John did as she asked and pulled his chair nearer to hers, a little closer than was necessary so he could smell the sweet scent of her. She, meanwhile, put down her skein and took the half unraveled wool from his hands, setting both aside before shesmoothed her skirts and laid her head upon his shoulder, as if it were the most natural thing in all the world.
“I shall use you as a pillow too, John, if you don’t mind. See how useful you are?” She teased him with another smile. “Tell me a story, please, any story at all.”
And John Cuthbert, nearly frozen with surprise, was not so shy as to let an opportunity like this one pass him by. He slipped an arm about her waist and drew her closer still, hearing her exhale the softest little sigh. Then he mustered a deep, warm voice and told her of his adventures at sea with Lord Wells, lulling her into visions and dreams most fantastic, he hoped, until she’d closed her eyes in sleep.
“But surely yer lordship can’t mean to . . . !”
Clarice stood nervously twisting her apron next to Marta, both girls hovering behind Lord Wellesley, whose sleeves were rolled up, forearms plunged into soapy dishwater, as Charles watched from the doorway. She folded her own arms and secretly grinned to herself.
“Of course I mean to,” he snapped at them. “Now out of my kitchen, both of you. It is St. Stephen’s, for God’s sake, and you are in my way,” he ordered.
To which they scurried out, quick as could be.
Charles snuck up behind him, casting a furtive glance towards the door before slipping her arms about his middle to whisper, “I like you on my staff, Roland.” She deliberately used his name. “You make a fine scullery, my lord.”
To which he spun about, soapy arms fast drawing her to him. “Command me today, Miss Merrinan, while you still may. Tonight, too, whatever my mistress asks shall be hers.”
And Charles blushed to think Lord Wells would doherbidding this day too. She kissed him hard. “I shall spend the day in thought, sir, as to how you might please me this night, for I’ll expect no objections, only strict obedience.”
“Just you wait, Fox.” He kissed her fiercely. “I will not disappoint.”
For the rest of St. Stephen’s, Wells remained as good as his word, shocking Mrs. Jenkins most of all, that he should commandeer her kitchen. He fried them all eggs for dinner, he scrubbed sheets for Ginny in the laundry; he even beat rugs for Ruby.
As for his crew, they knew the drill, for he’d served them on St. Stephen’s even at sea, hauling rigging and swabbing decks. They laughed and jeered at him good naturedly as he went about their tasks, telling himhe were better on a ship, aye, than here on land, useless blueblood!To which he played along, cussing and cursing them roundly, telling them they were worthless good-for-nothings he’d fire on the morrow. They could rot in hell for all he cared!
It was a game played and enjoyed by all, most especially Wells, for it was the one day each year he could pretend to be one of them, when he could forget all about the damn Dukedom. He reveled in belonging, if but a little while. It felt briefly as it had on his ship, when his crew had been his family. He’d missed that.
That night, Charles snuck into his lordship’s room to slip into his bed.
Immediately, he grabbed her to him. “You’ve an hour at most, miss, before St. Stephen’s ends. Speak now what you desire of me, Fox.”
She hesitated, for all day she’d been mulling what she wished from him. And the longer she’d mulled the more she’d come to such a simple request she knew it was impossible for him to fulfill. But she blurted it anyway, because he’d pleasured her body enough in past it was not as though she needed more ofthat. What she desired was something far more intimate, which he’d never be able to give her, even if he tried.
“I wish you weren’t the Duke’s son, my lord.” She told him in a rush. “I wish you were a village gadgie instead, a simple lad to court me. Treat me like your equal in bed tonight, please; I do not wish to be your mistress. Make love like a man loves a woman. Can you do that, Roland? Sir?” He suddenly struck her as far away, and she feared her words had upset him.
“I meant no harm by it, truly you needn’t . . .” Charles struggled. “If it displeases your lordship then you needn’t play along. I should be content if you merely?—”
His lips silenced her swiftly, passionately. He stole her breath away.
“I shall try, Fox. I shall try my best to be that man. I wish I were but a simple lad and not the future Duke. I wish I could steal you away to some snug little cottage, to a life of simple harvests, children tall as weeds, memories grown ripe with age.”
She kissed him quiet. “Then give me that, Roland, pretend we have that life. Just for tonight, I beg. Tomorrow I am your mistress and you my lord, but this night be master of none, stonemason only.”
“Aye and you but my lusty village lass.” He grinned at her, his mood lifted, even as his lips caught her own in a kiss that lasted through the night, tasting of freedom.
John dried the dishes as Eleanor washed. It was St. Stephen’s so he’d insisted on helping. He still found it hard to call her Ellie, but he’d tried a few times, her name on his tongue altogether too sweet. She was telling him something, talking again, but he’d not heard a word, his eyes drifting to the nape of her neck bent over the sink, the tendrils of hair curling there like pea shoots in spring. How he longed to reach out and . . .
With a crash the plate dropped to floor as John, horrified, looked down at his feet. Why the devil had he let it slip from his hands? He bent at once to collect the shards but then knocked into Eleanor, who’d bent down too, their foreheads colliding in a bump that sent them both reeling backwards.
“Ellie!” he exclaimed, rushing to pull her back up, his hand reaching out to touch her scalp tenderly, fearing he’d injured her.
She rubbed her head, wincing a little, before she laughed at him. “’Tis nothing, really,” she declared. “The kitchen is too small for you; I told you not to help me in here.”
Yet his hand, still at her soft hair, wouldn’t let go, as he found himself tracing her cheek with his finger, then tracing her lips. His hand had a will of its own.
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“Eleanor, I’m that sorry,” he told her, hand still on her lips when she suddenly pressed her mouth to his fingers and kissed him there, her lips soon kissing the palm of his hand, heat searing his flesh.
