Only the sounds he rent from her were far from decent, or coherent.
“And . . . ?”
John was annoyed by his lordship’s many questions. Wells sat by the parlor’s fire, whiskey in hand, grilling him on the housekeeper’s visit to the village madam.
“And I escorted her back, Yer Grace,” he finished, hoping this spelled an end to the interrogation. “She’s in yer room now, I should think.”
John neglected to tell his lordship how surprised Mamie Griswald had been to discover Charles Merrinan on her doorstep, though by now the whole village knew the Duke’s son was in residence at Almsdale. John had listened in on their conversation, his ear pressed to the door, and heard Mamie tell Charles she knew the new lord would want his pound of flesh, like any blasted blueblood. She just wished he’d come to her first.
Charles had sounded mortified to admitshewas that flesh instead.
His lordship continued to stare into the liquid amber of his glass. “She didn’t try to flee?”
“No, Yer Grace. Perfectly annoyed by me presence, sir, but not a lick o’ trouble otherwise. Dunno what you’ve done t’ settle her, but she’s?—”
Wells scowled. “That woman will never settle.”
John frowned. “Yer Grace, if I may speak freely a moment, sir?” He figured now was as good a time as any.
Wells nodded.
“The yobs’ve been makin’ noises, sir, ’bout you and yer housekeeper.”
His lordship’s scowl deepened. “What kinds of noises, Cuthbert?”
“More likeyou and she’ve been makin’ noises lately, sir.” John looked pointedly at his lordship.
“Do you mean to tell me they’re complaining I have a mistress?”
John worried his lip. “Yer Grace, it’s less about you havin’ a mistress, and more about how often and how, well, loudly you’ve been havin’ said mistress.”
Wells paused. “She is rather vocal, I’ll grant you that.” He grinned. “But why the devil should they care, eh? Bunch of whining ninnies, that crew, and after all I’ve done for them.”
John leveled his gaze. “With respect, Yer Grace, you’ve fed and housed and kept ’em from trouble, sir, ’tis true, but there’s little entertainment here, not like in London. They need a night out now and then—a few pints, a good brawl, a warm body t’ bed.”
Wells sighed loudly. “I am not about to procure that gang of thugs a harem, John.”
“’Course not, Yer Grace.” He smirked. “Only y’ might, y’ know,temperyer attentions t’ Miss Merrinan some. Be a mite more discreet about the Abbey.”
Wells nearly sputtered for outrage. “Cuthbert, if you so much as?—”
The steward kept a straight face, though inside he chuckled. “’Course, Yer Grace, shuttin’ me trap. Just . . . have a word with her, is all.” And then he made for the door, but not before he’d thrown at his lordship, “That much pleasure comin’ from a woman’s mouth, sir, ’tis enough t’ driveanyman mad.”
John grinned to himself all the way down the hall, knowing exactly how it was Lord Wells had tamed Charles Merrinan: She was a glutton for rutting same as he. The two deserved each other.
His mistress was asleep when Wells slipped into bed, and he had every intention of waking her but then thought better. He could wait till morning; he wasn’t an animal, despite what his men might think.
He reached a hand to stroke her soft, sleek skin. Not even his London mistresses had responded so quickly, so effortlessly, to his advances. They’d been skilled and willing—they were paid to be willing—but this girl . . . He was growing stiff just pressed against her in the bed. This girl, he knew in his core, enjoyed him too. It was an added delight he’d not expected when she’d been tossed at his feet, covered in chicken shit, and it made his desire for her that much more intense. But Cuthbert was right; as more staff came on they could ill afford to continue rutting about the Abbey. Wellhecould. His housekeeper could not.
He sighed, letting his hand trace the line of her spine before he settled at the sweet swell of one buttock. Wells lingered there a moment, pressing his fingers into her flesh to make the luscious cheek dimple.
Then he took himself in hand, rather than wake her, for if he didn’t relieve himself soon he’d find no rest this night. None.
Only it was she who woke him the next morning, peppering a trail of feather-light kisses down the middle of Wells’s chest, landing at his swollen sex before mounting and riding him awake. His eyes opened, half-lidded with lust.
“My lord,” she greeted, her hands tracing stomach muscle as she ground her hips along his length.
“Christ, woman.” He shook the sleep from his brain. “Who taught you how to wake a man thus?”
