A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  “I’d enjoy visiting with your family,” Brantford replied, “but I’m promised elsewhere and won’t be staying for the vocalists. Did I mention to you that I’m leaving for Wales next week?” The notion had just popped into Brantford’s head, and being a decisive person, now was as good a time as any to announce his plan. He and Veronica saw each other infrequently of late, and keeping her apprised of his whereabouts was only courteous.

  Veronica studied her fan, which bore a painted image of pink roses, blue butterflies, and stylized greenery. She was a talented artist and might have created the artwork herself.

  “Shooting?” she asked.

  “Some shooting, and I thought I’d look in on a colliery in which I’ve secured an interest. You’ll manage without me, I’m sure.”

  She waved her fan gently. “How long will you be gone?”

  “A few weeks. I’ll leave my direction, of course.”

  Enderly was in conversation with Lady Ophelia Durant. She dined on young bachelors at every opportunity, sometimes several at once, if rumor was to be believed. And yet, Enderly, while giving every appearance of attending to Lady Ophelia, was also casting discreet glances in Veronica’s direction.

  “I might travel with Aunt and Cousin down to Enderly House for a visit,” she said. “The opening hunt is next week.”

  Veronica was happiest in the saddle. Perhaps equestrian pursuits had affected her ability to bear children. The quack had also mentioned that a bout of the French disease could impair a man’s ability to sire offspring, but Brantford had gone more than three years without any symptoms of that indignity, and he’d been careful to keep a distance from his wife when she might have suspected he was ailing.

  “Autumn in the country has many charms,” he observed. Was Tremont’s company among those charms for Veronica? She and her handsome cousin had grown up together. Perhaps she regretted choosing the earl over the viscount, or perhaps she hadn’t had a choice.

  Brantford had had a choice, and like any sensible man, he’d chosen enormous settlements at the first opportunity. He should have realized that Veronica’s settlements were the last, desperate show of bravado by a family that hadn’t a clue how to manage their fortune.

  “You wouldn’t object to my leaving town for a time, my lord?”

  Did she think he’d drag her along to Wales? “Your happiness will ever concern me, my dear. I’m sure the viscountess will be a congenial hostess. Why would I object?”

  “No reason.”

  Must she sound so plaintive? Brantford saw to her every comfort, was never less than gracious in public, and only bothered her once a week for conjugal favors that by right were his any time he chose.

  “I see our hostess over by the dessert table,” Brantford said. “She looks determined to end this intermission. Enjoy the vocalists.” He brushed a kiss to Veronica’s cheek, a gesture of loyalty before the gossips lurking in every corner. “Until Sunday, my lady.”

  Sunday night being their standing appointment in her ladyship’s bed.

  “I’ll leave on Saturday.”

  Veronica was asserting her independence. She’d begun this amusing habit about a year ago, when she’d turned five-and-twenty. Sometimes, her tantrums manifested in bills from the milliner, sometimes they took the form of Sunday night megrims, though not often.

  The lack of a child was his sorrow but her shame, after all.

  “Then I’ll see you on Friday,” Brantford said.

  Because if Veronica was inclined to dally with her cousin, any resulting child must at least in theory be Brantford’s. To support that theory, Brantford would do his wife the courtesy of swiving her before they went their separate ways.

  And if Tremont could get her with child, so much better, for Brantford would soon weary of trying.

  Chapter Ten

  Charlotte left her spouse privacy to bathe in their bedchamber because Sherbourne had not indicated that her assistance was needed or welcome. Perhaps Turnbull had been summoned, or perhaps Sherbourne had bathed himself, shaved himself, washed his own hair…

  A procession of footfalls outside the door of Charlotte’s private parlor suggested the footmen were wheeling the tub away.

  She forced herself to concoct another week’s worth of menus, then tidied up her desk, banked the fire, blew out the candles, and prepared to consummate her wedding vows.

  She stopped with her hand on the bedroom door latch and chose not to knock.

  Please let this go well.

  The bedroom was warm, humid, and perfumed with the scent of floral soap. Few candles were lit, and thus Sherbourne made a contemplative picture, wrapped in his dressing gown in a chair by the fire.

  “Are you waiting for your hair to dry?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’m waiting for my wife to come to bed.”

  Well. He’d apparently eschewed a nightshirt, for the V of the dressing gown revealed the bare flesh of his throat and sternum.

  She took two steps into the room, abruptly feeling uncertain and resentful. “Shall we see to the consummation, Mr. Sherbourne?”

  He rose, which made the dressing gown gape open farther. “Perhaps you’re too tired?”

  “I am weary of the anticipation. These intimacies are a normal part of married life, and we’ve yet to tend to them.”

  He raised a hand to cradle her cheek, and Charlotte had to steel herself not to shrink away, which made no sense. She liked to touch her husband, liked knowing the feel of him, liked that she had the right to be affectionate with him.

  Perhaps that was the problem: She liked taking the initiative.

  Sherbourne stepped closer, bringing Charlotte the fragrance of freshly bathed male. “I have a suggestion, madam.”

  Now, she wished he’d toss a few orders at her: Undress, come to bed, hold still—though surely there was more to it than that?

  “I’d be pleased to hear your suggestion.”

  “Feel free to revisit your decision at any point, that’s my suggestion. Married couples do, if they’re lucky, have regular occasions of intimacy, but we’ve yet to establish the habit. Perhaps approaching the challenge in steps will serve us better than attempting the whole endeavor at one go.”

  The challenge. Making love to his wife was a challenge? Charlotte wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or appalled, but Sherbourne was right: The next step was to change into nightclothes, which she had been doing every night of her adult life.

  She turned her back and swept her hair off her nape. “If you’d oblige?”

  His hands settled on her shoulders, shifting her so the fire’s light would illuminate her hooks. Sherbourne’s breath brushed at the back of her neck, a curious sensation.

  “Was this why you paid a call on your sister today?” he asked.

  This…? Oh, this. “Elizabeth maundered on about what she calls her basic collection, a few books every library ought to have. One could not distract her from the topic.”

  One had tried, but raising the topic of…the topic, had proved impossible.

  Sherbourne continued right down to the bottom-most hooks, which wasn’t necessary. The sensation of his fingers fiddling with Charlotte’s dress even over the swell of her derriere was unnerving.

  “Haverford can probably distract your sister from her lending libraries with a single glance. One suspects they are in anticipation of a happy event.”

  Had Sherbourne kissed Charlotte’s nape? “You said you like children. Their Graces will make you an uncle.”

  “I subscribe to the philosophy that a woman should thoroughly recover from a lying in before conception is risked again, though I do like children.”

  Do you like me? He desired her, which was of no moment. Charlotte believed that men, young men anyway, could probably work up a case of desire for any comely woman.

  Her stays eased, and Charlotte turned to face her husband. This was, by any other name, their wedding night, and she wasn’t making the least effort to behave like a bride.

>   “I like you, Mr. Sherbourne. I like that you are hardworking, patient, considerate, and not one to tax a lame horse merely to preserve your boots. I like that you don’t waste food, and I admire that you have been so generous with your neighbors, despite their lack of appreciation. I like that you say thank you to the servants, and I am pleased beyond all telling that your staff respects you. That speaks volumes, particularly where the maids are concerned.”

  Sherbourne’s reply to her babbling was to take her in his arms.

  This embrace was different. Charlotte felt no circular bump where his pocket watch would have been. Her stays were loose about her middle and thus her breasts were unconfined. She felt Sherbourne’s heartbeat, not as a dull concussion through layers of clothing, but as the palpable ebb and flow of life.

  He wasn’t nervous, which was doubtless good.

  “I like that you are fierce,” he said. “That you don’t suffer fools, ever. I admire your marksmanship with a bow and arrow.”

  Charlotte waited for more—she was very good at sums, competent at the pianoforte, fairly well read—but Sherbourne didn’t know these aspects of her. He was left to compliment the traits that others considered her shortcomings.

  “Don’t be anxious, Charlotte. Just be yourself. Scold and fuss, give orders. Be blunt. What follows might not be wonderful in the first few instances, but it will at least be pleasant. We’ll manage.”

  That he knew she needed reassurance should have been embarrassing, but Sherbourne was her husband. The firelight brought out a wealth of fatigue in his face, also patience and affection.

  He was not nervous, he was determined that their wedding night go well, and thus it would.

  “I’ll get into my nightgown.” Charlotte would have moved to the dressing screen, but Sherbourne stopped her with a hand around her wrist.

  He kissed her, a slow tasting that promised pleasure and yet more patience. Charlotte borrowed his patience when she wanted to dive beneath the quilts and pull the covers over her head. Crossing the room with her dress unbound was another new experience, and knowing that Sherbourne watched her gave her the resolve to walk away slowly.

  “Warm the sheets, please,” she said. “Your hair is still damp, and I can’t have you taking a chill.”

  He laughed, though she’d been perfectly in earnest.

  Charlotte made a thorough job of her ablutions, left her hair in a single braid, and donned her nightgown. The room was warm, and the bed was eight feet away. She emerged from the dressing screen without the benefit of a dressing gown, and without any sort of plan for the next hour.

  Sherbourne was also without benefit of dressing gown, and once again sitting in his chair by the fire.

  “Ready for bed, Mr. Sherbourne?”

  He rose, his silk trousers riding low on his hips. “I’m ready, Charlotte.”

  Ye gods, he was fit. His musculature formed a landscape, like a patchwork of rectangular fields on either side of the slight indentation down the middle of his belly. Chest, shoulders, arms…all were wrapped in sleek muscle and shamelessly on view.

  “You look larger without your clothes,” Charlotte said. “Why is that?”

  He snorted. “Maybe because part of me is larger when I’m about to be intimate with my wife.”

  “You are naughty.”

  Fatigue made his features sharper, and his smile more piratical. “Not naughty, married. Come be married with me, Charlotte Sherbourne.”

  He held out his hand, and Charlotte took it. “Does one undertake this aspect of married life with or without one’s bedtime attire?”

  For if she enjoyed looking at him, perhaps he might…that thought was beyond married.

  Sherbourne paused with her by the bed. “Do you have a preference?”

  “I’ve never done this before. How could I have a preference?” Except…she did have a preference.

  Sherbourne took a step back, drew off his trousers, and tossed them over the privacy screen. “Now, do you have a preference?”

  Charlotte couldn’t help but peek, then stare, then gawk. Sherbourne was all of a rugged, healthy piece. The taut geometry of his belly flowed into long flanks and defined calves, everywhere lean, smooth, and male.

  And there, where the dusting of golden hair became a dense thicket…very male.

  “You promise me we’ll manage pleasantly?” Charlotte asked.

  “I promised to worship you with my body. Being worshipped should be pleasant, Charlotte.”

  Valid point. “Then let’s to bed, Mr. Sherbourne.”

  “Lucas,” he said, scowling down at her. “When I’m being worshipful, you will please call me Lucas.”

  Charlotte considered rejecting that order—but, no. He was actually making a request, and a reasonable one under the circumstances.

  “Lucas, dearest husband, please come to bed.”

  In the complete, glorious altogether, he made a circuit of the room, blowing out candles one by one. Charlotte regretted the loss of illumination, but appreciated her husband’s respect for fire hazards.

  “Shall I untie the bed curtains?” he asked.

  “Yes, please, and then you can untie the bows of this nightgown.”

  * * *

  Sherbourne had fallen asleep in the tub, almost as soon as he’d sunk into the hot water. He’d woken in time to wash before the water had cooled too much, but fatigue still wrapped around him like wet towels.

  Which was good. A husband consummating his nuptial vows ought not to be in a frantic rush. He should be relaxed, calm, and prepared to delay his own pleasure. Sherbourne was as calm as possible, considering he had a cockstand at full salute and a willing wife parading around in a single layer of linen.

  “Let’s get comfortable beneath the covers,” he said. “We can see to your nightgown later.”

  Charlotte shot him an exasperated look as she bounced onto the bed.

  Wrong suggestion, then. She’d offered to bare her treasures, and he’d bungled his response in aid of his self-restraint. Sherbourne climbed in beside her and found another dose of cold. Some fool by the name of Lucas Sherbourne had again forgotten to warm the sheets.

  “Too much inspiration,” Sherbourne said, “and my self-discipline will fail us when most needed.”

  Charlotte scooted down and flopped to her side facing him. “Inspiration?”

  “You.” Sherbourne said, kissing her on the lips. “Without your clothes. Inspiration.”

  She smiled against his mouth. “Like you without yours.”

  Charlotte was not a prude. She’d given him a thorough inspection as he’d strutted around the room, which had been the point of the exercise. That, and a moment to think, to concoct a strategy.

  The only helpful notion to form in Sherbourne’s tired brain was an admonition from his grandfather, who’d been something of a rogue in his youth: The lady’s pleasure must come before all else, or a fellow wasn’t likely to get a second chance to impress her.

  So Sherbourne devoted himself to kissing his wife. Charlotte was inexperienced rather than reticent, and she was a fast learner. When Sherbourne slid a hand over her hip, she retaliated by pressing her palm to his heart.

  When he eased his tongue across her lips, she scooted closer and ran her toe up his calf. Sherbourne trapped her foot between his legs, and she pulled his hair.

  Fatigue fell away, replaced by a compulsion to mount and start thrusting, but this was their wedding night, more or less, and Sherbourne was determined to earn a standing invitation to Charlotte’s side of the bed. He rolled to his back, taking Charlotte with him.

  She straddled him on all fours, not touching him, and once again looking impatient. “You might have asked.”

  “Charlotte, darling wife, would you please consider settling over me such that I am surrounded by your abundant glories? I like having both of my hands free to plunder your charms while you kiss me any way you please. I like your weight on me, your warmth pressing on me intimately.”

&nbs
p; She curled down to his shoulder, not fast enough to hide a smile. “I have married a foolish man.”

  “An incompetent poet but not a fool.”

  “Abundant glories, Mr. Sherbourne?”

  “These,” he said, palming the sides of her breasts. “I’d love to worship these with my body, et cetera, if you’re inclined to grant that boon.”

  Charlotte sat up, expression wary. She still wore her nightgown, though it was bunched at her waist.

  Sherbourne lay on his back, hands resting on her hips. For the sake of the next five decades of marriage, he remained relaxed and still, though arousal had become a sharp ache.

  Slowly, slowly, Charlotte raised the nightgown over her head, then leaned forward to tuck it under her pillow. Before she straightened, Sherbourne caught her breast in his mouth and slid his hands up her back.

  By touch, he suggested she linger in that position and learn the pleasure of her husband’s teeth on her nipple. She sank closer, and he rejoiced.

  “Pleasant?” he asked, switching breasts. Warm, sweet, soft, delectable.

  “Married, and pleasant.” She sounded a tad breathless.

  Erotic impressions piled up—the silky-smooth contours of Charlotte’s breasts beneath his fingers, the texture of a puckered nipple in his mouth, the throb of desire. An ambition landed amid all these pleasures, a determination that Charlotte get a taste of the destination before the consummation.

  More than a taste. Sherbourne was her husband, very likely the only man whom she’d take as a lover, and he owed her that consideration. In a way that speaking vows or sharing a long journey had not, Charlotte’s intimate trust struck Sherbourne with the enormity of the commitment they had made to each other.

  They were husband and wife, joined for the rest of their natural lives. She was his and he was hers and by God, he would make certain she was pleased with that bargain.

  He slid a hand down to her hip and around to pat her bum. “Time to enjoy a few more abundant glories.”