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

Chapter 32

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T hat morning John Cuthbert carried a full basket to deliver his betrothed. He’d asked Eleanor Merrinan just last week to marry him and by God she’d accepted. Him! He was happy as a lark, yet feared her sister’s wrath. Not to mention Wellesley’s wrath. Which is why he’d not told either of them yet.

Nor would he need to, it seemed, for when he’d delivered Eleanor’s latest letter to Charles she’d torn into it at once, face dropping precipitously as she began to read. He’d scurried so fast from her he’d nearly tripped hurrying down the hall to the kitchen. He’d packed the basket in a rush, looking a few times over his shoulder as he left the Abbey for fear the blasted housekeeper might tail him, frypan in hand.

Fortunately, she had not.

When Charles sat down between tasks to read anew the letter Cuthbert had handed her, she swore she’d beat the steward bloody and wallop his lordship one too. This could not be happening—not so soon. She read it a third time, still disbelieving its contents.

Dearest Charles,

Your silence is more deafening than you know, sister, for each letter unanswered is like a dagger to my heart. Yet I cannot write what you wish to read, because that same heart demands precisely what you would deny it. John has asked for my hand in marriage and I have accepted. Papa has given me his blessing. At least, he has not rescinded it, though he has surely forgotten, for he is worse, I fear, falling asleep more frequently of late in the middle of sentences. I have noticed a new palsy of the hands too, and this despite how well we now eat. I hope it will pass, but I think you should visit before he has another fit. I do not know if he could withstand one. Come for his sake, Charles, if not mine. Only come soon, I beg.

Charles’s own hands trembled.

John and I are happy, and I write you this because you are still my precious sister, whom I love with all my heart. Therefore I must be honest. We are in love and I cannot wait to become John’s wife! He intends to speak to Lord Wellesley to see if his lordship will let John live here once we wed. He must obtain a license yet, which will take time, but I do not care how long it takes. I shall wait an eternity for him, if I must. Oh Charles, if only you could share in the joy and fullness of my heart! There is no other feeling in the world, truly, than to love and be loved, to give oneself to another. I understand, at last, why Mother left her family to be with Father, and why he suffered so upon her death. It must have felt, to him, as if he’d lost his very soul the day she passed. No wonder he is now a shell. I should feel the same too, if John ever . . .

Charles thrust the letter aside, too angry to read more. She nearly threw it onto the fire, stopping herself at the last second and wadding it into a tight ball in her pocket instead, crammed beside Lord Wellesley’s timepiece. Her rage was unreasonable. She knew it went beyond mere concern for her sister’s future. It bordered on something awful and insidious. If she dared stare deep into her soul, she could see the greenish cast, for in truth she was jealous of Eleanor, that her sister should have the man she desired, the happiness she deserved, and the freedom to express it while she, Charles, would have none of these things, ever, with the man she . . .

Only that was too terrible a thought to admit.

Charles threw herself back into her work with brutal denial.

“And it was your great-grandmother who commissioned this turret?”

Miss Mowry asked so many bloody annoying questions Wells could barely keep his answers straight. She kept touching him too—light little touches that made him flinch with distaste. Not for her person; she was a perfectly attractive young woman, good-looking even if viewed objectively. No, it was all the lady represented which made him recoil.

“Yes, I believe so,” he mumbled. “A twelfth-century abbey originally, so there may have been a turret here then. Or from when it was a fortified castle. I’m not sure which came first, miss. You shall have to ask my mother for more history.”

He moved her along, wishing this charade of a visit would end soon. End yesterday.

“Lord Wellesley.” She abruptly stopped in her tracks, looking demurely at her feet. “May I speak frankly with you, sir, now that we are a moment alone?”

His heart sank to hear her say it.

“Of course, Miss Mowry.” Wells’s smile tightened. “Frankness is ever refreshing.”

“I am aware my visit to you, clearly unexpected and at such time when you are renovating the Abbey, is ill-timed, my lord.”

She surprised him, as did the genuinely kind tone she used.

“Your mother failed to inform me of your circumstance here, even of your feelings towards marriage.” She dared to glance at him. “I am not so na?ve as to not see the disagreement between you, and I apologize if my presence here has further complicated your relationship with her grace.”

The lady amazed.

“Which is all to say that I apologize, Lord Wellesley, for having descended upon you thus,” she rushed her words, “as I would never have imposed upon your hospitality had I known the truth of matters. I feel, to a certain extent, somewhat manipulated by the Duchess, not ”—she hurried to correct herself—“that she did anything untoward by bringing me with her. Only that, well, she is perhaps attempting to press something clearly undesired by yourself.”

Miss Mowry looked anxiously at Wells for a response, in both fear and hope, it seemed. And for the first time this young woman appeared almost human to him, rather than mere object of his mother’s machinations. He felt sorry for her, that she’d been dragged here without fair warning, and softened to her a little.

“And you, Miss Mowry, is marriage undesired by you, too?” He searched her face for an indication that she had no interest in him, but found to his dismay the opposite: The lady blushed.

“I am not . . . opposed to the idea, sir,” she stammered before she collected herself. “I am of an age to marry and am reliant upon the Duchess now for guidance, given my own mother’s recent?—”

“I am very sorry for your loss, Miss Mowry,” Wells quickly interjected.

“Thank you, Lord Wellesley.” She dabbed a corner of her eye. “I am under no illusions, however, as to what marriage entails, my lord.”

Her words hit him hard.

“I am aware of your prior betrothal and wish you to know I am not . . .” She struggled. “I have no feelings towards another and no reason to imagine any may develop.” She finally looked at him. “Marriage is a contract meant to benefit two parties, my lord, and I would enter into it with no more expectation than that of mutual respect. I am willing to provide a husband heirs in return for the security of his title and income.”

He appreciated, for once, that she spoke like an adult and not some simpering chit. And yet her words also left him cold, for she was all duty and no passion. No doubt she’d make a perfectly proper duchess yet remain as invigorating as a sack of potatoes between the sheets.

“And you do not foresee feelings between husband and wife developing over time?” he pressed.

“I would not know, sir,” she said determinedly. “I have never been in love.”

“I see.”

“But I do not find you disagreeable, Lord Wellesley.” She blushed again, prettily. “That is, I believe you to be a man of honor, and you are not unattractive in appearance.”

He laughed. “Miss Mowry, your honesty astounds me, but I am grateful for it, truly.” He searched her face. “And you would not oppose a husband who, in time, might take himself a mistress?”

“Don’t all husbands keep mistresses, my lord?”

He searched her face again. “Some wives take lovers too, once heirs are born.”

Her eyes widened. “But whyever would a lady . . . ?”

“Because it can be enjoyable, my dear, why else?” Wells’s smirk only made her blush more. Perhaps she was simply inexperienced, he thought, and not frigid.

Yet her answer disappointed. “ I should never be so bold, sir.” She sounded resolute. “For were my husband to engage a mistress I imagine it would simply relieve me of my duties to him.”

Wells was again disheartened. “I am glad we had this discussion, Miss Mowry, so we each know where the other stands.” He extended her his arm. “Shall we continue our tour?”

“Yes.” She smiled up at him, as if grateful to have gotten the matter off her chest.

Inwardly Wells felt anything but grateful imagining this woman his duchess, dictating furnishings and décor, entertaining guests she’d invite from London. For the remainder of their tour, he did his best to hide his thoughts from Miss Mowry.

She did not seem to notice.

“My lord, a word please?”

Charles had traipsed over to the stables that evening—the men’s unofficial sleeping quarters—in order to find his lordship. Only upon arriving, his rowdy crew looked up at her as one, and snickered.

“A word only,” she stressed, “nothing more, you lecherous ingrates.”

Pinky was not the least deterred. “ We don’t care no ways, miss.” He winked at Charles. “Y’ can bed ’im right ’ere, if y’ like.”

A few smothered guffaws rippled through the hayloft.

“Watch your tongue before I cuff you one, Pinky.” His lordship stepped out of the shadows to defend Charles’s honor. “Apologize at once to Miss Merrinan for your impertinence.”

“Sorry, lass.” Pinky barely looked contrite. “Meant no ’arm by it. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it neither. You an’ he make a better match by far’n that prissy?—”

“Enough!” his lordship growled.

Pinky shut his trap as Lord Wells roughly grabbed Charles by the arm to march her out of the stables, across the courtyard, and up the Abbey’s formal staircase down another long hall and into the shell room.

“What did you wish to discuss, Charles?” He lit a sconce without bothering to stoke the dying hearth.

“It is my father, sir. My sister writes his health has worsened and that I ought to go and see him.”

“Can it not wait until our guests leave, woman? I do not think we can spare you right now given?—”

“That is the other matter I wish to discuss, my lord. We require more staff. We haven’t enough hands as is to?—”

“Yet the moment our guests leave additional staff will be unnecessary. I’d prefer we simply muddle through until?—”

“My lord, we are running ourselves ragged, and any staff hired now will surely be needed once you . . .” She stopped herself.

“Once I what?” His face clouded over.

Charles drew herself tall and stuck out her chin. “Once you marry, sir.”

The resounding silence in the room was deafening.

“And who , exactly, has informed you I intend to marry, Miss Merrinan?” Lord Wellesley’s face had fallen precipitously, yet Charles knew there was no going back.

“My lord, I think it is apparent to all here that your mother, the Duchess, has delivered you a bride.” Hurt crept into her voice.

“I see,” he spoke slowly, the calm before a storm. “Which means I must do her bidding, eh? Must marry whomever my mother chooses for me? Marry Miss Mowry?”

Charles grew impatient. “I do not presume to know what you intend to do, my lord. I know only what it is the Duchess rather blatantly hopes will happen. And as it is required that a duke marry and produce heirs, it is reasonable to assume you will someday marry. And seeing as how a perfectly respectable opportunity has been presented to you now I can only assume you are at least considering it. Sir.”

***

Her voice sounded pinched, Wells thought. Fierce, even.

“Oh I am considering it, Charles.” He pushed back. “I am considering marrying Miss Mowry and keeping you as mistress. In fact, she told me just today she shouldn’t mind that arrangement in the least, said she’d even welcome it.”

“How dare you, sir! How dare you speak of me to her as if I?—”

“I did not mention your name, Charles.” He’d riled her good this time; he could feel his loins throb in response. “I merely asked her opinion on a mistress, which she wholeheartedly condoned, embracing the fact it would relieve her of wifely duties she seemed none too keen to embark on.”

“Wifely duties.” Her eyes blazed at him. “No doubt you look forward to despoiling another virgin, sir, as she is pretty enough, I daresay, to turn your ravenous head.”

“Oh she is plenty pretty, and yet shockingly leaves me cold. Why do you think that is, Fox? Why is it that ever since Cuthbert dragged you from my coop into my parlor I seem unable to imagine despoiling any other woman but you?” He stepped towards her, predatory.

Charles stepped back. “I am but a convenience to you, sir,” she parried, no longer his tamed pet. “You said as much the day you sentenced me to serve your bed. I am but a convenience and amusement, and as soon as you marry I will leave this house and never?—”

But his lips cut her short in a brutal, bruising kiss, hands shedding her of her dress with a need days in the making, years it felt like. She was his, damn it. He did not want the insipid Mowry, he wanted his Fox, he wanted his mother gone, and he wanted back the life he’d begun to build here at the Abbey with his Cumberland mistress, to hell with everything else.

***

Charles relieved Lord Wells of his clothing with the same blind need his lordship displayed, for she was deuced if she’d let him go easy into the arms of another woman. He’d marry, and she’d leave, but right then she would take what she bloody well wanted and damn well deserved. Her sister was not entitled to all the happiness in this world nor was Miss Mowry entitled to all its comforts. She’d demand her share too, right here upon the floor of the shell room, under the illusion of stars and sea. She would grant herself the right to want more from life than she’d damn well been given.

She would take from him .

In the end Charles left Wells naked and asleep upon the floor, draping his clothes over him to tiptoe back to the musty room she now shared with Ruby and Ginny. She realized she could not continue in such a manner with him, not with his mother and near-betrothed under the same roof. She would not go to him again save for household matters. Hell, she had only intended to speak to him about such matters tonight. And look how they’d ended up . . .

She stomped back along the dark corridors. She would have to speak to Wells about Cuthbert and her sister yet too. Everything she’d intended to discuss with him had fallen from her mind the moment he’d kissed her. Why oh why did this man have such power over her? How had she ever allowed him entry to her heart?

She heard her mother’s voice, from years past, suddenly echo in her head: Care for your sister and father, protect them for me, Charles, but protect your own self too, darling girl. Promise me this, for you, dear daughter, are equally precious.