Yet before Wells could further his own pleasure, Cuthbert walked in without so much as a knock. Cursing the man with his next intake of breath, Wells rolled off the girl while she yanked up the covers to hide herself.
“Damn blast it, John, announce yourself!”
“Beg pardon, Yer Grace.” His man worked to suppress a smile. “But the stonemason’s here, says he’s not got all day.” His steward’s gaze barely registered the girl in Wellesley’s bed. “And her family’s been told.” He nodded towards Charles. “Pleased as punch t’ get the chickens.”
At this she peeked above the covers.
“There’s a letter from the Duchess as well,” Cuthbert stated before tromping back out, making Wells expel a loud sigh, all desire having shriveled at the mention of his mother. He sat up in bed and stretched his arms wide before he poked the girl beneath his covers.
“Ow!” she got out, muffled.
“We shall continue your instruction later, Charles. I’ve business to attend to.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, flexing his torso once more.
Her head emerged from the covers to stare as he strolled across the room to piss the pot. “Looking your fill, are you?” he taunted above the stream, back still turned to her. Wells knew he had an admirable backside.
“I am not,” she said stiffly.
“Are too.” He turned to grin at her even as her mouth fell open the moment he stepped forward to retrieve his clothes from the chair. Wells took pride in the fact he looked like no ordinary blueblood, his body more that of a common laborer than lord. God knew he’d worked it to the bone his many years at sea.
He pulled on his trousers over his muscled thighs while the girl appeared as flustered by his nudity as she was flummoxed by her plight.
“Given your behavior last night,” he declared, “I don’t trust you not to bolt the moment I leave this room.” He eyed her close. “Meaning you are to remain naked in my bed till I return, understood?”
She bit her lip, defiant.
“Ah.” He met her look. “I see you do not.” He strode to a tall chest of drawers to begin pulling out an assortment of silk neckties. “We shall resort to other methods then.” He grabbed her arm in a sudden move to tie her to the bedpost, overpowering her enough to secure the other arm just as fast.
“You cannot bind me to this bed as if I were your?—!”
“Prisoner?” he cut in. “How apt, considering your sentence. We shall simply make my bedroom Almsdale Abbey’s new gaol.”
She looked aghast at his suggestion.
“You are most attractive when angry, Fox.” And she was, inordinately so. It wasn’t her fiery-gold hair alone, but the fire in those emerald eyes and the round contours of her rich curves.
His finger traced her cheek to land upon her lip, still fat from Cuthbert’s slap last night, pulling it down a little beforehe leaned in for a kiss. “I look forward to exploring your foxlike, predatory nature when I return,” he murmured before he grabbed his waistcoat and shut the door firmly behind him.
Wells smiled to think he’d left his new mistress both tongue-tied and tied-up: quite the sight.
***
Charles Merrinan was not dumbstruck for long, for within seconds of Lord Wellesley’s departure she began to work free of her restraints. Silk ties made for slippery knots, though those knots had been shockingly well made, requiring no small degree of effort. Once released from her binds she searched in vain for his lordship’s banyan, or her clothes from last night, anything to don, before she remembered with sinking heart what had been tossed into a tub of bathwater.
With a snort of frustration she grabbed the first item of clothing she spotted, one of his lordship’s long shirts, and slipped this over her head as she stole a chair’s throw for shawl. Then Charles snuck out of the room and down the Abbey’s dark hall in search of food first, clothes next, and after . . . some way out of this mess.
CHAPTER THREE
Lord Wellesley’s morning was not going to plan. He’d been denied the satisfaction of debauching his new mistress in order to meet with a stonemason he’d then managed to offend—stubborn Cumberland fool—which would only delay repairs further if he had to send to London for tradesmen. Not to mention the fact he’d missed his shave and breakfast so now found himself both irritable and hungry.
Also, he’d still not looked at the letter from his mother.
As he made his way to the kitchen, mood darkening and stomach grumbling, his sole consolation was the knowledge a certain fetching female remained bound to his bed, awaiting his return. Yet even this, it seemed,he’d be denied, for upon entering said kitchen, who should he spy but the girl herself, rolling out dough, sleeves pushed up and hair escaping its loose knot. He thought again what raucous hair she had—strawberry blond now came to mind. But how the devil had she escaped his bed?
He snuck up on her softly, stepping from behind to quickly encircle her waist, eliciting a shriek and a struggle, which he quashed with his voice. “I thought I gave you strict orders to remain in my chamber,” he grumbled into her ear, handsreaching up to cup her breasts beneath what he could only surmise was one of his own damn shirts.
“You left me to languish,” the girl ground through her teeth, “with nothing to eat or drink, not even clothes to wear. What did you think I’d do, Lord Wellesley?”
“Remain tied to my bed.” He gently bit her ear, making her yelp with surprise.
