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

Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

D espite his better judgement, Wells unfolded Eleanor’s letter to Charles.

My Dearest Charles,

I know we have quarreled and I hate it so. But I also know you are too angry with me to visit or write, so I’ve no choice but to unburden my conscience in this letter instead.

Wells almost folded the note back up, hearing John’s voice berate him; he quashed it and read on.

I do not presume to know what you have endured since the night you left us to steal two chickens. I curse the day you did, for ever since we have been parted, and by more than mere distance it seems. You write me only half truths, I can tell, nor do I insist you tell me all. But I despair that you have taken upon yourself responsibility for my happiness at great cost to your own. It is not right, sister, and I will not accept it. You have sacrificed much for me and Papa, too much, and I hereby absolve you of your burden. I am old enough now to make decisions of my own, to steer my own course. Father remains a burden, of course, but he is both our burden, which you shall not bear alone, not so long as I live. So Charles, I beg you let go this notion of a London season for me. How many years must you toil for Lord Wellesley before you save enough to make such a thing happen? And why London again, after how shabbily that city treated us? I’ll not return to Mother’s family, nor will you, and without their support, no season can happen for either of us, you know this.

Charles had spoken before of giving her sister a London season, but who exactly were these grandparents of theirs? Wells felt a creeping unease as he continued to read the letter he’d conveniently accepted from Eleanor on Charles’s behalf. He’d sent Cuthbert to accompany the young woman back to her father’s house. She’d been disappointed not to see Charles, but he’d been unable to convince his housekeeper to speak with her, despite the fact Eleanor had traipsed all the way to the Abbey herself.

As for John, I intend to ask him how he feels, for though I shudder to imagine he does not care for me, I am not so foolish as to mope about, waiting for a sign from him either. I shall ask him outright his intentions, and upon learning them decide what action next to take. You see, Charles, I learned from you one must indeed at times act, however rashly, in order to move forward in life. Had you not acted all this time on our behalf, Papa and I should surely have perished. And though I rue the day you poached those chickens, your action that night set us both on new paths: I should never have met John Cuthbert, nor you Lord Wellesley. Do not be angry that I write it, Charles, because it is the truth. And his lordship is an honorable man. I cannot but think him otherwise when all he’s done and said thus far indicate no less. And though we both know he cannot be more to you, I would hope you may depend on him as something of a friend. I love you and beg your forgiveness for my words.

Yours, Eleanor

Wells needed to sit down. He felt a wave of guilt for being privy to this girl’s thoughts, intimate as they were, and an equal stab for what she’d written this time—that her sister trust him to be an honorable friend when he had acted anything but honorably towards Charles Merrinan from the start.

He swallowed hard. He’d been an utter heel to force Charles to become his mistress. She might enjoy him now, but he well recalled the look of terror on her face that first night he’d demanded she strip and bathe before him, and later when he’d . . .

Yet he pushed those thoughts from mind, deciding right then this was the last letter he’d read. He could no longer stand to see himself through Eleanor Merrinan’s eyes when he knew full well he wasn’t honorable in the least. Hell, he’d long eschewed the very notion of being a proper gentleman, else he should never have run off to sea and abandoned his duties, to his mother’s enduring dismay. But to have such a lady as Eleanor think so highly of him when in reality he was so base, well . . . Were he to continue reading her correspondence he should feel only more guilty.

Wells further berated himself. Was it any wonder his betrothed had eloped with Lord Hawlings rather than marry him? Perhaps she’d seen through his act and seen him for the cad he was. Perhaps she couldn’t stomach the thought of marrying a future duke who would bed her for an heir and then leave her for years at a time, gallivanting about the globe and taking mistresses as he pleased. He’d not be the first peer to do so, but reading the Merrinan sisters’ letters had put him in the uncomfortable position of feeling what it was to be a woman, at the mercy of men, beholden to them for their happiness, for their very existence. It was an uncomfortable, unexpected feeling he did not enjoy experiencing in the least.

Wells rose from the chair to deliver Charles her sister’s letter, wondering how she’d react to Eleanor’s words. She’d not visited him since the disagreement with her sister—or if she had she’d left too early for him to notice. He’d not gone to her either, recognizing she needed space. Yet he’d missed her, missed her even now. As much as he hated himself for his behavior towards his housekeeper, he still wanted her in his bed, desperately almost wanted her in his arms. Like a man parched for water, now that he had sampled her elixir, there seemed no going back.

“John . . .” Eleanor hesitated slightly, her arm still tight about his own, her father’s house faintly visible on the horizon. John had jumped at the chance to accompany Eleanor back after she’d delivered her letter in person at the Abbey, though he’d not been pleased that letter had fallen directly into Wellesley’s hands. Charles had stubbornly refused to see her sister. Fool gel.

“May I speak freely with you?” Ellie continued. “You won’t take offense?”

“’Course not.” John pulled her closer. “I should never be mad at you, Ellie.” And in that instant he truly could not fathom being cross with her. Ever.

“The other day, when we, when you kissed me, did you?—?”

“I should never’ve been so bold, miss. I do beg your forgiveness.” His heart pounded in his chest, the words feeling clumsy and rushed.

“No, I did not think you bold at all, John. That was not my question, quite the opposite.”

“The opposite?” She amazed him. Utterly.

Eleanor stopped him in his tracks. “John Cuthbert, do you have feelings for me, sir?”

He nearly tripped his feet. “Ellie, love, y’ know I do!”

“Only I do not, you see, know , because we’ve never spoken of our feelings, John. We have kissed but once, and it is important for me to truly know how you?—”

Yet already, his lips were upon her something fierce, her words silenced with such strength of feeling he worried almost, that she might faint.

When at last he broke off, his voice sounded harsh to his ears. “That answer yer question, woman?”

“John,” she exhaled his name, collecting herself, “I should like to hear you say it. Not just kissing, but . . . words.”

He struggled. “Miss Eleanor . . .”

“Ellie,” she corrected.

“Ellie, you’re the, why, the loveliest woman I’ve ever known, miss, and I’ve known women, plenty of ’em. I’ll not lie t’ you. But none’ve ever made me feel as you do.” He fumbled to find words. “Yet I’m no . . . I’m not yer equal, miss, anyone can see that. So t’ declare meself, t’ court you properly, why, it’d make a fool o’ you, and a lowlife out o’ me, and I’ll not do that t’ either of us. You deserve better’n what little I can give. I’m sure yer own sister would say the same if she knew the half o’—”

“You leave Charles out of this, John Cuthbert.” Her tone tongue-whipped him. “This is between you and me and not another soul in this world, do you hear me?” Her eyes blazed at him, lighting a flame inside his soul he tried desperately, abysmally, to squelch.

“I meant no disrespect, Ellie. Meant only t’ say that others, too, wouldn’t look kindly on me courtin’ you, and I would court you, Ellie, y’ know I would. I’d not ask for yer hand without first?—”

“You’d ask for my hand then?” Soft, doe eyes suddenly flew to his face, searching.

“If I were a different man, if I’d means or a name or, well, anythin’ at all t’ offer you o’ course I would, Eleanor. I’d be a damn fool not to,” he ground out, impassioned.

“Good.” She let out such a satisfied huff of air he simply stared at her in awe a moment, disbelieving. She then took his arm snugly in her own and began to march them along, back towards her father’s house. “I should like you to court me, John, and after a reasonable amount of time, you may ask for my hand.”

He was dumbfounded, abruptly stopping them. “Ellie, y’ can’t?—”

“Can’t what?” Her look burned a hole in his chest. “Do you think I am not serious, John? Do you think me so changeable, so inconstant, that I would ask you to court me and then refuse you in the end? Because if you think that of me, John Cuthbert, I tell you now I am not that woman.”

He was nearly speechless. “Ellie, love,” he told her, “I’d never think that of you, honest. Only I’ve naught t’ offer you but what some other gentleman couldn’t offer in plenty, giving you what you deserve, miss, which is?—”

“John, you are what I want. And if you offer me yourself, I shall need for nothing else. What have I now that is so precious I cannot lose it?” she beseeched. “I have but only myself to give you, too, and if you would have me, I can imagine no greater gift than?—”

Yet already he had her in his arms, kissing her with a madness, a need more overpowering than before. And this time, she matched his longing kiss for kiss, shocking him even more.

It was a long time before they made it indoors.

That night Charles lay in bed alone, thinking. She’d nearly burned her sister’s letter in disgust. No, not in disgust, in despair. Ellie was a fool to throw herself away on Cuthbert of all men. She was young and silly, ignorant of love’s dangers, to be wooed by a rotten, measly kiss. How could one kiss turn her sister into such a simpleton?

Yet Charles knew how. She herself had been reduced by a kiss before, and the memory of that kiss, of where she’d been kissed, haunted her still. Lord Wellesley had proven again and again just how much a person could be ruled by the body, how she could be ruled. She wasn’t proud of herself, but Charles understood herself better; she didn’t want Eleanor to learn the same lesson.

Her sister must be made to see reason. She’d talk to Cuthbert tomorrow about it, not his lordship, for Wells, no doubt, cared little whom her sister married. Though like as not he’d prefer his steward remain unattached. Oh how she wished Cuthbert had not been the one to deliver Eleanor those blasted baskets! And yet without those baskets . . . She shuddered to imagine her family this winter without food.

Charles tossed and turned on her hard little bed, unable to sleep. Her closet room was always cold. As soon as the hot water bottle cooled she felt the chill creep into her bones. She missed his lordship’s bed. He was warm. He knew how to drive away her fears and sorrows with kisses and caresses. Roland Rutherford knew just how to comfort.

In a flash, she threw off the covers and jumped out of bed.

***

Wells felt something cold wriggle against him for warmth, burrowing itself into his chest. He closed his body around the insistent beast, pulling it closer to him, warming it, until a kittenish sigh was heard, and lips felt, all along his breastbone. The creature snuggled deeper into him as he kissed the top of its head.

“Closer,” he told Charles, smiling. And if possible she wriggled in more, her entire body now pressed into the hollow of his own.

“Your feet are cold,” he grumbled.

“I’m sorry.” Her breath was hot against his chest.

“Don’t be, Fox. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she started, “only don’t speak, Roland, please. Just hold me, will you?”

“Not even a story?” He drew her closer.

She stilled a moment. “Perhaps a story, yes.”

“Good.” He squeezed her till she gasped. “For there once was a lass named Daisy, a very buxom lass, who’d her eye on a lad named Tom, who was so well endowed he . . .”

She was suddenly shaking in his arms. “You lummox, you!” Her head lifted from his chest in laughter. “Not a naughty story!”

“Why not a naughty story?” He kept a straight face. “Do you not wish to know what Tom did to Daisy?”

“Lord Wells, you are the most incorrigible man I have ever?—”

“Or would you rather I show you what Tom did to Daisy?” His hand slipped low, gripping one lush bottom cheek.

“My lord!” she protested.

“Well, do you?” He began to knead the delicious swell of flesh.

In answer she sank her teeth into his shoulder as he let out a rush of air and smacked her buttock, only to murmur “I thought so” into her oh-so-soft hair.