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

Chapter 41

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

I f Charles were to survive this night, she’d need to keep her wits about her and her emotions in check. And she was afraid she’d fail on both counts, so enraged was she by this latest turn of events. The last thing in the world she’d dreamed might happen to her in London was to be coerced, once again, into becoming some man’s mistress. Only this time she’d committed no crime deserving of punishment, making her plight feel all the more deeply unjust.

She’d been thrown into a carriage and taken to what she assumed was another of Madame LeBrecht’s abodes, yet this house was no shop, but also no true residence. She remained flanked on either side by the two hulking men who’d thwarted with ease her attempt to flee between carriage and doorstep. Their grip on her arms had made it painfully clear escape was futile.

She was now being hauled through the opulent house to some upstairs room, one as yet unoccupied, for the noises heard through doors she passed indicated most rooms were in active use. With a sinking heart she knew Madame had not lied. She would indeed be better off some gentleman’s mistress than be kept here serving multiple men.

Her thoughts briefly flew to Miss Griswald, to whom she’d sent Lord Wellesley’s crew for just such a purpose. Was this now God’s punishment for that? Yet Mamie had been pleased to receive new clients. Mamie ran her own business. As far as Charles knew, the Cumberland madam had chosen her profession, not been forced into it. But then, what did she know of Miss Griswald’s past, or even her predilections? What did she really know of anyone?

Before she could blink, Charles was pushed into a dimly lit, ornately furnished room and approached by a stern-looking woman dressed like a housekeeper. The lady snapped fingers over her head to order a bath and within seconds, it seemed, servants carrying buckets of steaming water traipsed into the room. They began to fill a large tub beside a corner dressing screen, which stood to one side of a lavish four-poster bed piled high with decorative silk pillows. The entire room was heavily perfumed with an overly sweet, cloying fragrance that made Charles’s nostrils flare in distaste. Oleander, perhaps, or jasmine. Whatever the scent, it was too much. The entire room was garish.

Suddenly the two strongmen were gone and the servants gone and only the stern housekeeper remained, eyeing her from head to toe, frowning.

Charles scowled back.

“In case you get any ideas, miss, the windows are nailed shut and the door locked from outside. Attempts to escape or injure will be thwarted by those keeping watch.”

Keeping watch? Charles’s thoughts raced. From where? Her heart thudded in her chest even as she heard a faint rustle from behind the screen.

“Your gentleman chooses to remain unseen until such time as he will make himself known to you. However, you will obey his orders without question. If you fail to obey, he may choose another mistress instead, leaving Madame LeBrecht to do with you what she will. I have been told this is your opportunity, Charlotte, to prove yourself worthy of this particular gentleman’s favor. Do not disappoint him.”

And with that, she left the room, leaving Charles terrified.

She felt deeply alone, yet was clearly not alone, because she knew the gentleman in question sat obscured behind the screen. She heard him adjust his seat and felt certain it was the man she called ‘Redstocking’—the one who’d fondled her legs. Sure enough, upon scanning the room, she saw a silk banyan laid over a chair and beside it the very same burgundy stockings and ribbons she’d modeled for him just last week.

Charles let out a bitter sigh of resignation. At least she knew with whom she dealt. And yet how she should deal with him was another matter entirely.

She steadied her nerves and faced the screen with as much courage as she could muster. She curtsied. “Good evening, sir.” She rose slowly to stall the inevitable.

She’d stall forever, if she could.

“Charlotte,” came a voice, not quite as she recalled Redstocking’s.

She awaited the man’s pleasure, swallowing her nerves.

“You may undress and bathe.”

With trembling hands, Charles forced herself to pretend she was alone as she undressed—to pretend some stranger was not watching her every move, leering at her body. She gripped Lord Wellesley’s timepiece in her pocket for courage, then slipped off her shoes, slowly unrolled her plain cotton stockings, and unhooked even more slowly Ruby’s simple print dress. This she folded and laid on the edge of the bed. Painfully slowly she unlaced her stays, her back turned to the man to prevent his viewing her bosom for as long as possible. When her stays dropped to the floor his voice sounded gruff.

“Turn around.”

She did, arms covering her thin shift for modesty, a shift which looked all the more threadbare in this overly plush room.

“Step into the bath,” he ordered, and without thinking she did, still wearing her shift, for he’d not told her to remove it and damned if she’d give him that chance. She sank into the warm water as the shift billowed up before sinking about her. She felt relief to be now underwater, a moment of respite from Redstocking’s probing eyes.

Charles refused to imagine what would come next.

“Wash yourself, I wish to watch,” came the voice, again not as she remembered Redstocking spoke, yet it was impossible to tell in a room as cluttered as this, his voice muffled behind the screen. It could easily be one of the many other gentlemen she’d served in the shop; she wouldn’t know until the villain showed himself.

She took the soap and cloth from the stool beside the tub and proceeded as slowly as possible to wash. She began with her neck and worked her way down, avoiding looking in the direction of the screen at all cost, focusing solely on her body. She had to admit, it felt good to bathe as opposed to washing from a cold basin at the inn. She tried to enjoy the sensation, yet it was impossible to enjoy anything knowing a man ogled her every move, the end game one she could not stomach. Her hands began to tremble as she soaped each arm, the thin shift clinging like a second skin. She’d been a fool to think it gave her modesty, for it likely had the opposite affect: hinting at things more tantalizingly than if she’d simply stripped bare.

The man behind the screen remained quiet, the room’s sole sound that of soft water splashing. She soaped the length of one leg to her thigh, and then the other, her shift hitched high on her hips. She knew this was a view Redstocking would like, so she lingered longer than necessary on her legs, an attempt to please this man enough that he would not send her back to Madame . She began to panic inside, thinking she couldn’t go through with this, not this time. It had been different with Lord Wells; he’d taken his time with her, coaxed her. He’d given her drink that first night too, easing her anxiety, but this felt . . . Dread rose in her throat. She couldn’t do this. She didn’t have it in her to?—

“Out.” His command arrested all thought.

She was filled with fear to leave the comfort of the bath, to step out into the unknown of the rest of this night.

“Now,” he insisted.

Charles rose quickly from the bath, her shift clinging to every curve visible through the now transparent, soaked fabric. She heard him suck in his breath. Heart pounding, she reached for the robe to quickly wrap about her, still wearing the wet shift beneath.

Charles stood there in misery, awaiting this man’s order. She began to shiver for nerves, feeling desperately cold.

“Close your eyes and let down your hair.”

“What?” She was at once alarmed. “I should prefer to keep my eyes open, sir.”

“And I prefer you keep them closed,” he growled from behind the screen. “And if you cannot keep them shut I shall blindfold you instead.”

She quickly shut her eyes tight—a safer choice than to be bound blind—as she hurried to undo her pins. Perhaps if she kept a pin and stabbed him in the eye, blinding him , she might escape. Only the door was locked and the windows nailed shut.

Charles nearly wept to think there was no way out.

Yet by the time her hair fell loose, a hand from behind reached to pull the locks from her neck, making her flinch and nearly open her eyes, for she’d not heard him leave the screen. He’d approached so quietly, so stealthily . . . Her breathing increased as she felt the man’s breath tickle her neck, the heat of his body behind her filling her with such a rush of terror she leapt from him, keeping her back turned, face hid in her hands.

“Forgive me sir, I cannot do this. I beg you, please let me go!” Her entire body shook.

“Madame LeBrecht assured me you had done this before, Charlotte.”

“I did sir, I have. Only I cannot now.”

“It is common for a mistress to take a new lover.” His voice held an edge.

“I know that, sir, only I did not . . . I did not choose this, sir. I am being?—”

“Surely you would rather live a life of comfort than a life of labor?” he insisted.

“I would rather heap dung in a field than bed you, sir!” she burst without thinking and immediately regretted her words, trying in vain to undo the damage. “That is, I did not mean?—”

“I heard exactly what you meant,” he snarled. “Yet you willingly bedded another. Tell me, did he pay you so well you now eschew my offer? You have yet to even hear what I am willing to give you in exchange for my pleasure. You dismiss me outright, before you have even looked upon me.”

“Because you’ve not permitted me to look at you, sir.” She was angered, her fear fast becoming rage. “You hide behind a screen like a coward, ordering me about as if I were already your slave and not a person of free will. Am I to think this bodes well for an agreement, sir? Am I to assume you’d treat a mistress with any decency at all if this is how you treat me now?”

His breath hissed, she could hear it, though she remained with her back to him still, refusing now to look at him, for she doubted very much this was Redstocking. He was too controlled to hide behind a screen; he’d have shown his face by now, unabashed. No, this was someone else, which meant she was in uncharted territory . . . and even greater danger.

“I’m a coward, eh?” The man’s voice turned ominous. “I rather think you’re the coward, Charlotte, for not giving me a try.” He let his words sink in. “I think we ought to test the waters now and see if we suit. After all, you might enjoy me in bed, as you enjoyed your last keeper.”

“He was not my keeper, he was my lover, damn you!” She squeezed her eyes tight and balled her fists to keep from punching him.

“Ah.” His voice softened. “You fell in love, I see. It is never wise to let one’s heart grow attached, Charlotte. Perhaps you are not mistress material after all.”

“No, I am not,” she bit back. “So I would beg you, sir, let me go!”

“Only I can’t, Fox, not now when I’ve only just found you, my love.”

In a flash he enveloped her body, pressing her face to his chest as she froze. She knew at once it was him—the scent of him, feel of him—and she wanted to scream and cry and laugh all at once. Instead, she pushed him from her, livid.

***

“ You .” Her eyes flew open, piercing him, and Wells was suddenly unsure.

“Charles, love . . .” He reached for her.

“Don’t. You. Dare.” She trembled with . . . fury?

“Let me explain,” he told her calmly.

“I need no explanation, Wells.” She was breathing so heavily she struggled to speak, rage washing like a tidal wave across her face. “It is enough to know you have yet again coerced me into servitude, that you have tracked me down, deceiving and threatening me into believing . . .” She broke off, beginning to visibly shake. “How could you?” she shouted as tears began to fill her eyes. “How could you be so beastly? To mock me now, to reduce me to such abject . . . !”

She could not finish the thought, the hurt in her eyes so raw Wells flinched. Yet he’d not give up now.

“Charles, sit with me a moment and let me explain. It is not how it appears, truly. You were never in any danger of?—”

“Never in any danger?” Her eyes grew wider still. “You mean you planned this, knew the situation I was in?” He watched her thoughts race. “How long have you known where I was, where I worked? How long have you been in London, sir?”

“Charles, if you will allow me to explain everything I can assure you it will all make sense. Please?—”

“I don’t want your explanation, Wells.” She was shouting at him. No, yelling. “I want out. I want out of this room, away from this place, away from you !”

He scooped her up in one fluid motion, knowing there was nothing more he could say. He flung her over his shoulder and pounded on the door, which was immediately unlocked, and then he carried her—a wet, struggling heap—down the hall, down the long stairs, and out the front door to his waiting carriage. He deposited her upon the seat, rapped twice upon the roof, and the carriage lurched forward, hurtling off into the night.

He had her. That was all that mattered. For now.