A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  “You have it all backward, Esther. I feel it my duty as a gentleman to rescue the poor sod if Charlotte has taken him into disfavor.”

  “Gracious. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  The duchess invariably moved with perfect dignity, and yet, she beat Percival to the door.

  Chapter Three

  Had Charlotte been asked, she would have said that kissing could be a pleasant undertaking, albeit unsanitary in its more intimate incarnations. Noses tended to get in the way, and if one wore spectacles as some gentlemen did, those created even more awkwardness.

  But kissing Sherbourne…

  Such a large, unsubtle man had no business trading in tenderness. He’d teased his way past Charlotte’s expectations and tickled awake dreams more suited to a woman ten years her junior. Sweet, silly, naughty dreams…

  Then he’d gone and ruined everything—except her—by proposing marriage.

  “Explain yourself,” Charlotte said. “As I foresee the life of a spinster, I’ll have independent means, freedom to occupy myself however I choose, and…” And the freedom to discreetly aid those most in need of assistance.

  Charlotte couldn’t say that of course. She didn’t admit of those activities to even her family.

  Sherbourne poured a cup of tea. “Freedom and independence. Do go on.”

  “I’ll also have a lively and interesting circle of friends.” Aunt Arabella had had that, though she’d been a widow rather than a spinster before joining the herd of Windhams thundering up the church aisle this year.

  Sherbourne added milk and sugar, stirred the tea, and passed it to her.

  “Your independent means,” he said, “will likely be a charitable trust arranged by your papa, brothers-in-law, or your uncle. Those funds will be controlled by the trustees of their choice, not yours, and once your male relatives are gone, you will be completely at the mercy of the trustees.”

  Was that how it worked? Charlotte was not much interested in legal matters, but she would ask a cousin who had read law, for controlling her own money mattered.

  “Having a husband oversee my expenditures is preferable?”

  “Your settlements will spell out which funds remain under your exclusive control as pin money, and will provide that should you be widowed, you and you alone will manage your finances. One item I have in adequate supply is coin.”

  “One item you lack is delicacy, Mr. Sherbourne.” This cup of tea was not as hot as Charlotte preferred, but it was fortifying and perfectly sweet.

  “Precisely. I lack delicacy, which is why you should marry me.”

  His command of a tea service was excellent, his shoulders were broad, his logic eluded her. “I’m to subject myself to a husband’s supervision rather than be pitied for failing to secure any spouse at all?”

  Sherbourne set the teapot down rather too hard on the tray. “Nobody would dare pity you.”

  Charlotte wanted to believe him, but too many tittering, gossiping, spiteful conversations prevented her. He did not pity her, and that meant more than it should.

  “All spinsters are pitied, Mr. Sherbourne. We’re supposed to pine away for lack of children to wait upon or a husband to serve, when in fact, our greater sorrow is that we could become a burden on the parish.”

  “Many married women have no children and see little of their spouses, but I hope our union would be fruitful. I like children, and think you’d make a marvelous mother.”

  How casually he flung compliments at her. “Why?”

  “Because you are fierce. Your children would be fierce, and if they’re to help shape the future of a realm threatened by a profligate imbecile on the throne, they’ll need to be fierce.”

  The destruction of the entire nation didn’t concern Charlotte. She was focused instead on lives left in tatters thanks to heedless young men. She liked that Britain’s fate concerned Sherbourne, though, even if his politics were the nearest thing to blaspheming under Uncle Percival’s roof.

  “You see us married and filling the nursery, Mr. Sherbourne, when I have yet to consent to even a courtship.”

  He held up the plate of teacakes for her. “Would you like to be courted?”

  Charlotte chose a cake draped in orange glaze and tried to focus on the question rather than on the lazy heat in Sherbourne’s blue eyes. He’d kissed her passionately, with the door open and the house full of servants. How would he kiss late at night, tucked beneath the covers with his wife?

  Charlotte took a small bite of her sweet.

  “Your expression is far from a resounding yes,” Sherbourne said, selecting a lavender cake and popping the whole treat into his mouth.

  Part of Charlotte yearned to be courted, for the petty pleasure of flaunting Sherbourne at all the nincompoops who had presumed she’d be delighted with their offers.

  At all the debutantes who’d spread unkind gossip about her.

  At all the matchmakers who’d regarded Charlotte as the sole reason their daughters hadn’t taken.

  At all the Windhams, who’d be surprised at her choice, and even a little worried.

  Especially at the Windhams.

  “You shouldn’t gobble the whole teacake at once,” she said. “Take a genteel bite, then put the rest back on your plate as you chew.”

  “Genteel bites leave crumbs everywhere. Shall I court you, Miss Charlotte? I’m sure you could instruct me on the particulars.”

  Charlotte wanted to be courted, to be flirted with, to be given indulgent looks by married couples, while she earned envious sighs from the unmarried ladies.

  Such longings were foolish. She didn’t love Sherbourne, and he didn’t love her. She’d be the only Windham in the history of Windhams who had failed to attract a love match.

  “You shall not court me,” Charlotte said. “Such a farce would have no point.”

  Sherbourne held up the plate of cakes for her again. She chose a slice of shortbread this time and got crumbs all over her lap while nibbling genteelly.

  “The lady’s wishes should be controlling,” he said. “I’d enjoy squiring you about for a few weeks, but I applaud your pragmatism too.”

  “Mr. Sherbourne, what on earth are you—?”

  He kissed her, a friendly smack on the lips. “A special license it shall be. I’ll apply tomorrow.”

  “Mr. Sherbourne! A special license will not in any way—”

  He kissed her again, more lingeringly. “Please, Charlotte? I’m not hopeless, and I will honestly try to make you happy.”

  Her inclination was to flounce away and leave him on the sofa with a signature Charlotte Windham set down. A laugh, a wave, a witticism.

  But he was asking her to marry him. Not flinging an offer at her as if she should be desperate to become his wife. Perhaps this was what her version of matrimony needed to look like—pragmatic, with an element of attraction, but no delusions, no flummery.

  “I must have time to think about this,” Charlotte said. “To think about the settlements.”

  She’d surprised him, which pleased her.

  She’d surprised herself. Mr. Sherbourne was not the dashing swain of her fervent, girlish dreams, but he fixed her tea the way she liked it, didn’t put any value on small talk, and kissed intriguingly even with the door open.

  He didn’t strike Charlotte as the type to hover about his wife, though he would be very mindful of the finances. In short, he had possibilities.

  By the time Aunt Esther joined them five minutes later, claiming to have confused the day of her appointment—as if the Duchess of Moreland couldn’t keep the days of the week straight—Charlotte had decided only that she must have at least three days to consider Sherbourne’s proposal.

  Three days was not long to ponder a decision that would affect Charlotte’s entire future, but 4,320 minutes was an eternity to wait before she could sample another one of Sherbourne’s kisses.

  * * *

  Sherbourne suspected that the London newspaper had been invented so that men d
ining alone at their clubs had a fig leaf to drape across their pride. A fellow poring over the financial pages while consuming his steak could make the food—necessary for the life of every species—look like the afterthought crammed between more important undertakings.

  Sherbourne refused to indulge such a fiction. A good steak was worth appreciating. Too many hardworking subjects of the crown rarely had that privilege.

  He thus sat in unlordly splendor alone at a table by the window, the passing scene on the street holding his interest between bites of fine English beef. The days were growing shorter, but the nights had yet to acquire a true chill. The thoroughfares of St. James were thronged as the sun set and the mood of the neighborhood shifted from work to play.

  Directly across the street were two discreet brothels, indistinguishable from their genteel neighbors but for the volume of masculine foot traffic coming and going through their doors. Young men mostly, well dressed, and—based on their expressions as they emerged—well pleasured.

  In a just world, the ladies would be well compensated for putting up with the young fools, though Sherbourne knew from long experience that the world was not just.

  “Good evening, Sherbourne. Might I join you?” Quinton, Earl of Brantford, pulled out the chair across from Sherbourne. “Presumptuous of me, but when Parliament sits, one must resort to desperate measures to avoid the politically impassioned.”

  A waiter was already crossing the room, cutlery for a second place setting in his hand.

  “Brantford,” Sherbourne said, gesturing with his wineglass. “How flattering, to be elevated to the status of a desperate measure. By all means, join me.”

  The waiter organized silver in a precise pattern on the linen tablecloth, then whisked a table napkin across Brantford’s lap and poured his lordship a glass of the expensive vintage Sherbourne had planned to savor over the next two hours.

  “Humor makes so many situations more bearable,” Brantford said, sipping his wine. “That is decent potation, if I do say so myself.”

  Brantford had a title and means. His family seat was in the north, and his holdings included coal mines. Sherbourne had made it a point to acquaint himself with aristocrats who held mining shares, or—like Brantford—owned mines outright.

  In recent weeks, Sherbourne’s status among proper society had shifted from politely excluded to cordially tolerated. Now an earl—albeit a presuming one—had singled Sherbourne out for a shared public meal.

  “The Duke of Moreland favors that wine.” Moreland had sponsored Sherbourne’s membership at this club, and dropping a ducal association into the conversation seemed prudent, though Sherbourne had no idea how His Grace preferred to wash down a steak.

  “Moreland’s duchess has polished her former cavalry officer to a high shine,” Brantford replied, “though she’s had decades to do it. I hear you have some interesting commercial ventures in train over in Wales. I admire initiative in a man, or in a woman, for that matter.”

  Brantford smiled at his wine, as if recalling a lady of recent and intimate acquaintance. He was attractive, his blond locks arranged à la Brutus, and his blue eyes complemented by a sapphire cravat pin.

  Sherbourne sat back—the steak was overcooked—and signaled the waiter.

  “Are you having a meal,” Sherbourne asked, “or was conversation your aim?” Conversation that Brantford had turned to business with all the subtlety of a hound on the scent.

  “I’ll have the usual,” Brantford said to the waiter. “Conversation is always part of a civilized meal. I know mining, Sherbourne, while you’re about to sink your first shaft. We can benefit each other, if you’re amenable to taking on a partner.”

  The partner Sherbourne wanted to take on—Charlotte Windham—had until the day after tomorrow to give him an answer to his proposal. If she agreed to marry him, settlements would require an immediate outflow of cash into the keeping of the lady’s relatives.

  Had Sherbourne so boldly broached a commercial matter, he’d have been labeled an encroaching mushroom, ill-mannered, grasping, and—the death knell of a gentleman’s reputation—not good ton. The same gauche overture from an earl was supposed to be flattering and admirably direct.

  Sherbourne took a sip of hearty claret, the wine’s smoky-sweet notes lingering nicely.

  An investor who brought both funds and expertise to a business undertaking was worth considering, even if that investor did have a title and wore a waistcoat that made a nun look stylish by comparison.

  “I’m willing to listen,” Sherbourne said, as the waiter placed a rare steak before his lordship, “but our discussion can wait for a more private setting.”

  Brantford took up his knife and fork. “You must be joking. One’s club is the holiest of holies, Sherbourne. Why do you think the fashionable impure have set up shop across the street? No one in this establishment would dare mention who was seen paying them a call, much less who was in his cups or betting too heavily. Behind these walls, discretion is assured.”

  Sherbourne had it on the very best authority that discussing business in a social setting was inexcusably bad form. Charlotte could explain why a club wasn’t a social setting, though all that transpired here was gossip and indolence.

  “If I’m to take on an investor,” Sherbourne said, “then that individual will be privy to my ledgers, my budgets, my financial plans for the mine, right down to the last farthing. Anybody who’d discuss that level of detail where a competitor might lurk at the next table is a fool.”

  Brantford speared his steak, which swam in a pool of thick, red juice. “You come close to insulting your betters, Sherbourne.” His tone was amused and chiding.

  “You come close to disqualifying yourself as a possible business associate, Brantford. I will not sacrifice common sense for the sake of traditions I have little reason to trust.”

  Brantford sliced off a bite of meat. “A modern sensibility, and one of which I approve, though not too loudly. Tell me about your mine.”

  The mine was still mostly sketches, estimates, and schedules. “Every geological indicator bodes well for good quality coal immediately beneath the surface. No other mines operate in the valley, so finding labor should be easy, and we’re close enough to the sea that transport of the product will be cheap.”

  “Who’s your engineer?”

  “Hannibal Jones.”

  “Good man, though you must be paying him a fortune to have enticed him away from Waxter.” Between bites of steak, Brantford continued his interrogation. His questions were intelligent and kept to the polite side of prying. From the nods and occasional greetings sent the earl’s way, Sherbourne deduced that his lordship was well liked and well known.

  Though the aristocracy did not air their linen before outsiders. Brantford could have fought duels with half the men in the dining room, and Sherbourne would never hear a word about the contests, much less about any underlying provocation.

  “So,” Brantford said, helping himself to more wine, “shall we engage in a bit of commerce, Sherbourne? I’m casting about for new investments, and I can send my man of business around to have a look at those ledgers you mentioned.”

  “If you and I become involved in the same venture, I’ll be dealing with you, not your toady. Intermediaries introduce delay and error, to say nothing of their own little agendas and schemes.”

  Sherbourne’s ambitions were tempered by pragmatism. He aspired to become accepted by polite society, which was not the same as included. To achieve his goal, he’d have to remain at least modestly wealthy, which his family had managed to do for a half-dozen generations.

  To ensure that his sons had a chance to continue that tradition, Sherbourne could not afford a fool for an investor, no matter how well connected or titled.

  Brantford set his plate aside, the steak only half finished. The dining room had filled with lesser titles, younger sons, and a smattering of old, quiet money. Sherbourne was gradually putting names with faces—or with entries in D
ebrett’s—but most of these men had likely gone to school with Brantford or even now sat with him in the House of Lords.

  Why wasn’t Brantford investing with one of them?

  “Times change,” Brantford said, “and you’re right that subordinates are not always the most efficient means by which to accomplish a goal. You may bring the relevant documents—”

  Sherbourne shook his head. “I’m not hauling my confidential information all over Mayfair like some tinker come to repair your pots. You have approached me about selling you an interest in a venture likely to be very profitable. The least you can do is take a stroll to my doorstep and pass an hour in my study.”

  An investor wasn’t strictly necessary, but the right sleeping partner, as such an associate was termed, could create options, especially now when marriage settlements would reduce Sherbourne’s reserves. With an influx of capital, Sherbourne could develop the mine more quickly, other investors were more likely to contribute, and subsequent projects—for Sherbourne always had subsequent projects—would benefit from the connections formed in the mining venture.

  Even so, Sherbourne would not yoke himself to a simpleton, not for any amount of coin or goodwill.

  “Where is your doorstep, Sherbourne?”

  He provided a direction several doors up from the Albany, the most prestigious lodging a bachelor could claim in London.

  “Then perhaps next week I’ll take that stroll.” Brantford filled his wineglass yet again, then shook the last drops—the dregs—into Sherbourne’s glass.

  A blatant gesture in the direction of my cock is bigger than your cock, confirming once again that England was owned and run by a pack of overgrown schoolboys.

  Nonetheless, Sherbourne had formed no particular opinion of Brantford as an individual, which was to say, he hadn’t affixed to his lordship any of the labels that applied to most titled men of means: buffoon, parasite, idiot, disgrace to the species, hound, well-dressed incompetent.

  Though Brantford expected Sherbourne to await a possible call on a day yet to be disclosed, on the slim chance that a business association might result.