Ruby was sewing Charles a dress, an honest-to-goodness print dress that could be worn to church even—not that Charles would feel comfortable stepping foot inside a church anytime soon. She pushed the thought from her mind. She seemed to avoid a great many thoughts these days but was nonetheless grateful LordWellesley had approved the purchase of new dress cloth. In fact, the man had even winked at her when she’d pressed her case.
Charles pushedthatimage from mind too, forcing herself back to task. She was nearly done knitting his lordship’s rowdy crew wool hats and mitts for winter, having put Clarice and Marta to work on these as well. Many hands made for lighter work, and she was grateful for those extra hands, because there was no end in sight to labor. Each day brought a new room to unearth and restore, leaving another that much closer to completion. Lord Wells claimed he had no plans to entertain at the Abbey, but eventually his lordship would. He’d host guests someday, Charles knew, and she’d not have the Abbey disappoint. London gentry would see that Almsdale was as good a house as any, better even. The Abbey would shine.
It would shine for Christmas, too, because she planned to make the great hall festive and merry; Lord Wells had given her permission to decorate. It would be a time of celebration and, Charles hoped, a time his lordship might be proud of his staff, proud ofher. He’d been so sweet of late, ever since the storm, that she relished their moments—their nights—together as much as she now relished her position here as housekeeper.
Charles felt like she’d come into her own, at last.
Wells entered his bedchamber exhausted from his day’s labors, his ribs still giving him grief. The south wall was nearly done, the men making a final push, and he’d pushed himself too. The weather had grown colder and the storms more frequent, which had made Adams put every able-bodied fellow he now had on the job. By the end of the week they ought to be finished, andwhen they were, Wells would be relieved to have accomplished this much, at least, towards restoring the Abbey.
The hot bath awaiting him brought him relief as he stripped and sank into the water, letting the heat ease his sore rib cage and muscles. He didn’t mind the work anymore, enjoyed it even, but it had taken a toll on his body this past month. He was used to working a ship, not working stone—an altogether different sort of labor here on land. He sank deeper into the water, submerging himself entirely, resting both body and mind.
Yet when he surfaced he was no longer alone. A woman lay draped across his bed, clad in diaphanous silk, lush curves visible beneath the flowing fabric, her hair a river of coppery gold. His breath caught, for surely this temptress was not his Fox, surely she was an apparition instead. Either he was dreaming or his Cumberland mistress had turned siren—no, vixen—to rival the finest London courtesans. This couldn’t be his housekeeper and yet . . .
“My lord,” the creature purred, “will you not join me, sir?”
He was still unbelieving.
“Roland,” she softly beckoned, “I wish to please you tonight.”
Which made him suck in his breath and rise, dripping from the bath, as he hastily dried himself en route to the bed. He let his eyes soak her up, for she’d donned the silk stockings and revealing chemise he’d ordered fromLeBrecht’s. To say it was a gift he had given himself, more than her, was undeniable.
He lowered himself to the edge of the bed and reached a hand to trace her shape, marveling at how she shimmered beneath the silk, how luminous it made her.
“I take it you like your gift, sir?” She smirked.
“Oh Fox, you’ve no idea.” His hand stole up the inside of one stocking to the ribbon tied just above her knee, then moved further up her bare inner thigh.
“I feel like a proper mistress at last, my lord,” she whispered more seductively, her gaze raking his naked body. “One who knowsjusthow to command her master’s attention.” Her fingertip traced the dark line of hair down his chest to his gut, and lower still, where she took sweet hold of him, before she drew him into bed beside her.
Wells closed his eyes, not wishing the moment to end, but then opened them to feel the caress of lips, soft upon his own. She tempted with her tongue, entering his mouth with insistence as he returned her kiss more deeply, dangerously. She pressed her body to his, shifting herself over the seat of his lap to lower herself maddeningly slowly, until he was enveloped in searing heat, consumed by it. He broke their kiss to cry her name as her tongue lapped his skin like a fox licks its mate, nipping his shoulder gently, sinking teeth into flesh. All while she milked him between her thighs.
Wells wanted to die inside her, dissolve entirely, as a groan escaped his lips.
“Whisht,” she teased in Cumbrian tone, “you have worked hard all day, my lord, do not move, do not speak. Only let me please you, Roland.”
Her words elicited a far deeper moan which quickly turned to growl, for he could take no more. Wells threw her onto her back and hooked her below each knee to plunge inside her core, demanding she give her all. He took only his pleasure, all reason lost. Like a man starved, insatiable, he consumed his mistress until his craving passed, spilled hot across her belly.
They lay as one, breathing hard, his body collapsed atop her, until her hand reached for his head of curls and played there, her voice hot against his ear.
“I would have you again, Roland.”
“Again, Fox?” He rumbled into her chest. “Christ, woman, I just?—”
“Again, Lord Wells. My courses will come on the morrow, so it is safe to spill your seed. Miss Griswald assured me. And I want you, my lord. I want your very essence given to me.”
Which only roused him further, he could feel his loins respond again. God how she tempted, spurred, and drove him to distraction. He’d take her again, yes. He’d take her all night and into morning. His Fox would be sore tomorrow but he didn’t care. If she wanted him this much then by God he’d give her his all. All of him.
“You’ll regret this come morning, Charles,” he warned.
“I’ll regret nothing, Roland.” She bit his neck. “Join me to you, do not hold back.”
He did not.
By morning they were both utterly spent, Charles groaning as she awoke. She did not wish to start the day’s chores, because her body was indeed sore from use. His lordship groaned also, as if hung over from lust, rather than drink. He seemed sapped of all strength, exhausted.
They looked at one another blearily, then grinned like two fools before Lord Wells kissed the tip of her nose. “Woman, you will be the death of me.” He shook his head.
“Only the sexual death of you, Roland.” Charles laughed as his grin deepened and he pulled her to him tight.
