“Stayin’ on, looks like.” Another elbowed his way in, more biscuits gone.
“He’s an eye for ’em, he does,” laughed a different, burly fellow, pinching Charles’s thigh.
“Leave be,” she snarled, scooting back in her chair and snatching up the last biscuit.
“Oi, that were mine!” cried another.
She stuck her tongue at him and popped the biscuit into her mouth, only to have her arms grabbed from behind, a familiar voice grating, “What’reyoudoin’ here?”
The steward.
“Foraging for food, you brute.” Charles spoke around the biscuit in her mouth, trying to shake Cuthbert off as she finished chewing, but he only tightened his grip.
“Wells said t’ keep you in his bedroom.” His words elicited hoots and whistles from the men.
“Lord Wells gave instruction I was to bake bread for him,” she harrumphed, having finally swallowed the last bite. She decided she’d take orders from but one man in this house, and it would not be that man’s lackey.
“Did he now?” Cuthbert breathed down her neck, keeping her arms pinned behind her. “Then why don’t I see no loaf, but biscuit crumbs instead?
“Because I haven’t started in yet! Now let go, oaf!”
He did, roughly pushing her from him as she barely caught herself at the table’s edge. Suddenly a sea of men’s faces all leered at Charles, eyeing her state of dress, or lack thereof, and she blushed, furious at being subjected to their scrutiny.
“And why in God’s name did you burn my clothes?” she threw in Cuthbert’s face. “As if I had a wardrobe waiting for me.” She scowled at him, trying her best to look fierce, but his eyes merely crinkled with mirth.
“Because y’ reeked, gel.” His eyes continued to laugh at her. “Goddamn chicken thief.”
They all erupted in loud guffaws, making her blush only more. She wished she could crawl into a hole and die right then and there, the way these awful, blasted Londoners made her feel small and dirty and . . .
“There, there.” Cuthbert patted her shoulder. “We’re only havin’ a bit o’ fun, miss. Ain’t much o’ that in this bloody old Abbey.”
The men muttered agreement amongst themselves.
“’Sides, I spared yer corset, only piece not covered in shite.” He eyed her shape beneath the cover of her clenched shawl. “And good thing I did, as it looks like y’ need it.”
The horde howled and jeered again until she yelled, “Out, get out! The lot of you! Let me bake in peace!”
And to Charles’s great relief, they eventually did leave, but not before Cuthbert had returned with her stays, tossing them over a chair and eliciting only more lewd laughter.
Wells set aside his mother’s letter in disgust, deciding he would not give her the satisfaction of a response. He’d done as she’d asked this season, yet here she was again, needling him. He’d found a perfectly appropriate bride; it was hardly his fault the lady had run off with a better man.
He poured himself another drink from the parlor’s sideboard, further contemplating his mother’s words and his own fate, for he only ever drank at such an early hour when confronted by the Duchess. At least today’s encounter had been by post rather than in person, though he knew she’d visit sooner or later. His mother was never dissuaded, the sort of woman who showed up on one’s doorstep at the most inopportune of moments. The mere fact that she was hounding him again to marry after the humiliation he’d just endured in London spoke volumes. Shewas a force of nature,Maman, and he hated crossing her path.
Which reminded him of another force of nature currently in his kitchen who should by now be done baking him those loaves. He ought to make sure his new mistress had not run off, though without clothes there was slim chance of that. He imagined Cuthbert burning them for that very reason, good man that he was, and determined right then he’d take his time procuring her the sewing supplies she’d requested. Keeping herundressedwas, after all, his goal.
Wells smiled to himself, picturing the girl naked in his bed. A mistress was ever so much better than a wife.
What was more, as a Cumberland native, she knew the townsfolk. He might use her to his advantage, for she’d already told him the stonemason needed work. If he asked the managain, albeit more politely, he might yet get him to agree, at perhaps even more reasonable a price. God knew things had to cost less out here. And if she knew the mason she likely knew a carpenter as well. And hadn’t she mentioned a cook? He was tired of Tom’s dull repertoire of daily rabbit or venison stew.
Perhaps Charles would prove as useful as she’d prove pleasurable, for she was a quick one, he could tell. Though a woman could be too clever sometimes; he’d have to watch her. She might steal from him again, items more valuable than chickens next. Not that there was much of value currently at Almsdale.
He stole a glance about the parlor as his finger disturbed a layer of dust so thick it coated his skin like custard. Andthiswas the best room here . . . Still, he’d vowed to restore the Abbey to its former glory and so keep it his escape for the day he’d be forced to become the next Duke. A day not far off, else his mother would not be hounding him to marry as his father lay ailing.
Wells quickly buried the thought. He did not wish to dwell upon his fate. He wished only to hide here in Cumberland, enjoying its rough terrain, rough inhabitants, and even rougher winters. That and its strangely named women, for why the devil anyone would give such gorgeous girl as Charles a boy’s name he could not fathom, especially a chit as lusty as she. He’d been pleasantly surprised at how readily she’d responded to him, given her fierce protestations otherwise. But perhaps fierce here meant fierce in other ways. Perhaps she’d even come to enjoy him.
He grinned to himself, imagining his Cumberland mistress rivaling the fairest of London’s courtesans. And she would, he thought, because he’d damn well train her himself.
Charles pulled out the loaf and went in search of butter and jam. It was a decidedly sparse kitchen, devoid of finer dishware and hardly any herbs or spice, yet the stew last night had filled her belly nicely; she’d long lost all culinary refinement. The days of living like a lady had regrettably vanished upon her mother’s death.
