He exited the room as fast as he’d entered, thinking he’d need to find his lordship a different village lass—one a good deal simpler than this miss. He might also find himself a pretty face, he thought as he caught sight of his grace nudging Charles to eat.
Though the lady’s sister, Miss Eleanor, had been a sight for sore eyes this morning. More than pretty, that one. She’d nearly knocked him flat when she’d opened the door with those thick, chestnut locks framing warm brown eyes: the eyes of a docile doe. He’d felt like a proper fool, standing with basket and chickens in hand, looking no doubt sloppy to a young lady like she.
Then again, he’d not expected an honest to Godangelto answer his knock.
John shook off the image, wending his way back to the kitchen to eat with the men. He’d be wise to forget Miss Eleanor Merrinan and focus instead on getting rid of her pesky sister. What the devil Wells saw in that gel he’d never understand.
***
Wellesley roused his mistress the moment dinner arrived, pushing her from his lap with an order to bring him his bowl. She did, walking stiffly, and he felt a fresh stab of remorse for having hurt her, as well as a more selfish stab of regret: She’d be too sore now to enjoy his attentions.
He sighed again, still irked by his behavior. What the devil had gotten into him? He’d acted like a brute,reactedto her without thinking, as if she’d been one of his men in need of discipline, rather than his mistress. Had London done this to him? He cursed himself again, though he knew she wasn’t going anywhere; his cock could wait another night.
They ate in relative silence, and he saw again how hungry she was, deciding to hand her the rest of his bowl. He’d not only tired of Tom’s stews but lost his appetite this night. Contrary to what she likely thought of him, Wells did not enjoy meting out punishment.
Charles did not refuse his offer, cleaning his bowl quickly before she placed it back upon the tray to stand and await his pleasure. He liked that she seemed more cowed, but suspected she smarted more for pride than for actual beating.
At least, he hoped he hadn’t hurt her too much.
Fuck.
“Don’t just stand there, girl, fetch me a drink,” he ordered, “and stoke the fire. Pour yourself a drink too, it’ll dull the ache.” He leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames and feeling suddenly worn from the day, smarting inside. Wells did not like to be in charge, did not enjoy having to make decisions and correct his staff when they failed to heed his orders. He knew it was his job and he’d do the job he must, but right then he’d have preferred to be anybody in the world but a bloody duke’s son.
Anybody at all.
***
Charles did as Lord Wellesley bid, wondering at his lordship’s sudden change in mood. Having just learned her lesson, however, she kept her mouth shut and head down. She’d not been whipped since she was a child, and even then only once with a switch, never a leather strap.
His lordship’s lashing still burned.
When she brought him his glass he commanded her to sit again, only she hesitated.
“Well?” he prodded.
“My lord, if I may, sir, I would rather stand.”
“Of course you would.” He huffed a sigh and motioned her over. “Come, kneel before me instead, that I might at least play with your red-gold locks, as the rest of you is too sore for anything more,” he grumbled. “It appears your virtue lives to see another day, miss. I should have fucked you first and only then taken you to task.” He winced at his own words.
Charles was shocked by such coarse language, though his hand at her head was gentle enough. She did not understand how this lord could be both tender and cruel, thinking an unpredictable master was the worst kind there was.
Her heart sank to imagine herself at Wellesley’s every beck and call.
“You must tell me what you are thinking, Fox, amuse me with your mind if not your body.”
She sucked in a breath, fearing anything she now said might be misconstrued. She remembered Cuthbert’s warning that she not be too clever, that she not ‘hurt’ his grace.Hurt! she thought. As if she could.
“If it pleases my lord to converse, we might discuss the cuisine I have sampled here, as I suspect your lordship prefers finer fare than the stew that continues to disappoint?”
His lips curled. “And just where might I sample such culinary delights?” His hand continued to twine her hair between his fingers.
“Mrs. Jenkins, sir, a widow in town, prides herself on her dishes. She’s an excellent cook and even better baker who may be persuaded to work for your lordship.” Charles deliberated. “I had thought to fetch starter from her, sir, to bake you and your men a proper sourdough.”
“Hmm.” His hand now kneaded the back of her neck as she noticed his gaze assess the curve of her bottom, angled as it was up and out.
“And if I paid this widow a visit, how easily might she be persuaded?” he asked. “Your advice with the stonemason proved useful this morning, Charles; I should appreciate your advice with other locals as well.”
She began, at last, to relax. “Disparage London’s stews, my lord. Appeal to her pride and palate, how you’ve yet to sample true Cumberland cuisine. Tell her you mean to restore the Abbey, and with it, our region.”
