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

Epilogue

LONDON, 1839, FOUR YEARS LATER

(Teaser to The Bastard in her Boudoir,

book two in The Dubious Mates series)

L i poured Wellesley’s tea in characteristic fluid motion, the hot green liquid arcing through the air. He watched, hypnotized. No matter how often he’d seen her perform this ceremony in the backroom of LeBrecht’s or in the hold of his ship, he remained entranced. Flashbacks from his past flooded his mind as he stared at her slender wrist.

“Remind me again why you have interrupted my day, Wells?” Li did not look up from pouring. She was businesswoman first, friend and erstwhile lover second.

He returned to the present, to the reason he’d come.“Banks wants to run The Painted Lady to the Americas.”

She appeared not to register his words.

“He also wants to rename her.”

Li finished pouring and bowed deeply before the tea. Wells knew he’d have to wait a good minute for her response while she finished, so he filled that minute with more talk.

“I don’t like either idea.”

She remained prostrate.

“Li . . .” He was impatient.

“Do you not have a child at home and a wife soon expecting another, Your Grace?” Her eyes finally met his.

Wells harrumphed. “How does that have anything to do with Banks?”

“Precisely.” Li’s lips made a moue as she shifted her position and raised the dish to sip delicately, wisps of steam licking her perfect, oval face. She carefully placed the bowl back upon the low table. “You gave Banks your ship, Wells. You are now the Duke of Allendale, no longer The Painted Lady’s captain. Your Duchess has given you a strapping male heir and is about to birth you another. Why are you even here?”

He felt like he did every time he dealt with Li: wishing to wring her elegant neck.

“I am in London on account of Charles’s family and, as you well know, for Milton’s wedding. My wife’s cousin will be presented at court in a matter of days and we must attend the girl’s ensuing coming out ball. Otherwise I’d not even?—”

“No, Wellesley, why are you here, in my shop.” She stared him down. Li could be annoyingly prescient.

He swallowed. “Banks is making a mistake, so I’d hoped you might . . .”

Her expression turned. “You hoped I might talk sense into him?” She arched one painted eyebrow so high it looked ready to topple.

“Yes.”

Li’s lips formed a line. “It does not cease to amaze me, Wells, how both you and Jasper, our new Baron Milton, show up in my shop at such similar times. He was just here himself, demanding I outfit his betrothed while dropping none too subtle hints about Banks.” She exhaled a slow sigh. “And as I am beholden to both you ingrates”—she threw him a look rife with meaning—“I will speak with Banks.”

His shoulders sagged in relief.

“However, I guarantee you nothing, Wells. He is his own man, captain of his own ship. Your former ship. He will make his own mistakes, just as you made yours.”

She was right, of course. Li was frequently right. He simply wanted to spare Banks more trouble. Hell, he wanted to spare the man his life if he was going to risk trading goods where slavery was still legal.

“Thank you, Li.” He met her gaze. “I know I can’t change his path, but a word from you, having yourself experienced . . .” He didn’t need to finish. She understood what he meant.

Li raised the bowl again in fluid motion to her lips. Wells knew he had a duchy to run, a son to raise, and a hot-headed, pregnant wife awaiting his return. He was a very lucky man. Yet the past would never leave him. He would always worry about his friends—Milton and Banks—as well as Li. Cuthbert he could keep close. As Allendale’s official new squire, John, at least, was going nowhere. Nor would Eleanor let him, not with Cuthbert a father now himself. Even his former crew remained under his close watch at the Abbey, up to no good, as always. But here in London . . . This city did things to a man.

He knew what it had done to Milton.

Wells picked up his bowl and downed the tea, earning a glare from Li. He was supposed to drink slowly, to savor the brew, stare at its residue.

Instead, he was suddenly eager to return home to Charles.

“Leaving so soon, Your Grace?” Li quirked her lips.

“Duty calls, Madame .” He flashed her a rogue’s grin, only no blush suffused her flawless face. His charms had long ceased to work on Li—the attempt sheer reflex anymore.

“Give my regards to Charlotte , Wells.” She smirked. “Bring her with you, next time you call. We have much to catch up on again.”

Charles was playing with her husband’s thick locks upon her lap, sprawled as he was across the large chaise in his mother’s London townhouse. He had his head and hand pressed to her belly to feel the babe therein kick. He liked to drape himself across her lap this way, like he had the first time she’d been with child.

“Roland, was Lord Redstocking very angry that his wife came to visit me today?”

The poor girl had arrived in a sorry state that afternoon, and this barely a week since being married. Charles was concerned for the lady, yet also eager to return to Cumberland. She did not want to give birth in this city. She wanted her dependable Cumberland marras by her side—and her capable midwife.

“Milton, you mean?” Her husband lazily rubbed circles atop her midriff.

“Of course, Milton, you oaf.” She lightly smacked his head. It was their running jest, to refer to Baron Milton as ‘Redstocking.’ It was also Charles’s way of reminding her husband of less-than-stellar past behaviors.

Poor Milton, to be the butt of their jokes.

“So?” she pressed. “Was Redstocking angry? It is common enough for a married woman to make social calls unaccompanied. Was it because she drove his phaeton here by herself?”

“Hell if I know, Charles.” Wells shifted nearer to her swollen belly. “Whatever’s between Milton and his new wife is their business, not ours.” He pressed his lips to her middle.

She pulled his hair to gain his attention.

“ Ow, woman! What the devil was that for?”

“I happen to like Redstocking’s Baroness, Roland. I do not wish to see her hurt.”

“Charles, Milton would never hurt his wife. I can assure you he’d not?—”

“Not physically hurt, you nimwit,” she chastised. “Emotionally hurt. The girl knows very little of him but already must adhere to what sounds like an incredibly strict litany of rules he’s imposed. It cannot be easy for her, marrying a near stranger who?—”

“Nimwit, eh?” His hand suddenly slid under her skirts and directly up her leg.

“ Nimwit ,” she repeated, a little breathless.

“And would Her Grace like her nimwit to be of service to her?” He dropped from chaise to floor, beginning to bunch up her dress.

“My nimwit may”—her breaths increased—“consider it, yes.” Charles lay back and opened her legs to her husband. The man had a way with his tongue which was sinfully wicked.

The Duke now knelt before her, having pushed her skirts to her waist and braced his hands at her thighs. Ever so lightly, his breath tickled her sex.

“Nimwits have their uses, do they not, Duchess?” His voice sounded muffled coming from under her dress.

Charles let her hand drop once more to his head, to urge him on. “Why yes, husband,” she breathed, “they most certainly do.”

Stay tuned for the next book in The Dubious Mates series, The Bastard in her Boudoir , which follows the courtship and marriage of Baron Milton, aka Lord Redstocking, to his most unwilling fiancée, Miss Elizabeth Winthrop.