d injured her.

She rubbed her head, wincing a little, before she laughed at him. “’Tis nothing, really,” she declared. “The kitchen is too small for you; I told you not to help me in here.”

Yet his hand, still at her soft hair, wouldn’t let go, as he found himself tracing her cheek with his finger, then tracing her lips. His hand had a will of its own.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Eleanor, I’m that sorry,” he told her, hand still on her lips when she suddenly pressed her mouth to his fingers and kissed him there, her lips soon kissing the palm of his hand, heat searing his flesh.

He could stand it no more. He took her face in both hands, drawing her to his mouth, where he kissed her hard, insisting she open to him and she did, her own hands wrapping about the back of his neck to draw him closer, too, as his tongue searched and found hers willing.

They kissed greedily, then tenderly almost, before he wrenched himself away and fled the room, quickly donning his coat to head straight outside into the swirling, white-cold air, to where he might at last catch his breath.