A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  Sherbourne would have agreed with her—but for the requirement that an honorable man provide for his dependents and keep his word at all times.

  “This gets us nowhere, Charlotte.”

  “Where do you want us to be?” She spared the desk a glance, where the hairpin and cravat pin lay side by side in the silver pen tray. Sherbourne had tucked the beribboned lock of hair he’d snipped earlier into his breast pocket.

  “I would like to be back to the place we occupied before Brantford intruded on our marriage. You are my wife, and I esteem you above all others as well. That hasn’t changed.”

  Her defenses faltered if the downward sweep of her lashes was any indication, but the damned tea tray ruined the moment. The footman set it on the low table before the sofa, bowed, and withdrew.

  “Will you join me, Mr. Sherbourne?”

  He wasn’t hungry, and her invitation wasn’t a concession. “One cup.”

  They sat side by side on the sofa, not touching, while Charlotte poured out. She was pale, and in her very composure, Sherbourne sensed roiling emotion.

  If she was preparing to tell him she was bound for the Windham family seat in Kent, he’d smash every piece of porcelain in the library, throw every book into the fire, and drink himself insensate.

  Which would also get them nowhere, though it might leave him feeling less helpless.

  “Sandwich?” Charlotte asked.

  “Please.”

  She set two beef sandwiches on a plate along with a square of shortbread. “You need not wait dinner on me. I’m developing a headache and will retire early.”

  Not a month into marital bliss, and she’d trotted out the much vaunted wifely headache, though this was Charlotte, and she’d not dissemble about even so minor a detail.

  “Would it help if I rubbed your feet?” Would anything help?

  She set down her teacup, the saucer and spoon rattling against the library’s quiet. “That is a very gracious offer, but I’ll decline for the present.” She rose and moved toward the door. “I’ll wish you a good evening, Mr. Sherbourne.”

  Sherbourne suspected she offered a civility because rote manners and platitudes were all she could manage, which was some consolation.

  Not enough. “If I attempt to join you later this evening, will I find my own bedroom door locked?” Sherbourne asked.

  He couldn’t see her. She stood behind him, while he studied the delicate floral pattern of the china. So pretty, so easily shattered.

  “I will never lock that door to you,” Charlotte said. “But my earlier words stand as well.”

  No children, she’d said, though she wasn’t to shame him before the servants. Not yet, and he couldn’t bear to shame her by setting up his own private apartment so soon after the wedding.

  “Good night, Charlotte.”

  The library door clicked softly, and Sherbourne pitched a pillow as hard as he could at the nearest wall.

  He and his wife were having a civil disagreement—for now—but sooner or later, one of them would slip. A harsh word would be said that crossed what lines remained. A look would pass between them in the churchyard that publicly confirmed enmity had found its way into the marriage.

  While part of Sherbourne longed to blame his proud, aristocratic wife for her unreasonable ire, another part of him accepted blame for having been arrogant himself. He’d wanted an earl’s coin to bolster his budgets. He’d wanted to prove to Haverford that even a fairy-tale version of a colliery could be made profitable provided Lucas Sherbourne was in charge.

  He’d wanted polite society to pronounce his marriage a success rather than a mésalliance.

  “Charlotte believes I persist in the face of discouragement,” he said to the empty room. “She esteems me above all others. She rubs my feet.”

  He could not speak the rest of the litany aloud: She also broke his heart.

  * * *

  “Her Grace is off at the village lending library,” Haverford said. “Shall I ring for a tray?”

  “No, thank you,” Charlotte replied.

  She stayed within two feet of the parlor door, while Haverford, who’d been raised with a sister, weighed options. He could pretend that a pale, silent Charlotte Sherbourne was a normal occurrence, and convey her regrets to Elizabeth when the duchess returned.

  He could insist on observing at least the civilities—a cup of tea would require fifteen minutes of idle chatter from them both. Not too much to ask from family.

  Or he could do as he’d done with Glenys, Elizabeth, and any other woman about whom he cared, and drop the ducal posturing.

  “Then you can keep me company while I pine for my duchess,” Haverford said. “She’s been gone long enough that her return becomes more likely by the moment.”

  Still Charlotte remained by the door. “Elizabeth does love her libraries.”

  Haverford gave the bell pull a double tug. “And I love my wife, so I put up with endless effusions about bound volumes, children’s stories, and shelving decisions. Do have a seat. Was Elizabeth always so taken with public book collections?”

  Charlotte advanced three steps into the room, then seemed to realize she hadn’t intended to stay. She and Haverford were family and both married, so propriety offered her no excuse to leave.

  “Elizabeth has always loved books,” Charlotte said. “They have been her sanity in recent years, hence her desire to support lending libraries. I can’t stay long.”

  “Let me guess,” Haverford said. “You’re meeting Sherbourne at the works for lunch. The crews think those midday meals are quite romantic and have taken to inviting their own ladies to bring them their nooning.”

  Charlotte winced as if a stray pin had stabbed her in the ribs. “The weather will soon put a stop to that folly.”

  She seated herself on the sofa, perching on the edge of the cushion. Haverford took the wing chair, and silently cursed Sherbourne for a fool. Elizabeth had said the new couple had hit a rough patch, but she’d withheld details.

  Or Haverford had started kissing her. Something had distracted him. “Charlotte, shall I treat Sherbourne to a bout of fisticuffs?”

  She snorted, wan humor, but humor nonetheless. “Do you long to have your nose broken? His classmates at public school did him that honor. They also broke his ankle and his arm.”

  That was…not usual. “Was Sherbourne particularly given to outbursts of temper?” Sherbourne seemed, if anything, overly self-restrained, always measuring odds, always considering options.

  “He was particularly given to not having a title and not being related to anybody who possessed one. He was given to excelling at his studies. He was given to honesty and hard work, and his father was given to training a boy up in the ways of anger and resentment. Engage in fisticuffs with Mr. Sherbourne if you must, Your Grace. He will get the better of the encounter.”

  Charlotte looked like she wanted to engage in a bout of fisticuffs, and Haverford had no doubt he’d get the worst of that encounter as well.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” His offer was partly pragmatic. If Charlotte was miserable, then Elizabeth would be miserable, and if Elizabeth was miserable, Haverford could not be happy.

  That cheering Charlotte up might also benefit Sherbourne could not be helped.

  She opened a beaded bag and set two large books on the low table. “If you’re sincere, then read those. I have more along the same lines. Our library at Sherbourne Hall is full of such practical tomes and treatises, rather than French novels or Shakespearian plays. Mr. Sherbourne even has two books about libraries, which I suspect are recent acquisitions made that he might better assist with Elizabeth’s charitable schemes.”

  Haverford ignored the implied reproach and examined the smaller of the books. “A Thorough Description of the Successful Colliery Dedicated to Development of Mineral Wealth in the Great Coal Field of Southern Wales and Surrounding Environs.”

  “Elizabeth likes to read,” Charlotte said. “I like to under
stand.”

  The damned book could have doubled as a doorstop. “You want to understand coal mining?”

  “I want to understand my husband. Coal mining is also fascinating.”

  He put the book aside. “You’ve read these?”

  “Among others. You have set my husband an impossible task, Your Grace. He’s to develop raw ground, meet standards of safety and comfort for the miners and their families beyond any established elsewhere in the industry, show an immediate and substantial profit, use primarily the unskilled labor in this valley, and make it look like a lark. I should be going.”

  Haverford wanted her to leave, because annoyance rolled off of her in waves. Sherbourne frequently bore the same impatient air, as if surrounded by ill-informed idlers who’d never done a day’s work in their lives.

  “I’m not stupid, Charlotte, and I do not want to see Sherbourne fail.”

  She rose and jerked the strings of her bag closed. “But do you want him to succeed? I do, and yet…”

  Charlotte Sherbourne at a loss for words was a disquieting prospect.

  “Stay for tea,” Haverford said. “Please stay for tea, rather. There’s more I would ask you, and I haven’t known how to ask Sherbourne.”

  She shook her head. “Find a way, then. Read the books, make a list of your questions, and be prepared to listen well. I must be going.”

  He stopped her at the door when she would have decamped without so much as a curtsy. “Charlotte, is there anything I should tell Elizabeth?” Other than to pay an immediate call on her sister.

  “Tell her I love her.”

  If Charlotte’s words hadn’t set off alarms in Haverford’s heart, the swift hug she treated him to would have. Then she was gone, leaving the duke alone with two of the most boring tomes ever penned by the hand of man.

  And leaving him with a guilty conscience as well. He didn’t want Sherbourne to fail, but as Charlotte had pointed out, that wasn’t the same thing as supporting the mining venture and helping to ensure its success.

  Haverford sat and started reading, and was still reading when Elizabeth joined him three hours later.

  * * *

  A week went by during which benevolent providence sent Sherbourne neither deluges, mudslides, marital cataclysms, nor workplace riots, and yet he was miserable.

  Charlotte slept beside him each night, even ended up in his arms sometimes in the darkest hours, but she never rubbed his feet, never kissed him, never arranged him in her embrace such that all his worries floated away on a cloud of marital contentment.

  If she missed his lovemaking, her longing for him had been buried beneath her righteous certainty that Brantford should be ejected from the colliery project on his lordly arse.

  “Brantford is biding over in Monmouthshire,” Radnor said, as he escorted his guests to his game room. Sunday dinner this week was at Radnor House, another gathering organized in the churchyard before smiling witnesses, several of whom had loudly remarked on the progress of the steeple repairs.

  “Why would his lordship’s whereabouts concern me?” Sherbourne asked.

  “Because turning your back on a serpent is unwise,” Radnor said, heading directly for the sideboard. He poured three glasses and passed the first to Haverford, the second to Sherbourne.

  The game room was a spacious masculine chamber. The walls were half-paneled in mellow oak, the furniture heavy and comfortably worn. The billiards table stretched like a bowling green down the length of the room, and books and stacks of newspapers lined shelves near the fireplace.

  “That’s an interesting choice of portrait,” Sherbourne said. A painting of a smiling lady in powder and panniers hung over the mantel. She was more handsome than beautiful, though merry eyes and a smile that hinted of secret joys made her attractive.

  “My dear mama,” Radnor replied. “Papa said of all places, her influence should most be felt here, lest drunkenness, lewd talk, or idleness be mistaken for congenial company. They were not a love match, but affection grew nonetheless.”

  They had certainly loved their only son, which left Sherbourne with a question: If his own parents had loved him the way Radnor had clearly been treasured by his mama and papa, how would life have been different?

  “That scowl will frighten small children,” Haverford said. “Is the brandy not to your liking?”

  Sherbourne took a taste and once again found the flavor familiar. “The potation is quite fine.”

  “Haverford won’t tell me where he got it,” Radnor said, tossing a square of peat onto the fire. “Gave me two bottles as a wedding present. Wants me to think he’s had midnight dealings with the coastal trade, when I know he probably got it from his fancy in-laws.”

  The duke had been given this brandy by an in-law indeed. A recently acquired in-law. Haverford was studying his drink, suggesting Sherbourne and the duke were to share a secret.

  A family secret—his first. “Wherever this is from, it’s excellent quality.”

  “So why the thundering frown?” Haverford asked.

  “Because my billiards game is rusty.” Sherbourne set his drink aside. “Upon whom shall I sharpen my skills?”

  “Haverford. He’s fretful these days, owing to his duchess’s delicate condition, or his nerves, or some repair or other to his castle walls. You can distract him, and I shall cheer you on from the world’s most comfortable sofa.”

  “While you’re a rock of spousal imperturbability,” Haverford retorted, taking a cue stick from the rack and rolling it across the green felt of the billiards table. “Though my sister, to whom you happen to be married, paints a somewhat different picture of your steely reserve.”

  The duke and the marquess bickered their way through two games, Sherbourne winning the first, Haverford the second. All the while, Sherbourne wondered why Brantford hadn’t returned to England. The weather would become increasingly cold and difficult, excellent hunting was available closer to the earl’s seat in the north, and—

  Haverford nudged his sleeve with the tip of his cue stick. “Your shot.”

  “I’m considering options.” The table did indeed present several half-decent possibilities.

  “You’re fretting over Brantford. I wish I could tell you he’s not worth the bother, but he was a guest in my home. The man’s a gold-plated ass.”

  Sherbourne neatly potted the red ball off a side bumper. “He met certain criteria that I find useful in an investor.”

  “What criteria does an investor have to meet, besides having money to spare?” Radnor asked around a yawn.

  What to say? Sherbourne replaced the red ball on the black dot. “He should be sufficiently knowledgeable to grasp the risks he faces, but not so expert or meddlesome as to interfere in every detail of project management. When do we rejoin the ladies?”

  “Not soon enough.” Haverford took aim at the red ball. “Charlotte lent me some books.”

  “This book lending must be contagious,” Radnor offered from the depths of the sofa. “Or perhaps it’s inherited. We shall see when you both have some little darlings populating your nurseries.”

  Sherbourne stifled an urge to bash Radnor over the head with his cue stick. Charlotte had decreed that there would be no babies, and Sherbourne—for reasons he could not have articulated in his most honest hour—wanted very much to raise children with her.

  “What manner of tomes did my wife lend the man who until recently owned half the books in Wales?”

  “Books on how to establish and manage a coal mine. She’s apparently read them word for word, though my own progress is halting at best.”

  When had this occurred, and why had Charlotte done it? “Who are the authors?”

  Haverford recited titles and authors, while Radnor snored quietly on the couch.

  “Those are good basic texts, though they’ll soon be out of date. Did Charlotte say why she’d lent them to you?”

  “She said I know next to nothing about mines.” Haverford put up his cue stick. “
She’s right.”

  What to say to that? Haverford hadn’t exactly admitted to putting ridiculous conditions on the colliery, but he’d come close.

  “Charlotte is almost invariably correct.”

  “Have you any more such books?”

  What was Haverford asking? “Many. I also have some recent treatises on steam power, which will make your head spin with possibilities.”

  “Does Mrs. Sherbourne read those as well?”

  “If she hasn’t, she soon will.” Though given the state of the marriage, Sherbourne still hadn’t asked Charlotte to look over any of Hannibal Jones’s calculations.

  Haverford took Sherbourne’s cue stick and replaced it on the wall rack. “Elizabeth is concerned about her sister.”

  So was Sherbourne. “I appreciate Her Grace’s solicitude, but can assure you that my wife enjoys excellent health.”

  For now. How would Charlotte fare after another six months of this arms’ length misery that their marriage had become? How would Sherbourne? They ate dinner separated by a distance as great as the billiards table, took their baths at opposite ends of the day, and barely spoke in passing. The trip to and from Sunday services was made in awkward silence, though Charlotte was polite and agreeable to anybody they encountered.

  “You look gaunt,” Haverford said, “and I don’t think it’s marital devotions robbing you of your sleep.”

  “Haverford, you will desist, lest I demonstrate my pugilistic skills on your damned ducal nose.”

  Except that now—years after Sherbourne had beaten respect into every schoolyard bully who’d served him a bad turn—striking the duke held no appeal. Haverford was family, and Sherbourne suspected he was trying to be helpful.

  The duke’s interrogation felt arrogant and presumptuous, but he was a duke, and nearly everything he turned his hand to would come across as arrogant and presumptuous. Charlotte had been quite clear on that point, and if anybody knew her way around dukes and titles, it was she.