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

Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“ A nd just when am I free , sir, to enjoy books? I do not recall being granted any time off.” Charles arched her brow at Wells.

He’d caught her leafing through the library, when she was supposed to be dusting its shelves. Wells threw caution to the wind. “Yes, well, that was before you proved yourself . . . amenable.”

“So now I am allowed a day of freedom every two weeks, like the rest of your staff?” she pressed.

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“Then I shall set aside a few books for that day.” She took the one she’d been skimming and added another, then several more, until she’d built a tall pile upon the table.

“Just how much reading do you intend to do, woman?” Wells frowned at her stack.

“I must make up for lost time,” she blithely answered.

“Surely with your father the village schoolteacher you?—”

“We had to sell every book we owned, my lord.”

“Ah.” He was embarrassed, but only for a moment. “You might read to me in bed, you know. To make up for that lost time.”

She put a finger to her lips and pointedly glanced towards the open door.

“Charles, if even Jenkins suspects our nocturnal pursuits I hardly think?—”

“The girls do not, sir.” She kept her voice lowered. “And I should like to keep it that way lest we put ideas in their heads.” Her eyes were adamant. “I see the way they flirt with your men, and I’ll be damned if my staff?—”

“ Your staff, I daresay, are kept on a very short leash. And you rather handily remedied my crew’s yearnings for female company the day you introduced them to the village madam.”

“Well yes, Mamie has proven quite effective.”

“So they’ve no need to go chasing skirts.”

“Men will always chase skirts, my lord, especially youthful, pretty skirts.”

“Ruby is rather fetching, I’ll admit.” Wells smirked.

“Stop baiting me!”

“Surely you’re not jealous, Charles.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she huffed. “But when you tire of me, you may not have Ruby, Lord Wellesley. I will insist you send to London for your next mistress. I won’t have you ruin another Cumberland girl.”

“I’ll never tire of you, Fox.” The back of his hand caressed her cheek.

“You will, sir.” Color rose to her face. And then she physically began to propel him towards the door.

“Oh, ye of little faith.” He inwardly laughed, letting her.

“Oh, ye of little decency,” she grumbled from behind, steadily pushing him out.

Suddenly Wells twisted her about to face him, his hand on the back of her neck in a grip that left no question. “I meant it, Charles. I shan’t tire of you, ever.”

She stilled beneath his grasp.

“Must I prove to you my ardor?” He ground his hips against her skirt as his foot slammed the door now behind her, pressing her up against its hard, wood panels.

“My lord . . .” Her protest sounded weak.

“You forget who I am, woman.”

***

Charles’s breaths came fast, her body lit from within. It had been a long time since he’d taken her like this, in the middle of the day, interrupting her duties. Her heart thudded in her chest as her legs wobbled almost, unsteady.

“I have not forgotten, Lord Wellesley.” Her eyes met his in a blaze of heat.

“Prove it,” he ordered, tightening his hold on her neck.

Charles’s hands fell to his fall, fumbling to release him, while he pushed her to her knees, demanding she obey. He angled her head back to give him what he wanted, and she took him as deep as she could, her ability to control his pleasure as arousing as the grip he maintained on her head.

When he’d done, he sounded winded, pressing his forehead a moment to the door. Then he made her stand and lift her skirts as he pushed her shoulders into the hard wood, pulling her hips towards him. He slipped a hand between her legs and began to work her in earnest, until Charles was forced to bite back a scream.

“Do you still say I’ll forget you?” He stared into her eyes, his gaze piercing.

“My lord,” she begged, panting. Her mind was a mess, her body a wild and greedy thing.

“Say it,” he urged, his hand stroking her into submission.

“ Roland . . .” she pleaded.

“Say you do not doubt me and I’ll grant you your release.”

She met his eyes in desperation.

“I cannot . . .” she started, but he pressed her more deeply to the door, his body pinning her now beneath him as his hand plundered her core and her pleasure mounted, the pressure so exquisite and full she . . .

“I don’t doubt!” Charles gasped as he pushed her over the edge, supporting her breaking, shattering body while tremors shuddered through her.

He gave her a moment to regain her senses, then gently pulled her skirts from her hands, unballing the twisted fabric from her fists.

His lordship lovingly bit her lip. “Finish your dusting, housekeeper.” His ensuing kiss scorched her soul. “And remember who you serve in this house.” He slid his hand to her bodice, squeezing one breast through her dress. “I’ll expect you in my bed tonight, willing and eager. Unquestioning .”

As the door clicked shut Charles slumped to the floor, exhausted and inflamed. She was stunned by the encounter and thought briefly of Eleanor, of how little her sister knew of men. She was flummoxed by her own response to Lord Wellesley’s behavior, for here she was again, as aroused by his rough treatment as she was his more generous nature. Tender and cruel, her master.

She adjusted her skirts and returned to her work, her legs still unsteady and her heart in knots. Charles did not peek inside anymore books.

It struck Wells that evening that he was, perhaps, content. Ever since the disaster in London he’d been restless, on edge somehow, and yet tonight, seated in his parlor by a warm fire, a glass of fine claret in his hand, he felt calm. The south wall had been repaired just before the snows hit. The men injured in the collapse were healing well, and come spring Adams’s crew would begin work on the north end. What’s more, the Abbey inside was slowly being transformed. Cuthbert was the perfect steward, Jenkins the perfect cook, and Charles Merrinan the perfect lover. He smiled just to think on her. Every interaction with his housekeeping mistress these days brought a smile to his face, even when she balked at his requests. Even then, frustrated by his teasing, her eyes told him she was his. His Fox wanted him now, just as much as he wanted her.

He leaned back in his chair and took another sip. Life was indeed good. He was not being tossed about on a ship, he was not being harangued by marriage-hungry harpies in London drawing rooms, he was not being forced to dance with dull debutantesat crushing balls. He was his own man, in his own home, surrounded by competent, willing staff—and a damn fine mistress. Which set his thoughts drifting towards what he’d made Charles do in the library this afternoon, and what he might do with her tonight, when she presented herself as ordered.

“Yer Grace?” Cuthbert’s knock interrupted.

“John.” He motioned him in.

“A word, sir?”

Wells nodded.

Cuthbert stared awkwardly at his feet. “I should like permission t’ ask Miss Eleanor Merrinan for her hand in marriage, sir.”

Wellesley’s fine mood disintegrated.

“Marriage, John?” He ground his teeth.

“Not just yet but soon, Yer Grace. We’ve been courtin’ these past few weeks and?—”

“And you cannot wait a few weeks more, John? A blasted year perhaps?” Wells’s heartbeat spiraled. “We have only just gotten here, for Christ’s sake, and I should hate to lose the excellent steward I find I have.”

“Yer Grace,” Cuthbert’s tone sobered, “y’ needn’t lose me if I marry. Y’ know I made a vow t’ yer father that I’d always?—”

“Yes and now another vow, to a woman no less, one who will surely?—”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Yer Grace, but Miss Eleanor’s not asked that I leave my position here, sir. She asks only that I?—”

“But if you’re not living here, John, then you’re hardly my steward, now are you?”

Cuthbert inhaled a breath. “It’s just we see no reason t’ wait when we both know it’s what we want.”

“She won’t bed you till you marry, is that it?” Wells grimaced. “Well then.”

“You watch yer tongue, sir.” Cuthbert’s tone cut.

“Oh I’ll watch my tongue alright, because it sounds to me like you want what I have with her sister, John, only Miss Eleanor’s too good to lower herself, or else you think too highly of her to?—”

His steward’s rage was palpable. “Wells,” he ground out, “you’ve no right t’ speak of her so and no right to treat me like a?—”

“Like a friend, John? Damn it, man, I am your friend, and as such I’ve every right to tell you what I think. And I think you’re rushing into this. I know you want her, any fool can see that, and no doubt she wants you too, but marriage is . . . It’s an impediment, John, an obstacle. A legal contract not easily broken. What if you tire of her once you’ve had her, eh? Have you not tired of other women before? Then what? And what if she wishes to leave Cumberland? What if you?—”

“Yer Grace,” Cuthbert spoke through his teeth, “seems t’ me as though everythin’ you’re describin’ applies more t’ you than me, sir.” His eyes hit Wells hard. “I’ve not said I’d abandon me post here, and Eleanor wishes t’ stay with her father. I’d simply live with ’em there, rather’n here. And when her old man passes I’d move her into the Abbey with me. Why, she could have a position here, same as Charles.”

“Oh I doubt very much Charles wishes her sister to work alongside her.”

“Then Ellie can take her sister’s position as housekeeper when y’ tire o’ yer mistress,” John snapped.

Wellesley’s thoughts turned ominous. “And what makes you so certain I will tire of Charles, John?”

“’Cause y’ said it yerself, sir. And as you’ve had her often enough, and long enough now, seems t’ me you’ll be tirin’ of her sooner’n later. Seems to me, the moment the Duke passes you’ll be forced t’ marry some lady o’ the Ton and then Charles Merrinan’ll want nothin’ t’ do with you, sir, mark my words. For she sure as shite ain’t the sort o’ woman who’ll share Yer Grace, that she will not.”

Wells saw red. “Out,” he ordered, his anger barely contained. “Get out, John, before I say something to you I will regret.”

His steward glared at him, turned on his heel, and left.

Air escaped Wellesley’s lips in a slow and painful hiss; he hadn’t known he’d been holding his breath. He hadn’t expected the evening to end like this.

When Charles slipped into his lordship’s bed that night, full of delicious anticipation, she could tell things were amiss. He remained sullen almost, turned on his side, though she knew he did not sleep. By now she recognized the even cadence of his breathing when in slumber; this was not a man at rest.

Gently she touched him, yet still he did not respond. “Roland,” she whispered, pressing her body to his, “tell me what is wrong.”

She heard him exhale before he turned to bury his face between her breasts, letting her stroke his thick curls. He breathed her in, pulling her to him.

“Do you wish to tell me what is troubling you, my lord?” she asked, careful.

He shook his head.

“Then let me comfort you instead.” She kissed his forehead, his lips, then slowly made her way down his body, kissing every inch of him, until he could stand her kisses no more, it seemed, and simply rolled atop her, spilling what felt like bitter sorrow into the belly of her embrace.