His man merely nodded before he left.
Wells flicked his gaze to the bath. “I refuse to carry out my sentencing while you still reek. Bathe, and the meal is yours.”
Her jaw dropped.
“Do you not understand me?”
“You . . . cannot . . .” she stammered.
“Order you to strip and bathe before my sentencing? Yes, I believe I can, and just did, so hop to it.” He stared back at her, unflinching.
***
Charles Merrinan wanted nothing more that instant than to weep. Instead, she swallowed her pride and willed herself to remain unaffected by this unbearable, pompousprick. She allowed her mind to shout the word, anger churning deep withinher breast, and for a brief moment that anger drowned out her fear. Though to bathe before this man meant . . .
A shudder wracked her body as she silently cursed herself for not heeding her sister’s pleas. She inhaled a shaky breath and forced herself to speak.
“I should expect, as a gentleman, my lord, you will turn the other way while I disrobe.”
“I am no gentleman, Charles, and very much intend to have a look at you.”
Her face flushed with heat.
“Now,” he intoned.
She bit her tongue, lifted her chin, and with trembling hands worked to undo the hooks on her tattered dress. It was bad enough she’d been caught thieving chickens, but this latest insult to her person was worse than expected. She’d abased herself before to keep her family fed, but to strip before some lustful lord was without doubt the lowest she’d ever sunk.
Yet her stomach grumbled loudly at the stew.
Charles dropped her dress, struggled a moment with her stays, then in naught but her shift stepped quick as could be into the tub, sinking below the steaming water with a hot hiss of air. She hid from him for as long as she could, glad he’d caught but a brief glimpse of her form.
When she came up for air, he tossed her the soap, which she deftly caught.
Charles scrubbed herself in the tub as Lord Wellesley sipped his whiskey and watched, his eyes on her intense. She did her utmost to ignore his searing gaze, sneaking furtive glances at him as she soaped one leg. He was an imposing lord, thickly built with a dark thatch of hair and a chiseled, angular face—quite unlike the typical London fop. She peeked at the frayed brocade drapes and worn velvet cushions of the room; his lordship’s parlor had seen better days. When she perched a second leg onthe edge of the tub for soaping, she heard Lord Wellesley inhale sharply, down his drink with a clink, and firmly set it aside.
“The stew grows cold, Charles. It’s time you stepped out.”
She promptly sank back under, praying she might disappear into the water forever. Instead, she felt a hand grab her arm and haul her, sputtering, to her feet. From there his lordship took a long, hard look at her body, his burning eyes letting her know he liked what he saw beneath her flimsy, clinging shift.
Charles shuddered again.
Lord Wellesley handed her his banyan and stepped away to pour himself another drink. He told her, “Eat.”
She wrapped the robe about her before she perched upon his footstool, bowl in hand, to begin to savor each bite of blessed meat stew. Heaven. She was so engrossed in eating she barely noticed how he watched her from his chair. Yet when she licked the bowl clean without even thinking, she heard his body rustle.
“Now that you no longer offend my olfactories, miss, I am ready to discuss your sentence.”
Charles put down the bowl, stood to attention, and kept her gaze lowered in penance. “My lord.”
“For the two chickens you attempted to steal from me I wager the fine for thieving is likely twenty pounds. Add to this the cost of a hot meal and bath, not to mention my wasted evening, and I’d say the debt you owe me comes to thirty.”
She gasped, but he proceeded, not the least bit rattled.
“Now I am going to assume, as you were thieving chickens, that you haven’t the thirty pounds I am owed, nor does your family. Am I correct?”
She nicked her head yes.
“And as we haven’t a functioning gaol in this crumbling old Abbey I can’t very well lock you in a cell either.”
