She leaned forward, her breasts tantalizingly close to his lips. “You did, Lord Wells.”
He awoke fully in that moment, grabbing hold of her haunches to urge her faster on until he could wait no more and pulled her off, spilling his seed against her thigh as she collapsed atop him, her body a warm and welcome weight upon his own.
“You lovely, lovely creature.” He nuzzled her neck.
“Mmm . . .” The sound purred in her throat. “Good morning, Roland.”
He flinched at so intimate an address, but then remembered he’d given her permission to use his name in bed. And so she had, only not as he’d expected.
“Charles,” he warned.
She immediately resumed formality. “Forgive me, my lord. I merely missed your attentions last night.”
“Missed me, eh?” He drew her closer, wrapping his arms tight about her. “I did not wish to wake you, and so, it seems, you chose to wake me instead.”
“But you have woken me plenty in past.” She frowned. “Why hesitate last night?”
Wells had the distinct impression his mistress was trying to puzzle out what made him tick both in and out of bed, alarmed to imagine her so cunning. Then again, she was his Fox. And a mistress was expected to anticipate her master’s desires. She was learning the role. Isn’t that what he’d wanted?
“The men have been complaining to Cuthbert about us.” He decided to be frank. “I suppose it gave me pause.”
“Complaining?” She seemed instantly piqued. “Well I’ve a complaint or two myself when it comes to that passel of good-for-nothings who barely keep their?—”
“Charles,” he warned again.
“My lord.” She met his eyes with disdain. “They are uncivilized.”
He burst into laughter.
“Why are you laughing?” She looked doubly aggrieved.
“Because . . .” He was in stitches. “Because you look so appalled, woman!” He tried to calm his laughter, yet he could not quell his mirth. “Forgive me, Fox, I am thinking only of how . . . Well, let us be honest, Charles.” He gathered his wits. “You are rather the pot calling the kettle black, my dear.”
“I do not comprehend you, my lord.” She stiffened.
He merely raised a brow as his hand stroked the tip of one pink, delicious nipple into a perfect, pretty peak, causing her cheeks to blush a lovely hue of red.
“I happen tolikehow uncivilized you’ve become of late, Charles, and only find it amusing to discover you still think yourself?—”
“Moral? Principled?” she burst out, fast removing her body from his grasp. “It wasyou, sir, who insisted I distinguish mistress from whore, but apparently I am no better, and you have made me one in the eyes of all your men.” She scrambled from the bed to hurriedly begin to dress.
“Charles,” he sighed deeply from the pillows, “why must our every interaction turn so swiftly into disagreement, woman?”
“Why?” Her eyes blazed. “Because our interactions are based not on respect, my lord, but on abuse of power.Yourpower. I’ll not deny I enjoy our sexual congress. It shocks me that I do, but that is not what fuels our debate. What fuels our continued disagreement is that you see me as mere body upon which to slake your lust, rather than a thinking, feeling, being with needs equal to your own.” She was vibrating with anger. “So do not call me a pot, sir, when your kettle is just as black.”
His mistress abruptly turned from him and impossibly, stormed out.
Wells lay there, stunned. The way this woman took him to task was inconceivable. Why, he ought to bend her over his lap for another sound thrashing! A thought which only made his cock twitch in response as he forced the image from his mind. Why the devil he allowed her to talk to him as she did baffled, for it was not the first time she’d been so brazen in her speech—and no doubt would not be the last. Yet each time her words pushed and poked his conscience, he felt as aroused as he felt enraged, and a part of him also undeniably chastened. He wanted her to think better of him, damn it, which only maddened him more.
Bloody hell,he hissed as he got out of bed to dress and head to the south wall, tothatpile of rubble, as far from his infuriating housekeeper as possible.
Charles stormed straight from Lord Wellesley’s bed into the kitchen, where she knew his blasted men would be breaking fast before commencing the day’s work. She launched herself into their midst, picking up a ladle and saucepan on her way in, before she stepped atop a chair and cracked both loudly over her head.
They fell quiet to a man, staring at her in shock.
No doubt she looked like a witch perched up there: hair akimbo, spoon and pan gripped fiercely in both hands.
“Miss Merrinan,” Cuthbert cautioned from a corner.
