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470 pages, Kindle Edition
Published November 11, 2024
Miss Merrinan chafes at the position she’s in, but getting food on her family’s table comes first. If this means bedding the new Lord of Almsdale Abbey, so be it.
Recalling bodice rippers of yore,
“It hurts but once, Fox, and I promise to be gentle.
Yet this irked him only more— that she should foist some insincere apology now at him, when he knew damn well she wasn’t sorry for her words one bit. He rolled her away from him. “Take it back.”
“What?” She looked surprised.
“Take back your half- wit apology.”
“But my lord, I—” “Do it.”
He glared at her. “No!”
She glared back.
His mistress’s apology had come, but not as he’d expected. She’d not thrown herself at his feet, begging his forgiveness, nor had she thrown herself into his arms, begging for his bed. Instead, she’d humbled herself rather nicely, owning up to her errors. Wells was not sure how to respond.
Maybe he did, in fact, need a different mistress. He’d tell Cuthbert as much tomorrow— see if his man couldn’t find him a simpler, pretty enough village girl. Because Charles Merrinan was too much for him to handle. He didn’t care anymore how well she argued, or how well she fucked. He could not comprehend this woman’s behavior, nor would he likely ever.
“There is no shame in becoming my mistress, woman.”
“So you repeatedly tell me, Your Grace.”
“Then why do you not accept it?” he lashed out.
“You are no whore, you are but shocked, Fox, by what you have done. But you are not the first to perform such act. Married women please their husbands thus, husbands please their wives thus— it is an act a mistress learns well. There is no shame in what you’ve done, none.
A mistress is not a whore, I’ve told you this before. You are allowed to feel and enjoy yourself. But neither is a mistress more; no position is, after all, permanent.”
“No!” She was upset. “No, my lord, I will see her alone.”
He frowned. “And why, pray?”
“Why?” She was appalled. “Because if you accompany me she will know at once that you are . . . That I am . . .”
“Still ashamed of your position here, Charles?” He arched his brow.
“No, sir, not with your lordship, but in the eyes of others I cannot . . .” She swallowed.
“I happen to like how uncivilized you’ve become of late, Charles, and only find it amusing to discover you still think yourself—”
“Moral? Principled?” she burst out, fast removing her body from his grasp. “It was you, sir, who insisted I distinguish mistress from whore, but apparently I am no better, and you have made me one in the eyes of all your men.” She scrambled from the bed to hurriedly begin to dress.
“Then why must you lie, Charles? Surely she can keep a secret. Surely with time people will not think it uncommon their lord and master’s taken a—” Her face pinched. “It is perfectly common for a lord to take a mistress, I know this, sir.” She struggled. “It is simply not acceptable for me to be your mistress.
And then she . . .” He sighed. “Let’s just say I quick talked me way t’ keep yon housekeeper’s honor intact.”
“Damn these women and their incessant need for respectability,” Wells ground out, rolling his eyes.
T’ain’t right, sir,” his steward had muttered. “That were given me in good faith I’d deliver it t’ Miss Eleanor.”
“And deliver it you shall, John,” Wells had replied. “I am simply reading it before you do.”
“Oi, sir, readin’ a private letter not meant for anyone’s eyes but—”
“Enough!” he’d ground out.
“From now on you are to bring me all her correspondence, including that of her sister,” Wells ordered. “I will not!” “You will, as it is my direct order, John.”
“Then we will leave things as they are,” Wells told him. “And you will continue to deliver me the sisters’ correspondence, not that I need hear your continued reproach.” His voice rose a notch.
Wells scanned his housekeeper’s letter, looking for information he did not already know.
Christmas, bah. Why did women include so many unnecessary details in their letters? He skimmed more text.
Wells paused in his reading, for it felt like a breach of confidence to read so intimate a declaration from Eleanor Merrinan regarding his steward, John Cuthbert.
How the bloody hell else am I supposed to know why she’s behaving like a—?”
“Y’ could ask her, for God’s sake,” Cuthbert snarled at him. “Y’ could ask her like a man, rather’n the coward you’ve become.”
“In here!” the voice hissed once more. She followed said voice into a darkly shuttered room and beheld his lordship slumped in a chair, drape flung aside. [...]
“My lord,” she sighed, “tell me you are not hiding in here from your mother.”
“Damn right I am.” He motioned her over. “Come, Fox, I am desperate for my mistress.”
He’d not lose her. He’d simply need to convince her to stay on as his mistress when he married.
In truth, Wells didn’t care what she did. He simply couldn’t lose her, not over so insignificant a detail as marriage.
Why allow me to treat you as I did that night, humiliating you and your family by assuming you were a common thief, a village bumpkin, when all the while you—”
“Allow you?” She shook her head, wrenching back her hand. “Oh that is rich, sir, truly.
“Madam,” he began, “I will admit to having acted a cad, but let me assure you that I’d no idea of Miss Merrinan’s lineage when first we met, and we met under circumstances which painted her in a most unsavory light, such that I—”
You will marry her at once and make her your Duchess.”
“I . . . Marry her?” Wells’s head hurt. He could barely speak.
But she [ex-mistress] refused his money, gently pushing it away. “My lord.” She placed her hand over his. “You must make her suffer some, if you wish to make her yours.” [...] “I know women like your Charlotte.” She looked almost wistful. “You must break her a little first, make her realize she needs you. Otherwise she will run from you again.”
“So what shall it be, Charlotte?” The two men already flanked her [ex-mistress] sides, standing terribly close. “The fine gentleman who wishes to keep you in great comfort, or the many gentlemen who will be less gentle when they sample your wares at my other shop.” Madame’s eyes glittered savagely.
“Your identity was not the only thing I needed to verify, Charles.” Wells’s gaze pierced her a moment before he swallowed, seeming nervous. “I also needed to be sure you didn’t actually want to become some other man’s mistress.
Charles was dumbstruck. “You mean you actually thought me capable of—?”
“How else could I be certain?” He sounded pained. “You took off in a huff after I proposed marriage, when I expected you’d be pleased by the offer, happy even, as I was happy to imagine us together at last, no longer having to skulk about the Abbey like a pair of furtive—”
And Charles, it seemed, had no intention of relenting. She was proving to be a fortress of denial, and he feared she might never crack.

“Yes, I want you to ruin her publicly, Roland.
“Yes,” she snarled, “because your plan is decidedly not working.”
“This time I am being patient, Mother. Unlike you, it seems.”
[...] And she will remain angry until something occurs to jar her from her anger.
You and I both know he’s flawed but no fiend.