She hid from him.
“Look at me, girl, what is wrong?” He was confused by her reaction but sensed something was amiss. He pried her head loose from her arms, distraught by what he saw.
“You have made me a whore, sir!” she burst in anguish, her beautiful face stricken. “You have made me a whore and I can no longer stand myself!” Bitter, unchecked tears began to spill in streams down her cheeks.
“Oh, lass,” Wells took her into his arms, the endearment unexpected on his lips. It was a word from his childhood, from nursemaids, perhaps. He held her tight, not letting her go but letting her tears fall wet upon his chest.
“You are no whore, you are but shocked, Fox, by what you have done. But you are not the first to perform such act. Married women please their husbands thus, husbands please their wives thus—it is an act a mistress learns well. There is no shame in what you’ve done, none. So do not weep, Charles, do not weep.” He was suddenly made miserable by her distress. “I should not have . . .” Wells flinched. “I should have waited; it was too soon. I did not mean to demean you.”
She slowly ceased her weeping, clinging to him when but a moment before she’d recoiled from his very being. She suddenly cried, “I do not understand you, sir. I do not understand how you can be both so tender and cruel!”
Wells held her tighter, pressing her naked body more fiercely to his own so that he might absorb her grief. “I am a man, Fox, with base needs, human needs. A brute at times, but never a beast, so you must forgive my actions, Charles. I will go slower moving forward. I see you are more timid than I thought. I should have known better than to rush you, but your body,” he sighed, “your body whispered you were ready, though I see now that your mind is not.”
She brusquely wiped her eyes. “I am not timid, sir.” She sniffed.
He could tell she was trying very hard to be brave.
“I am merely unschooled in such ways, shocked that such acts . . .” She broke off, embarrassed.
Wells thought her tear-streaked face only more lovely in that moment. “I know that now.” He gently stroked her cheek, leaning in to kiss her softly on her forehead, her nose, then tenderly on her lips. “Forgive me,” he murmured, proceedingto kiss her all about her face, neck, hands, and arms. His lips landed like butterflies everywhere upon her in soft attacks, even across her breasts. He coaxed a smile upon her face and vowed right then he’d win her over. Come hell or high water, he’d make this woman beg for him before he took her again.
When he felt at last assured of her improvement, Wellesley got up to dress, thinking the sooner he distanced himself from his mistress this day the better—though it remained a wonder he had a woman in his bed whom he had yet to . . . bed.
He handed her a sheaf of paper and a well of ink from his makeshift desk: his dressing table. “Take note of all I say, Charles, while I shave. Make a list. There is much to do, now that housekeeper joins my staff.” He tossed her a smile before he walked to the room’s corner washbasin to pour water into the bowl, then picked up his straight razor and soap.
“My lord.” She demurely rolled onto her stomach to prop herself up on one elbow.
Wells peeked at her, admiring how her strawberry locks spilled loose about her curves, beckoning yet again. He strolled back to ever so lightly trace the welts still there upon her bottom, planting a kiss on each cheek, declaring, “Even marred you are lovely, woman, perhaps more so.”
To which she inhaled a breath, remaining silent.
He took that as rebuke. “Yet I shall entertain no more thoughts of wickedness, not now at least.” He met her eyes. “If you are to be my housekeeper then a uniform is only proper, is it not? And as such might be procured from said village seamstress?”
She nodded, chewing her lip.
“Then I will measure you now as you jot down numbers.” He jostled the bed as he stretched himself out beside her. “Height you come to my chin, five foot five I imagine. Hips not quite four hand spans, and we will give them another inch asyou need fattening, my dear. Waist"—his hands crept around to squeeze her—“barely three, again with room to grow, and chest”—he chuckled as his hands cupped her bosom below her half recumbent position—“ample handfuls here and were you to spill out of your bodice I’d not mind that in the least.”
“My lord!” she protested with a small smile. He was pleased she was in better spirits.
“Solid, sturdy house shoes—you’ve boots still, do you not? Will the cobbler have your size?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He leapt off the bed to return to the washbasin to lather his face.
“And a cloak, sir. I must sew a new one for my father but need fabric.” She scribbled something he could just discern through the mirror’s reflection:6 yards tweed, 5 skeins yarn.
“Won’t you need one too?” he asked, reaching for his cut-throat.
She crossed out the6to write12.
“And what is the yarn for, woman?”
“Gloves and shawl, my lord.” She frowned. “Do you not know how cold it gets here? Have you and your men enough warm garments yourselves?”
He pondered that a moment, realizing perhaps they did not, even as he took up the blade to begin shaving his face.
She huffed, adding a 1 to the 5 to make it 15 skeins instead.
