A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  Perhaps one didn’t admit to being glad to be married either. Charlotte would ponder that puzzle later, when she didn’t feel so relaxed or—had marriage made her barmy?—cheerful.

  Sherbourne brought her a damp cloth, then disappeared behind the privacy screen. Charlotte tended to herself, tossed the cloth over the privacy screen, and pulled up the covers.

  “Come back to bed, Lucas.”

  By the light of the dying fire, he emerged from the privacy screen in his dressing gown. “I’m off to the library for a bit. Thought I’d read over some correspondence, let you get to sleep.”

  Charlotte’s first reaction to Sherbourne’s plan was hurt, that he’d be capable of rising from their bed and turning his attention to…what? Ledgers? Reports from the solicitors?

  After making love with her like that?

  But another theory presented itself, one having to do with the privacy necessary to contemplate a marriage he might be reevaluating even as Charlotte was.

  “Mr. Sherbourne, for once, you will ignore the siren call of your commercial ventures and get some rest. You’ve earned it, and you will need your strength in the coming days and nights.”

  He stared at his bare feet. “I will?”

  “Most assuredly. Come to bed, Lucas.”

  He came to bed.

  * * *

  Sherbourne waited until Charlotte dropped off to sleep to spoon himself around her. He should be in the library, making calculations, revising estimates, figuring the cost of the extra labor Radnor and Haverford were providing.

  He should be searching for a replacement for Hannibal Jones or for a competent assistant, though that would be another extra expense.

  He should be finding more investors.

  He should be—

  “Lucas?” Charlotte murmured.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  She rolled over to face him. “I was. I dreamed of you. Can’t you sleep?”

  He was exhausted, and yet he could not reach for sleep, so he’d reached for her. “I don’t need much rest.”

  Charlotte came to him, burrowing closer, tangling her legs with his. “You will need more rest in the coming months. Marriage will take a toll on your energies.”

  “Bold talk, Mrs. Sherbourne.”

  “I like it when you call me Mrs. Sherbourne.”

  He really ought to be in the library, not wasting half the night cuddling around his warm, gardenia-scented, curved-in-all-the-right places wife.

  “I cannot neglect my business, Charlotte, not for anything. If the mine doesn’t soon get on its feet…”

  She commenced drawing slow circles on his chest with her index finger. “Then the mine fails. This valley has never had a mine, so nobody is any worse off than if the mine had never been attempted.”

  Nobody but me and my investors—and you. “Haverford will never cease gloating if the mine isn’t thriving by this time next year.”

  “So this determination where the colliery is concerned is about your pride?”

  The success of the mine was purely about pence and quid now. “A man should always take pride in his endeavors.”

  “What about a woman? Is she allotted any pride?”

  Sherbourne kissed her, because he wasn’t equal to a debate on gender differences at this hour. Charlotte returned the kiss, and then lay on her back, urging him to settle against her side. The position was novel, with Sherbourne’s cheek pillowed on her breast, her fingers playing with the hair at his nape.

  “We must find a balance, Lucas, between your infernal obsession with immediate business and the long-term endeavors that will aid your interests over the course of a lifetime.”

  Her touch was so sweet, so soothing—and yet she was speaking to him in imperatives. “Hard work aids my business endeavors.”

  She kissed his temple. “Was it hard work that inspired Haverford to relent regarding the mine? No, it was not. You attended his house party, comported yourself like a perfect gentleman, rescued that hopeless Miss Twit from the lake, entertained me when I was bored, and flirted with a few wallflowers. Haverford had to see you as something other than his vexatious creditor.”

  Charlotte traced the curve of Sherbourne’s ear, then used her thumb and forefinger to pull gently on his earlobe. The sensation was exquisitely relaxing, which was no help at all when she was already befuddling him with her pillow talk.

  “I attended that house party on the barest pretense of an invitation because I was considering offering for Lady Glenys.”

  Charlotte’s grip on his earlobe became quite firm. “Are you besotted with her? She is a duke’s daughter, and the sister of a duke. You lose your common sense in the presence of titles, Lucas. I’ll not have you pining for thy neighbor’s marchioness.”

  “I was besotted with the idea that Haverford would have to choose between economic ruin or approving of me as a match for his sister. You have not married a saint, Charlotte.”

  Her grip eased. “I have not married the scourge of the high toby. Haverford is a duke, and they can leave a trail of aggravation that stretches for miles, one which they seldom notice. Elizabeth will have her hands full with Haverford. You mustn’t be too hard on him, though. He hasn’t had family about in any quantity to help him go on.”

  And Sherbourne had?

  “That tickles,” Charlotte said. “When you flutter your eyelashes like that.”

  “I do not flutter my eyelashes.”

  “And yet, you tickled me. We should call on the vicar.”

  Calling on the vicar would not clear the mud from what was to have been the high street at the works. Calling on the vicar would not revise the project estimates waiting for Sherbourne in the library. Calling on the vicar would not do a damned thing to solve any relevant problem, though it would give Sherbourne another hour in his wife’s company.

  “Why take tea with the vicar? He comes to Sherbourne Hall annually, to secure my donation to whatever fund he pretends to manage for the widows and orphans.”

  Charlotte traced her fingertip over Sherbourne’s lips. “If you don’t like how the funds are managed, you pay a visit to the vicar and indicate that your lady wife is in want of charitable projects. I insinuate myself onto the committee that oversees the money and take matters in hand. This is part of why you married me.”

  Sherbourne let his eyes drift closed, because he could think just as well that way as with them open. “What is part of why I married you? To run the local parish?”

  “To be your eyes and ears in places you do not or cannot frequent. To add to the store of intelligence with which you make decisions.”

  “You’d spy for me? Hardly honorable, Mrs. Sherbourne.” Though Charlotte had a point. He had offered for her because she’d open doors previously closed to him. He hadn’t considered that one of those doors would lead to the church committee room.

  “I would be mindful of my husband’s interests, because I vowed to honor him. That means giving the dear fellow the benefit of my insights from time to time.”

  “You’re putting the dear fellow to sleep.” Sending him into the loveliest, most relaxed doze, better even than the sweet, sleepy postcoital stupor he’d wallowed in earlier for two entire minutes.

  And she’d called him dear, albeit half in jest.

  “I’m enjoying my marital privileges. You need your rest, Lucas.”

  He needed to be in the library. “We can visit the vicar soon, after Brantford has worked his mischief, and the colliery is no longer at sixes and sevens.”

  Charlotte said something he didn’t quite catch, about being patient with great lummoxes stuck in the mud of their own making—could she have said that?—and then he was dreaming of a red velvet sofa, one without lumps, that could accommodate a newly married couple in all their intimate enthusiasms.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Heulwen was particularly subdued as she laced Charlotte up. Perhaps the housekeeper had had a word with the maid about proper decorum where han
dsome young grooms were concerned.

  “This is a very fetching carriage dress,” Heulwen said. “That shade of velvet makes me think of melted chocolate.”

  “Velvet is marvelous for keeping warm,” Charlotte replied.

  Sherbourne was accomplished at keeping Charlotte warm, moving with her in a cozy rhythm throughout the night. He’d left in the morning before she’d risen, the wretch. At least she needn’t guess where he’d got off to.

  Heulwen tied off the laces. “Shall I ask Morgan to bring the dog cart around, ma’am?”

  “I’ll send a footman to the stables.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble at all to pop out to the carriage house, and tell him—”

  Did Morgan know how devoted Heulwen was? “You and Morgan can bring the bread and soup around at midday. Dress warmly, Heulwen, for I don’t trust that sun to keep shining.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  Heulwen had taken to wearing a shawl, which might simply be an accommodation the maids were permitted as winter approached, though Charlotte hadn’t seen any of the other maids wearing shawls. Charlotte took a chill easily, which Papa claimed was generally true of redheads.

  “The letters on my vanity should go out with today’s post. If you could take them into the village for me, I’d appreciate it.”

  “I’ll just leave them on the sideboard in the front hall, shall I? Whoever goes into the village to pick up the post usually drops off whatever mail we’re sending.”

  The girl was either feather-brained or outrageously smitten with her swain. “We have discussed this, Heulwen. I want those letters taken straight to the posting inn. I do not want them lying about on the sideboard visible to any passing servant or caller.”

  Or husband.

  “Aye, ma’am.” Heulwen withdrew a brown wool cloak from the wardrobe. “The kitchen is all in a swither to be entertaining His Grace and his lordship tomorrow. Haven’t ever had such fine company here at Sherbourne Hall.”

  “They are family, Heulwen. They will call frequently. The kitchen needn’t take any particular pains.”

  “We don’t have many guests here at all, ma’am. Vicar comes once a year or so, some of the squires who owe Mr. Sherbourne money will join him for a meal. Nobody special.”

  Charlotte slipped into her cloak and drew a bright red scarf from the wardrobe. This time of year the slightest breeze could bring a profound chill, even when the sun shone.

  “You must never discuss the family’s finances, Heulwen. Not with Morgan, not with anybody. I’m sure you wouldn’t mention a neighbor’s indebtedness before anybody but me, and Mr. Sherbourne is owed your utmost discretion otherwise.”

  Heulwen looked as if Charlotte had threatened to turn her off without a character. “I beg your pardon. I would never talk out of turn.”

  Now there was a complete work of fiction. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Bring lunch to the site promptly at noon.”

  “If I’m to go with Morgan, and he’s driving you there, then how—?”

  “I’m driving myself.”

  Rather than allow the maid to interrogate her—for Heulwen would at least make an attempt—Charlotte swept from the room. She stopped by the kitchen to collect some buttered bread, cheese, and a flask of hot tea, then made her way to the carriage house.

  “Wouldn’t be any trouble at all to drive you, ma’am,” Morgan said, as Charlotte took the reins. “Mr. Sherbourne might rather I did.”

  “Thank you, Morgan, but I need you to help Heulwen bring lunch to the works again. I’m a competent whip and will inform Mr. Sherbourne of that fact should he raise a question.”

  She clucked to the horse, who set off at a businesslike walk down the lane. The road was far from dry, but it was no longer a glorified marsh, and thus Charlotte was shortly at the colliery, where for once, nobody was shouting. The men were making rapid progress clearing the lane, picks and shovels raising a racket, and in Mr. Jones’s white tent, Charlotte found only the Duke of Haverford seated by the parlor stove.

  “Your Grace, good day.”

  He rose and bowed. “Mrs. Sherbourne.”

  “You must call me Charlotte, for we’re family. I don’t suppose you have seen my husband?”

  Haverford was a good-looking devil, though a bit too full of his consequence for Charlotte’s taste. Elizabeth was smitten with him, though, so the duke had Charlotte’s approval too.

  Up to a point.

  “Jones and Sherbourne marched off to argue about relocating the workers’ housing, and Radnor went along to referee. I’m reviewing progress reports, such as they are.”

  “With only the masons on site and much to be done, I am sure progress has been slow.”

  Haverford brought a second chair over to the parlor stove. “Perhaps you’d like to have a seat? Why have only masons on site, I ask myself? Why not hire laborers as well?”

  “The masons brought their apprentices and hod carriers, from what I saw, and laborers cost money. Are you hoping my husband will fail, Your Grace?”

  The question was combative, but Charlotte had had a wonderfully cozy night’s rest, and somebody had to take Haverford in hand if he was intent on sabotaging the mine.

  “Elizabeth warned me you are fierce.”

  “Elizabeth was being polite, Your Grace. I am unrelenting when it comes to protecting those I care about. Mr. Sherbourne is at these works in all weather, up until all hours with his schedules and budgets. He and I have had no wedding journey because he could not leave the works unattended any longer, and now his dratted business partner must arrive like the bad fairy at the christening and make a challenging situation worse. If you intend anything less than the best of good faith and neighborly goodwill toward these works, say so now.”

  Haverford’s expression had gone blank, but what had Charlotte expected? That a duke, doubtless among those named to succeed to the British throne, would scurry off like a chastened schoolboy?

  “He’s here at all hours?” Haverford asked, hands behind his back.

  “And then up for yet more hours in the library, poring over ledgers and correspondence. If you think Mr. Sherbourne an idle wastrel, you are much mistaken.”

  “I never thought him idle. In fact, he’s a bit too industrious. He has his fingers in every pie from the coaching inn to mortgages on half the farms in this valley.”

  This bothered Haverford, who doubtless had tenants on the other half.

  “Do you want the mine to fail?” Charlotte asked.

  “That would be ungentlemanly.”

  “So you do want the mine to fail. Why?”

  Haverford gestured again to the chair, and Charlotte realized that his gentlemanliness also prevented him from sitting when a lady stood, or paced, or tidied up stacks of paper that admitted of no order whatsoever.

  She sat.

  “I have placed my trust in Sherbourne,” Haverford said. “I hope he does not disappoint me. Others in this valley expect to find employment at this mine, but what I’ve seen so far is not encouraging. Then there’s this Lord Brantford getting involved when he has his own collieries to tend to in the north. I’ve also…well. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? I have reservations.”

  Haverford had been poking about, in other words. Gathering intelligence on Charlotte’s spouse. “Then you owe it to Mr. Sherbourne to share those reservations. He has not undertaken this mine because he needs another distraction or is in want of coin. He’s opened the mine because without it, this valley will become another forgotten Welsh backwater remembered only in London pub songs.”

  That was going too far. No corner of the realm that boasted a ducal family seat would ever be entirely forgotten.

  “You’d have me attribute charitable impulses to Lucas Sherbourne?”

  And that was going beyond too far. “Need I remind you, Your Grace, that my own sister’s determination to put a lending library in every Welsh coal town is funded by no less a person than Lucas Sherbourne?”

  Ch
arlotte pulled off her gloves, and stopped short of smacking them across the duke’s handsome cheeks. Sherbourne had been a very lenient creditor to the St. David family, which was probably why Haverford’s support of the mine was so grudging.

  “You need not remind me of Elizabeth’s lending libraries ever. I have wondered if she married me simply to get her hands on my books.”

  “Surely you jest, Haverford. She has more or less given your books away, while she seems quite attached to you.”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up, and he crossed his boots at the ankle. “As I am attached to her. Elizabeth is very pleased to have you for a neighbor. I’ve suggested you might want some time to settle in before she becomes a regular fixture in your parlor.”

  Charlotte did not know Haverford well, but this conversation was encouraging. He was just another healthy, busy, besotted man, and the Windham family boasted a surfeit of same.

  “I will no sooner be settled in than dear Mama will arrive for the winter holidays, a month or two early. She loves Wales, and now she has two more reasons to spend time here.”

  “Soon to be three,” Haverford said, looking smug.

  Oh, yes, he was family. Title or no title, Julian St. David had become family.

  The tent flap was thrown open to admit Lord Radnor and Sherbourne, with Hannibal Jones bringing up the rear.

  “Mrs. Sherbourne, good day.” Sherbourne offered a bow, and Charlotte decided the moment wasn’t right to kiss his cheek. He looked delectably windblown and thoroughly annoyed.

  With her?

  “Ma’am.” Radnor bowed as well. “A pleasure to see you. My lady and I are looking forward to your hospitality tomorrow evening.”

  “You are my rehearsal audience,” Charlotte said. “I appreciate your courage, and I’m sure your company will be lovely too. So where are we putting these houses?”

  All four men exchanged glances.

  “I say, put them where they were,” Mr. Jones replied. “The retaining wall won’t give way a second time if it’s properly reinforced, and putting the houses there saves us having to build any more dratted roads.”