A shadow crossed her face. “She passed away here, sir, in childbirth. When we returned to London, to her parent’s house, they . . .” She faltered. “It is in the past, my lord, and we are simply grateful to be a family still.” She smiled at him once more. “Charles was scant fifteen at the time and I but ten, so she mothered me, you see.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Miss Eleanor. Your father must have loved his wife very much, to have been affected so deeply by her death.”
“Yes.” Her smile pinched. “She loved him enough to . . .” Yet again she stopped herself. “It was so long ago, my lord, it seems another lifetime I am sure.”
Wells could tell she was done talking. It was also time he left.
“I must return to Almsdale, Miss Eleanor. Business awaits, I’m afraid.” He brought her hand to his lips. “Tell Cuthbert I have gone, he needn’t catch up. Let him finish in the kitchen for you.” He winked at her, making her eyes widen. “You might even offer him another cuppa,” he continued, “for he likes to sit and chat, especially with a lady as pretty as yourself, I’m sure.”
Which made her blush and fumble another deep curtsy, as Wells hurried off to make his way back to the Abbey, a multitude of thoughts crowding his mind.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Wells made no mention to Charles of the visit he’d paid her family. He’d enough to chew on from his conversation with Miss Eleanor—not to mention the strange ramblings of her father—to keep his mind busy even as his hands labored at the south wall. That his mistress’s family had been of some repute in the past was now abundantly clear. That she was still an obstreperous hellion was another matter.
He kept his distance, and she hers, their only communication now relegated to household matters. He noticed she’d nearly finished with the staff rooms, and he’d put in solid work every day alongside stonemason Adams’s men. Thus progress, at least on the Abbey, was being made.
Yet at night his bed was empty, and the fact that she slept but a few doors down the hall was a temptation he’d nearly succumbed to several times. It would be easy to slip into her room and kiss her into submission, carry her back to his bed, kicking and screaming even. Only he wanted her to come to him. He wanted her apology and her admission of guilt. He wanted her to desirehim, and in so doing, willingly give herself to him again.
And still she did not.
Cuthbert grudgingly handed Wells another letter.
“’T’ain’t right, sir,” he grumbled again.
Wells merely glared back. “I’ll be the judge of my own conscience, John. Wait while I read it, then you may give it to her.”
Dearest Charles,
How your words fill me with joy, sister! I am so grateful for your news, yet I have news of my own this time. Imagine my surprise the other morning when Lord Wellesley himself arrived alongside Mr. Cuthbert. I nearly died of shame that he should enter our lowly home. Yet he behaved with such absolute decorum, as if to sit and breakfast with us were the most natural thing in the world! He was kind to Papa, too, whom you can imagine said all manner of disagreeable things. Yet Wellesley treated him with the utmost respect. It made me nearly weep, to see a lord such as he regard our father with such gentleness.
He’d made a good impression on the sister, at least.
So I cannot in good faith comprehend, Charles, why you disparage his lordship in your letters. He struck me as the very picture of nobility. He admitted, even, that John Cuthbert was his best friend. Imagine a lord and layman friends! He took me on a walk about our sorry garden—can you picture how absurd it must have looked? Frumpy me promenading the Duke of Allendale’s handsome, charming heir. It was a scene from a fairytale almost! And yet your letters tell of a very different man who is anything but a prince, and I cannot reconcile this with the lord who cameto visit. Perhaps I only dreamt him after all, because Lord Wellesley was not the least bit awful, sister. So you must explain your low opinion of him, Charles, else I shall not believe you.
Low opinion, eh? What the devil had Charles written to her sister about him?
Father is well, the chickens lay daily, and . . .
He skimmed ahead.
. . . as to your offer, I must refuse. You cannot save every penny you earn solely for me. Why do you not see yourself also someday wed? I love you more than anyone in this world, Charles, (except for Papa, of course) yet you baffle me at times. I suspect you baffle others as well. Lord Wellesley must surely find you a difficult housekeeper if you question him at every turn. He is heir to a dukedom, Charles. You cannot speak to him as if you were his equal when clearly you are not.
Write to me soon! Ever yours, Ellie
Wells carefully folded the letter back into its original creases and handed it to Cuthbert without a word. Then he leaned back in his chair, mulling. At least Miss Eleanor thought highly of him. Yet she’d no reason not to. Charles, of course, had reason in plenty, reasons he knew all too damn well. No wonder she’d been desperate to become anythingbuthis mistress. Miss Eleanor would be horrified if she knew the truth. And no wonder she’d reacted with such horror when he’d publicly chastised her before Adams’s men.
He sighed. Perhaps her sister’s letter would make Charles at last see reason, for she could not continue to speak to him as shedid. She must submit to his will or he’d have no choice but to cast her out and find himself a new mistress—and new housekeeper—because she tempted him too much, even traipsing about the Abbey in that dull new uniform of hers.
The trouble was, Wells did not want just any mistress anymore. He wantedher, bloody hell.
In between her work, Charles read over her sister’s letter, still shocked his lordship had visited her family and still stewing over why the devil he had. Did he somehow mean to injure her further? Or was he simply making sure she’d not lied to him about her father and sister? Perhaps he was simply curious? He couldn’t be. He was too self-centered for that. She’d need to query Cuthbert, for if the steward truly were a ‘friend’ to Wells, as Ellie had written, he’d have some opinion as to why his lordship had sought out her family. Why indeed! And devil take the blasted man for even occupying her thoughts!
Truth be told, Eleanor’s letter had only inflamed Charles’s own roiling temper more. She remained disgusted at herself for wishing Lord Wellswoulddemand his gratification. It had been days since he’d done so, and she ought to be relieved. Instead, she missed the wicked ways with which he disturbed her work in the middle of the day: passionately crushing her up against a wall, a table, or even splaying her out across the floor.
She grew flushed just picturing past encounters, at war with herself for reliving such lustful, primitive acts. Because tender or cruel, she’d relished Lord Wellesley’s attentions, so what did that say about her? Surely her parents had not been so rough in their lovemaking. She remembered them softly touching one another during the day—secret, gentle touches—nothingremotely lewd. She could think of no more loving couple than her parents. Indeed, her entire understanding of romantic love was based on the model of their marriage and precisely what she wished for Eleanor someday.
She, alas, would never be so lucky.
