A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  In other words, Charlotte didn’t talk about helping the less fortunate, she took action. “I can increase her allowance.”

  The duchess whirled on her husband, her skirts nearly knocking over the hearth set. “You most certainly cannot, Percival. She’ll spend every penny on wayward laundresses or straying chambermaids. I would far rather you encouraged Sherbourne’s suit.”

  “Charlotte deserves more than a preening Welsh nabob with a penchant for gaudy waistcoats. If more people had her ingenuity and practical sense of generosity, we’d not be hearing of corn riots and Luddites.”

  Esther took out a handkerchief and polished the base of the brass candlestick on the mantel. “Do you recall Lord Hennessey’s youngest boy?”

  When the Duchess of Moreland took to dusting, the topic was worrisome. “The fair Adonis? Hard to forget a man cursed with such a name, even if he was a good-looking young devil. At one time, I thought he’d earned our Jenny’s notice.”

  “Be glad he was nothing more than an aesthetic curiosity for Jenny. He got the Wapshot girl in trouble. Her mama whisked her off to tour the great capitals—which everybody knew the Wapshot family could ill afford—and a child was born somewhere in the vicinity of Rome.”

  The duchess had an intelligence network that beggared description. Decades in polite society resulted in a web of connections more complicated than even German royalty could fathom.

  “Charlotte and Miss Wapshot were cordial as I recall.” Charlotte hadn’t made any real friends in recent years, but as a younger woman, she’d been cordial to others near her age.

  “Precisely,” Her Grace replied, taking a swipe at a second candlestick. “Adonis was found in the fountains behind Carlton House, dead drunk and wearing not one stitch of clothing. His curls had been shaven off, and his legendary physique was revealed to be a result of well-tailored padding.”

  “I recall the talk now—the hilarity. I hadn’t known about the Wapshots’ daughter.” That put a different light on what had appeared to be the sort of prank young men played on each other when they weren’t waving dueling pistols about.

  “Lady Hennessey was beside herself,” the duchess said, rejoining her husband on the couch. “A note had been tied about the young man’s…tied where he was likely to find it: Provide for your offspring or next time you’ll wake up missing more than your curls.”

  Percival managed not to guffaw—barely. “And did he?”

  “Assuredly, though the young woman is still ruined and always will be.”

  True enough. Men were castigated for sowing wild oats, but suffered serious criticism only if they did so without providing for the resulting progeny.

  “You suspect Charlotte had a hand in this mischief?”

  “I know not how, but yes. The Wapshots have no sons, and Mr. Wapshot would never undertake such folly. Do you recall a Mr. Charles Aldman?”

  Percival took his wife’s hand. “Banker’s son. He was cutting a dash several years ago, though I haven’t seen him about for the past few seasons.”

  “He got a maid with child. Charlotte shot his hat off his head at some archery tournament, and the hat, along with his hairpiece, landed at his hostess’s feet. He acquired the nickname Baldman.”

  No more cutting a dash for Mr. Aldman. “Charlotte has devilish good aim.”

  “Charlotte has devilish poor sense. Viscount Dearing got an arrow in the fundament at the last tournament Charlotte was invited to.”

  “Another chambermaid?”

  “I did not inquire, but if I’m invited to a social gathering that includes an archery contest, I decline out of concern for the profligate rakes of proper society.”

  A truly proper society ought not to have profligate rakes, much less an abundance of them.

  “Why are you telling me these anecdotes now, Esther?” Percival inquired not to accuse his wife of withholding intelligence, but because the duchess had reasons for speaking and reasons for keeping silent.

  “I had hoped Charlotte was done being the conscience of Mayfair’s randy bachelors. I haven’t known her to take on a charitable project for months, and Arabella said Charlotte’s behavior at the summer house parties was exemplary—for Charlotte.”

  “You hoped to marry her off before her schemes came to light.”

  “I still do.”

  “Then we must wish Mr. Sherbourne luck.”

  And courage, to go with the speedwell and snowdrops in his bouquet.

  * * *

  “He’s here, miss,” Tansy said. “Give your cheeks a pinch, and do try to let him finish his speech. Gentlemen set great store by their courting talk.”

  Tansy Luckett was Charlotte’s lady’s maid, and she looked honestly pleased to be sending Charlotte to greet Mr. Sherbourne. Perhaps Tansy was tired of trips to the pawnshops.

  “I’m not hopeless isn’t much of courting speech,” Charlotte replied. Though the other part—I will honestly try to make you happy—had haunted her.

  She checked her appearance in the mirror: hair in a tidy bun, dress reasonably free of wrinkles, smile nowhere in evidence.

  “He’s had three days to pretty up that sentiment,” Tansy said, “though I’ve always admired a man who can get his point across with few words. You do look pale.”

  Charlotte had been up late penning love letters from a man who didn’t exist. She had managed a half dozen progressively ardent epistles to Miss Higgins before falling asleep at her desk. Even the most skeptical parents ought to be convinced by Charlotte’s prose, particularly when she’d also equipped the lady with a gold ring, widow’s weeds, and five pounds that “dear Mr. Wesley” had managed to put aside for his wife before he’d fallen so tragically ill—or been struck down by a runaway fishmonger’s wagon.

  Mr. Wesley’s various sad fates had all begun to blend together.

  Five pounds was a pittance to some, and yet, the lordly bounder who’d got Sharon in an interesting condition had spared her exactly two shillings and a warning never to contact him again.

  “Mr. Sherbourne brought you flowers,” Tansy said.

  “Roses?” Red roses were the symbol of true love, though never had Charlotte been offered roses.

  “Nothing so predictable. Go down and see for yourself. Best of luck, Miss.”

  Tansy was small, but she packed a substantial push. Charlotte left the safety of her room and took a moment at the top of the steps to gather her resolve.

  If she married Lucas Sherbourne, she’d remove with him to Wales, where she’d bide for months if not years before returning to London. From Wales, Charlotte could maintain her correspondence with the various Mrs. Wesleys, but where would London’s unfortunates go for help if Charlotte left town? The foundling hospitals were a dodgy bet and usually full. The Magdalen houses were little more than an excuse to make a profit by working hopeless women to death.

  Nobody helped. Many sniffed and passed judgment. Even more took advantage of women who’d already been exploited. Some politely regretted the plight of gullible young ladies, but nobody helped.

  If Charlotte accepted Mr. Sherbourne’s proposal, she wouldn’t be able to help anymore either.

  She did not pinch her cheeks—what would be the point? By the time she reached the formal parlor, a maid was already wheeling a tea cart down the corridor.

  “We won’t need the tea tray, thank you,” Charlotte said. “Mr. Sherbourne’s visit will be quite brief.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Very good, Miss.”

  Charlotte tried for a dignified gait as she entered the parlor, neither hurried nor reluctant, but she was no duchess, and she almost tripped on the carpet fringe.

  “Mr. Sherbourne, good day.”

  He stood by the window, the sunlight burnishing his blond hair to gold. He was a Viking in Bond Street tailoring, and Charlotte was about to send him back to his long boat.

  Why must he be such an attractive Viking?

  “Miss Windham.” His bow was correct and his waistcoat quietly
exquisite.

  “Shall we be seated, sir?”

  He gestured to the sofa, and Charlotte took a seat. He sat immediately beside her, not a decorous half-yard away.

  “The butler stole my flowers. I suspect he’s examining them for a torrid note. How are you?”

  In want of torrid notes. “A trifle anxious, to be honest. I’d like another kiss.” She’d like a lifetime of kisses where Sherbourne was concerned, but she’d have to make do with two.

  “Putting the cart before the horse, are we?”

  “Putting the kiss before the discussion. That waistcoat is tastefully glorious.”

  He rose and held out a hand. “Now I’m anxious. My valet told me you’d approve of my ensemble. I worry that he was right on several other counts.”

  Whatever that meant. Charlotte put her hand in Mr. Sherbourne’s and was drawn to her feet. “I want a truly, impressively, memorably torrid kiss.”

  “Inspecting what’s on offer?”

  “You are a who, not a what, and nobody has made any offers today. Please kiss me.”

  He frowned at her, as if she were a painting that hadn’t quite turned out as the artist had intended.

  “We should lock the door, my dear.”

  I will never be your dear, more’s the pity. “You came bearing flowers. For that unprecedented act of bravery, we’ll have a few minutes of privacy.”

  “Nobody sends you flowers?”

  “Mr. Sherbourne, do the words ‘Please kiss me’ exceed your comprehension?”

  He smiled, and Charlotte stared at his cravat. A gold pin nestled among a wealth of blonde lace, with the smallest ruby winking from the depths. For a moment, she wavered—not about the kiss, which she was determined to have—but about refusing his proposal.

  He had significant means and as his wife, Charlotte might be able to aid many women…or she might be able to aid none at all. A wife was her husband’s property, and if Lucas Sherbourne disapproved of Charlotte’s priorities, his word on the matter would be final.

  Then some friendless young woman, helpless and despondent, might die as a result of his whim.

  “So solemn.” He drew his finger down the center of Charlotte’s brow. “So serious. One can’t travel the distance from solemn to torrid in a single leap.” He touched his lips to hers and drew back a quarter inch. “Now you.”

  She heeded his suggestion for this would be the last, most torrid kiss of her life. She kissed him, her lips landing on the corner of his mouth, though that hadn’t been her target. He waited, and she corrected her aim.

  He tasted of peppermints. Charlotte moved closer, the better to trace the curves and swirls of his waistcoat.

  “When you do that…” he muttered, looping his arms around her shoulders. He kept a small distance between their bodies, which Charlotte took as evidence that he liked her hands on his torso.

  His heartbeat was a steady tattoo. When Charlotte teased her tongue along his lips, that rhythm might have accelerated.

  Her heart was certainly beating faster.

  Matters after that grew blurred. At some point, Mr. Sherbourne wrapped her in a snug embrace, which gave her permission to do the same with him. He was wonderfully solid in her arms, kissing her even as she pressed closer, and then he lifted her off her feet.

  He sat on the sofa with Charlotte in his lap, and a kiss that had been passionate turned consuming. Charlotte tasted him deeply, and if he hadn’t been wearing so many blasted clothes, she might have lapped at him as a cat laps up cream.

  He did things, with his tongue, with his body, that shocked and delighted, and with his hands…

  His hands were a revelation. Where he touched her, Charlotte became sensitive—her face, her neck, her wrists. His caresses were confident and unhurried, which was the most breathtaking, maddening aspect of the whole encounter.

  “I hate that I don’t know how to…to…”

  He brushed her hair back. “To arouse me?”

  Arouse was another word Charlotte hadn’t spoken aloud. “Tease you, as you’re teasing me. It’s not fair.”

  She was cradled in his lap, the sofa’s armrest supporting her back. The position was undignified, intimate, and far more comfortable than she’d imagined.

  “Simply walking across a room, you arouse me, Charlotte Windham.” He sounded no happier about that admission than Charlotte was to be refusing his proposal.

  For she would, any minute now. Before she made that sacrifice, she snuggled closer. Mr. Sherbourne obliged her with a snuggle of his own—she had aroused him—and for a moment, Charlotte grieved what could not be.

  Passion, affection, closeness that went beyond what Charlotte knew of sexual mechanics to a sort of friendship she’d never envisioned. But then, what woman could imagine Lucas Sherbourne?

  Charlotte would be imagining him for the rest of her life. “I’ve decided not to marry you.”

  Mr. Sherbourne went still.

  “You do me great honor,” she went on, for that was how this was done, “but we would not suit.”

  He set her aside, not roughly, but firmly. “Of all women, I never took you for a hypocrite.”

  He was entitled to a fit of pique; he was not entitled to insult her. “I am not a hypocrite. I meant what I said. I cannot marry you, and we would not suit.” She was lying, and she was telling the truth.

  He ran his hands through his hair, bringing order where Charlotte had sown chaos. “We would suit like a lit taper suits tinder. You simply can’t bear to marry a man who lacks a title.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a commoner and always will be. You can’t reconcile yourself to marrying down.”

  Charlotte had braced herself for politely wounded male pride—every unsuccessful suitor had had his pride—not for righteous indignation.

  “My decision has nothing to do with a lack of title on your part. I am a commoner, as are all of my siblings and cousins save one, and he was born out of wedlock.”

  “Your siblings are titled nonetheless, while I am a mere mister, not even an honorable.”

  And Charlotte was not her siblings. “You are very honorable. If I were to marry anybody, it would be you. I’ll see you out before either one of us says something regrettable.” Charlotte regretted turning him down.

  She did not regret kissing him.

  He rose. “No need to see me out. I lack a title, but I do possess the ability to find the front door.”

  Charlotte got to her feet as well, lest he be seen stalking from the parlor in high dudgeon.

  “Mr. Sherbourne, I will accompany you to the door. You will bow over my hand, I will curtsy, and what has passed between us in this room will remain private. Women turn down proposals every day. We’re fickle creatures and our whims are of no moment.”

  He pulled on his gloves. “You are neither fickle nor whimsical, and you don’t turn down proposals every day.”

  “I turn them down, nonetheless.” With appalling regularity, but he doubtless didn’t offer proposals, ever, and thus a frisson of guilt threaded through Charlotte’s regret. “I am sorry Mr. Sherbourne. Any woman would be lucky to have your esteem.”

  His perusal was brooding, but at least he wasn’t dashing off in a temper. “If you mean that, then why reject my suit? If some other man has a claim on your affections, I’ll concede the field, of course. Otherwise, I’m prepared to be generous with the settlements. I’ll be a decent and faithful husband, and you’ll have a sister biding not a thirty-minute stroll from our home.”

  He was genuinely perplexed, and Charlotte’s heart was genuinely, and very inconveniently, breaking. Fidelity didn’t characterize every marriage, or even most society marriages, but Lucas Sherbourne would keep his vows.

  “I wish you joy, Mr. Sherbourne. Shall I see you to the door?”

  “For a woman wishing me joy, you look like you’re about to cry.”

  Why must he turn up perceptive now? “Tears are soon dried.”

  “Charlotte?”
He was calm now, or worse than calm, he was focused. She’d become a puzzle for him to solve, and his scrutiny was more than Charlotte could bear.

  She cupped his cheek against her palm, and went up on her toes to give him a farewell kiss. He held her hand with his own and kissed her back with a tenderness that tried Charlotte’s resolve to the utmost.

  One more embrace, just one more…

  A breeze wafted past Charlotte as she bundled closer to the man she’d never marry.

  “What on earth is afoot here?” The Duchess of Moreland’s question cracked like thunder across Charlotte’s awareness. For a moment, she held on to Mr. Sherbourne simply to remain upright.

  Sherbourne stepped back, but kept his hands on Charlotte’s arms until she was standing independently.

  “Charlotte Windham, explain yourself,” Her Grace snapped. “And you, Mr. Sherbourne, taking unseemly liberties under the guise of paying a social call. Is this how you repay my welcome?”

  Uncle Percival stood at Aunt’s elbow, a portrait of the outraged patriarch. “Sir, you will step away from my niece.”

  “Uncle, Aunt, please calm yourselves. Mr. Sherbourne was about to leave, and I…”

  Two people whom Charlotte loved very much were regarding her with heartrending dismay. If she explained that she’d just refused Mr. Sherbourne’s proposal, then kissed him as if he were her every wish come true, they’d be hurt and angry past all bearing.

  “Mr. Sherbourne,” said the man himself, “was about to ask a servant where to find you, sir, for Miss Charlotte has done me the great honor of indicating that she’d welcome my addresses, were I to gain your permission to court her.”

  Charlotte’s heart thumped against her ribs, as if she stood on a high precipice and couldn’t make herself step back.

  “You’d like to court our Charlotte?” Her Grace asked.