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

Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“ I am not angry with you, Ellie,” Charles assured her sister, “I am merely stunned, is all, that you should have, well?—”

“That I should have feelings for John?” Her sister’s eyes flashed. “I know you think him unworthy, Charles, so beneath me that you will never see what I?—”

“I do not think him unworthy, Eleanor. I happen to have a great deal of respect for Cuthbert. That is not the issue.”

“Then what is the issue, Charles? I do not understand why you cannot be happy for me. Why you cannot?—”

“Eleanor,” she snapped, “I am unhappy not because of your feelings but because of what those feelings mean for your future.”

“But so long as?—”

“Let me finish, sister.” Charles steadied herself. “I made a vow to Mama that I would care for you and see you set in life. And I do not take my vow lightly. She would have wanted more for you, more than what John Cuthbert offers. Ellie, consider for a moment who he is. Did you know he is an orphan, without family? That Lord Wellesley’s father, the Duke, took him in as charity? He has no property, no standing in society, he has only the goodwill of his grace, the Duke, and his position at the Abbey as Lord Wellesley’s steward, on a salary I imagine can’t be all that much more than mine. Were you to marry him, where would you live? How would he support you and any children you might someday have?”

Eleanor looked defiant. “I should think we’d find a way, Charles, and that it would be no worse than living here alone with father as I do now.”

Charles glared at Ellie. “So it is escape you seek then? Perhaps you are less enamored of John Cuthbert and more of the chance to leave father and this house?”

“That is unkind and you know it!” Eleanor pushed back. “I would never abandon Father, ever. I would simply take him with me, or John live here with us. He is used to Papa already. He is not bothered by him. And besides, it is not as though you have any intention of returning soon, what with your new position and . . .” She abruptly stopped herself.

“And what, Eleanor?” Charles was surprised at how heated their argument had grown.

“And your own feelings for Lord Wells,” she threw at Charles in a fit of temper, only to immediately retract it. “Forgive me, Charles, I did not mean?—”

“Don’t you dare speak a word more to me, Eleanor.” Charles’s voice was brittle. “I am leaving now, and I will not be back.”

“Charles, please, I didn’t mean it, I swear I?—”

But she was too enraged to utter a word more for fear she might strike her sister outright. She could not bear to look at Ellie, all high and mighty in her newfound love, clueless as to what had been sacrificed for her, done for her.

“Charles!” Eleanor looked distraught. “Please!”

But she continued walking. She did not even consider his lordship remained yet inside with Father, hunched over a chessboard. She continued walking at a furious pace, her insides roiling with rage, sorrow, and beneath it all, a merciless knot of growing despair and creeping, insidious envy.

“Miss Eleanor?” Wells took one look at the girl’s face and knew something was wrong. “What has happened to distress you, miss?”

He watched her swallow her pain. “I have quarreled with Charles, my lord, and I fear?—”

“Fear?” He was now concerned. “What is there to fear, miss?”

“I fear I have wounded my sister irreparably, sir, and she will never forgive me now, never. ” And before he knew it, she’d covered her face with her hands, trying to hide from him.

“There now, miss, surely ’tis not so bad as that.” He procured her a handkerchief, which she took without question. “I am certain your sister will forgive you, whatever your quarrel.” Wells awkwardly patted her arm.

“She won’t.” Eleanor sniffed into his kerchief, allowing him to guide her to a kitchen chair. “Not Charles. She is not so forgiving. She is stubborn as a mule when hurt.”

“She loves you immensely.” He’d read enough of their correspondence to know this without doubt. “I am certain she will come round.”

The girl only sighed more deeply.

“Where is she now—your sister?”

“Gone, my lord. She did not wait for you.”

“Do you wish to tell me about your quarrel?”

She shook her head no.

“Do you wish me to sit here a moment longer with you?”

She nodded yes.

“Tea then?” he ventured, not quite sure how to deal with a distraught female, as he’d barely known what to do with her distraught old man.

“Oh!” She let out a gasp. “Yes of course, sir. I shall make us a pot at once. Do forgive me, my lord, I seem to have lost all sense of?—”

“Miss Eleanor, I mean to fetch you tea, not the other way round.” He gave her a little frown. “Now sit a moment and collect yourself.”

When she tried to rise he insisted, “That is an order, miss,” and she stayed put.

Wells put on the kettle and found the tea, busying himself in the ramshackle kitchen, thinking. No doubt they’d been arguing about Cuthbert. He would have to speak with Charles on the matter—sooner than later it seemed.

Yet when he arrived bearing the tray Miss Eleanor looked no better. In fact, the girl looked worse. He poured her a cup and carefully pushed it towards her.

“Drink,” he ordered softly.

“Lord Wells . . .” she began and then promptly broke off.

“You may speak freely, miss, I’ll not take offense.”

“Do you have feelings for my sister, sir? Have you . . .” She could not meet his eyes. “That is”—she nearly trembled to say it—“have you . . .”

He wouldn’t let her. “Your sister is an excellent housekeeper, Miss Eleanor, and excellent person. I have the highest regard for her, that is all.” He said this as matter-of-factly as humanly possible, knowing Charles would kill him if he did not.

“I know that sir, that is not . . . That is not what I meant.” She inhaled a deep breath. “Do you have feelings for her the way a man has feelings for a woman, my lord?” She boldly met his eye.

Wells blinked, nearly cracking under this woman’s gaze. She had her sister’s willpower, alright, and for an instant he didn’t know what the devil to tell her.

“Miss Eleanor I . . . cannot answer you that,” he choked out.

“And why not?”

“Because I do not have your sister’s permission to speak,” he finally said.

“You are a Peer of the Realm, Lord Wellesley.” She had suddenly grown calm. “You do not need anyone’s permission to speak, sir.”

He bit his tongue. “Be that as it may, miss, I gave your sister my word that I would not involve myself in her family’s affairs. In fact, she made me promise her no less as we walked here today.”

“And why is that, Lord Wellesley?” She continued to probe, disturbing him not a little by how swiftly her mood seemed to shift.

“Because she felt it unseemly for a lord to involve himself in his servant’s private life.” Wells could not seem to lie to her, try as he might.

“I see,” she answered. “I believe you have just answered my question then, my lord.”

“I have?”

“Yes,” she declared, remarkably now at ease. “It appears that you and my sister both have feelings for one another which you are neither willing, nor able, to admit. And I have unwittingly poked a hole in my sister’s well-worn armor, for which I must now pay a very dear price.”

“Miss Eleanor . . .” He tried to protest, but she merely held up her hand to still him.

These two , he thought to himself, recalcitrants.

“No, Lord Wellesley.” She shook her head at him. “I do not wish to hear more, as it will only put me in worse straits with Charles. I shall simply imagine what has transpired between you these past months and shall endeavor never to bring it up with her again.” She looked suddenly exhausted. And then, in a rapid turn of mind, burst out, “May I ask what you pay your steward, my lord?”

“Cuthbert?” He was astonished. “That is hardly your business, miss, though you may ask him yourself how much he?—”

“Is it enough to live on, sir, were he to take a wife, to have a family?” she persisted.

“Well I should think so, yes. And if I know John, he’s likely put funds aside, a nest egg as it were, for the day he leaves me, though I’d be loath to see him go.” He eyed her sharply. “If you mean to steal my friend and steward from me you’ve another think coming, miss.”

She held her ground, oblivious to his threat. “I mean nothing of the sort, Lord Wellesley. I mean only to keep your steward here with you, by your side. And I forever by his side,” she added quietly to herself. Then, standing up, she gave him a peculiar little smile. “Thank you so much for visiting, my lord. You have been most kind again to Father, who surely enjoyed the chess game very much. But if you’ll excuse me now I have a rather important letter to write to my sister, and if you do not mind, Lord Wellesley, I shall deliver it to her myself on the morrow.”

He stood quickly, bowed slightly, then made his way out the door, down the path, and onto the main footpath. He walked the entire way back in disbelief at Charles’s sister. Whoever had raised these Merrinan girls had been astonishingly negligent in teaching either one of them the deference due a duke’s son.

Termagants, he muttered to himself. Both of them.

That night Charles came late to his lordship’s bed. So late, in fact, that he was deep in sleep. She’d been so wounded by Eleanor’s blithe comment she’d wanted to hurl something at her sister, shatter a dish, strike her even. She’d been horrified by her overreaction, yet too proud to admit the source. Pride goes before a fall, her mother had warned her often. You’ll hurt only yourself, daughter, if you don’t learn to let a thing go. Do not be so proud you cannot ask for help, or admit when you’ve been wrong.

Well she’d been wrong alright. She’d been wrong to assume she could guard her soul against Roland Wellesley. And she could admit that what her parents had found with one another was a love so rare as to be impossible to repeat.

As Charles slipped beneath the covers, she was careful not to wake his lordship. She snuggled against his warm, bulky frame, craving his person now more than ever. She closed her eyes and pretended it was Christmas and they lay in the shell room once again. In her mind she heard his rich, sonorous voice tell her his fantastic stories; she wasn’t even sure they’d all been true. It had been magical to lie on the floor staring up at the star-studded ceiling, as if she stood on a ship under a constellated sky with he her captain, ferrying her off into adventure.

She loved how they’d merely spoken, too, that night; they’d not made love at all. She had felt a knot in her gut unspool only to reel her deeper in, binding her to him more firmly than ever. She’d wanted to remain in that room with Roland Wellesley, suspended in time, in a life she might never lead but could imagine in that moment, with him. His voice at her ear had filled her with such warmth and trust and longing she knew she would pay for it with her heart, but that night, just briefly, he’d been hers and she his.

Already, the memory was bittersweet.