That night Charles lay in bed alone, thinking. She’d nearly burned her sister’s letter in disgust. No, not in disgust, in despair. Ellie was a fool to throw herself away on Cuthbert of all men. She was young and silly, ignorant of love’s dangers, to be wooed by a rotten, measly kiss. How could one kiss turn her sister into such asimpleton?
Yet Charles knew how. She herself had been reduced by a kiss before, and the memory of that kiss, ofwhereshe’d been kissed, haunted her still. Lord Wellesley had proven again and again just how much a person could be ruled by the body, howshecould be ruled. She wasn’t proud of herself, but Charles understood herself better; she didn’t want Eleanor to learn the same lesson.
Her sister must be made to see reason. She’d talk to Cuthbert tomorrow about it, not his lordship, for Wells, no doubt, cared little whom her sister married. Though like as not he’d prefer his steward remain unattached. Oh how she wished Cuthbert had not been the one to deliver Eleanor those blasted baskets! And yet without those baskets . . . She shuddered to imagine her family this winter without food.
Charles tossed and turned on her hard little bed, unable to sleep. Her closet room was always cold. As soon as the hot water bottle cooled she felt the chill creep into her bones. She missed his lordship’s bed.Hewas warm.Heknew how to drive away her fears and sorrows with kisses and caresses. Roland Rutherford knew just how to comfort.
In a flash, she threw off the covers and jumped out of bed.
***
Wells felt something cold wriggle against him for warmth, burrowing itself into his chest. He closed his body around the insistent beast, pulling it closer to him, warming it, until a kittenish sigh was heard, and lips felt, all along his breastbone. The creature snuggled deeper into him as he kissed the top of its head.
“Closer,” he told Charles, smiling. And if possible she wriggled in more, her entire body now pressed into the hollow of his own.
“Your feet are cold,” he grumbled.
“I’m sorry.” Her breath was hot against his chest.
“Don’t be, Fox. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” she started, “only don’t speak, Roland, please. Just hold me, will you?”
“Not even a story?” He drew her closer.
She stilled a moment. “Perhaps a story, yes.”
“Good.” He squeezed her till she gasped. “For there once was a lass named Daisy, a very buxom lass, who’d her eye on a lad named Tom, who was so well endowed he . . .”
She was suddenly shaking in his arms. “You lummox, you!” Her head lifted from his chest in laughter. “Not anaughtystory!”
“Why not a naughty story?” He kept a straight face. “Do you not wish to know what Tom did to Daisy?”
“Lord Wells, you are the most incorrigible man I have ever?—”
“Or would you rather Ishowyou what Tom did to Daisy?” His hand slipped low, gripping one lush bottom cheek.
“My lord!” she protested.
“Well, do you?” He began to knead the delicious swell of flesh.
In answer she sank her teeth into his shoulder as he let out a rush of air and smacked her buttock, only to murmur“I thought so”into her oh-so-soft hair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“And just when am Ifree, sir, to enjoy books? I do not recall being granted any time off.” Charles arched her brow at Wells.
He’d caught her leafing through the library, when she was supposed to be dusting its shelves. Wells threw caution to the wind. “Yes, well, that was before you proved yourself . . . amenable.”
“So now I am allowed a day of freedom every two weeks, like the rest of your staff?” she pressed.
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“Then I shall set aside a few books for that day.” She took the one she’d been skimming and added another, then several more, until she’d built a tall pile upon the table.
“Just how much reading do you intend to do, woman?” Wells frowned at her stack.
“I must make up for lost time,” she blithely answered.
