A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  Charlotte nudged her bonnet away from the fire with a bare toe. “Haverford is a good ally. If you must confront Brantford, you’re wise to enlist His Grace’s support first, but I still don’t want to let you go.”

  She stepped around the hassock and reclaimed her perch on Sherbourne’s lap. This time, she straddled him, the quilt settling around them both like folded wings.

  “Charlotte, I’d rather travel in daylight and do feel some urgency—”

  “I feel some urgency too, Mr. Sherbourne, and sunset is at least two hours away.” She kissed him, and without so much as a glance at the clock, Sherbourne kissed her back.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Charlotte hated the idea that Sherbourne must go haring across half of Wales to track down Brantford, and yet, better the earl be ambushed than Sherbourne.

  She was ambushed, by emotions so tender and raw, she hadn’t names for all of them. Protectiveness toward her husband figured prominently, and gratitude as well. Sherbourne had fetched her down from the steeple, even when he’d been furious with her, even when she’d been demanding the impossible of him.

  She kissed him with all the desperation and relief in her, and all the hope too.

  Sherbourne drew back and framed her face in his hands. “At least let me take you to bed.”

  “If you take me to bed, I won’t be able to turn loose of you. This is a taste of what awaits you at home should you lose your way in the wilds of Wales.”

  She tasted him, tasted the determination and sheer animal vitality that coursed through him even when he was at rest.

  “God above, I have missed you, Charlotte Sherbourne.”

  He could kiss and unbutton her bodice at the same time, clever man; kiss, and untie the bows on both of Charlotte’s chemises. She’d not worn stays, for reasons she’d confide in her husband when next they did share a bed.

  Some announcements wanted rehearsing.

  “I’ve missed your breasts. I think my brain has gone missing,” Sherbourne muttered, burying his nose against Charlotte’s chest. “I’ve missed the scent of you here, gardenias and spice. I’ve missed your hands on me, anywhere, but especially—”

  She sank down against the evidence of his arousal. “Especially on your feet?”

  “No, Mrs. Sherbourne, not especially on my feet. Perhaps you’d be good enough to unbutton my falls?”

  Charlotte obliged and further moved the proceedings along by freeing him from his underlinen.

  “You have missed me wonderfully much, Mr. Sherbourne.”

  His head fell back against the cushions as Charlotte indulged in caresses she’d dreamed of for weeks.

  “I wanted to bring you a kitten,” Sherbourne said.

  Were his teeth clenched? “Kittens are very dear.”

  “But then a kitten would have been bribery.”

  Charlotte arranged her skirts, took him in her hand, and began the joining. “We will talk, Lucas. We will talk later.” Not only about kittens.

  He sighed and quiet filled the library. Peaceful sounds punctuated the silence—the soft roar of the fire, the whisper of fabric, slow kisses.

  Charlotte held off as best as she could, but Sherbourne was intent on galloping away into the frigid afternoon. She could be selfish only so long, before the passion and longing she’d denied them both in recent weeks demanded satisfaction.

  She let herself fall into pleasure, secure in the knowledge that Sherbourne fell with her. She’d made her point—they were married, in every sense of the word, and what she and Sherbourne had joined, no pesky, arrogant earl, misguided wife, or stubborn husband could put asunder.

  “This is not enough, Lucas.” Her brisk pronouncement came out more like a sigh murmured against his shoulder.

  “Not nearly,” he replied, stroking her hair. “I need at least another fifty years of moments stolen with you in the library.”

  “Sixty,” Charlotte said. “Windhams are hardy.”

  Sherbourne used his grip on her hair to gently turn her face to his. “You are a Sherbourne now, madam. I’ll thank you to remember that.”

  She was both, which was why she really must tell him the rest about the letters she’d sent. “Yes, Lucas.”

  They remained in a quiet embrace for far too few minutes, until Charlotte’s eyes grew heavy.

  “I cannot indulge you in a nap now,” Sherbourne said, “though I can carry you to bed.”

  Charlotte sat up and let her husband retie her chemises. “There’ll be no more of that nonsense when I can stand on my own two feet. While your horse is being saddled, I’ll have Cook put together some provisions. We missed our luncheon.”

  Must he be so proficient at dressing her? All too soon, Charlotte was shaking out the quilt and folding it neatly over the sofa while Sherbourne finished buttoning his falls.

  Charlotte caught him in a hug rather than face the world beyond the door. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I don’t want to leave you, but I’ve a puzzle to solve. Do you trust me to solve it to your satisfaction, Charlotte?”

  He was so warm and solid, so dear, and the puzzle—the Earl of Brantford’s trail of dishonor—was so difficult. “I trust you. I’m good at sums. Puzzles defeat me.”

  “The riddle is simple: How do I hold Brantford accountable for his sins, while keeping every single groat of his money?”

  “Carefully, Lucas,” Charlotte said, stepping back. “You do that very, very carefully.”

  * * *

  Leaving Charlotte ranked among the most difficult tasks Sherbourne had set for himself, and yet, he did just that not thirty minutes after she’d loved him witless in the library. The snow had stopped, and traveling by daylight was imperative if Sherbourne was to travel safely.

  Then too, Haverford might take a deal of convincing.

  “You choose an odd day to pay a call,” His Grace said, as Sherbourne was admitted to an octagonal parlor. “Are you hiding from your wife?”

  “I don’t see your wife hanging on your coattails, Haverford.”

  “Elizabeth is napping, which ladies in a delicate condition tend to do, and I, being the most considerate of husbands in all of Britain, would no more—”

  “Haverford, this is not a social call.”

  “We’re family, may God have mercy on us both. Of course this is a social call. Shall I ring for tea?”

  A year ago, Sherbourne would have been delighted to see His Grace of Haverford pouring out for him in one of the castle’s private parlors.

  “I haven’t time for tea, and neither do you.”

  The duke tugged the bell pull. “One always has time for a civilized cup of tea, regardless of how disagreeable the company one finds upon one’s doorstep. Stop pacing a hole in Her Grace’s carpets and have a seat.”

  “Haverford, do not, I pray you, tell me what to do. In my present mood, I might reciprocate your impertinence, and then we’ll come to blows, and our respective wives will be wroth with us.”

  Haverford took up a lean against the mantel. “Something has you in a royal pet.”

  Sherbourne gazed out the window, to a bleak landscape he must soon traverse. “I am in the presence of a monument to perspicacity.”

  “Five entire syllables in one word.”

  “Meaning to count them, you had to use every finger on one hand, but do you know what the word means, Your Grace?”

  Haverford’s brows rose, and then his lips twitched. “That’s very good. I must remember to use it on Radnor.”

  Sherbourne took the chair closest to the fire. “Brantford was your guest for more than a week. What was your impression of him?”

  “He’ll not be my guest again,” Haverford said. “I’ve encountered any number of aristocratic ornaments, but the idle and titled usually exert themselves enough to be charming. Even on his best behavior—for my duchess tolerates nothing less than gentlemanly deportment at all times—Brantford had a subtle air of arrogance.”

  “Charlotte hates him.�
�

  Haverford took the second chair. “I would not wish Charlotte Sherbourne’s hatred on anybody lightly, but if I had to choose an apt target for her loathing, Brantford would do. There was talk, a few years ago, that he despoiled an innocent and turned his back on the lady. Radnor’s own mama confirmed that rumor, and thus I accept it as fact. I could not see that such a scandal bore directly on his commercial ventures, else I would have spoken up sooner.”

  Would that he had, instead of poking his nose all over the colliery at every opportunity. “It is fact. What must a guest do in this castle to have some sustenance brought up from the kitchen?”

  Haverford sat back and crossed his ankles. “Now you’re demanding your tea and crumpets? Do we blame your contrary disposition on a lack of proper nutrition?”

  “You’re the one who’ll want to partake. The innocent whom Brantford despoiled was Charlotte’s dearest friend.”

  Haverford stared at his feet, which were encased in a pair of worn field boots scuffed at the toes and in want of polish. “Does Charlotte know this?”

  “She does now, and Brantford is threatening me with slander and worse unless I repay his investment on very favorable accelerated terms.”

  “Extortion dressed up in lace and satin. I should have had Radnor take his lordship shooting, and arranged for someone’s gun to misfire. Happens all the time in the damp.”

  What a delightful notion—and so simple. “Haverford, we are not barbarians.”

  “Brantford is, but I gather you know that. So what brings you here? I make a very fine second—ducal consequence and all that.”

  His Grace sounded uncharacteristically enthusiastic. “I’m touched, but I must decline. Charlotte says that because I am not titled, Brantford would ignore my challenge. There’s also the matter of Brantford’s son.”

  A tap sounded on the door, and Haverford got up to admit a footman bearing an enormous silver tray. The offerings included tea with all the trimmings, sandwiches, shortbread, and tea cakes. The footman set the tray on a low table, bowed, and withdrew.

  Haverford gestured to food. “If you expect me to pour your tea for you like some spinster auntie with a favorite nephew, you’re daft. Feed yourself, and I shall do likewise. By the way, an acquaintance in Swansea tells me that Hannibal Jones’s last day at the Waxter operation was the day before the shaft flooded. He’d been demanding that the owners spend the money to reinforce the tunnel, and they refused. The parting of the ways was not amicable, and they’ve been trying to blame Jones for the accident ever since.”

  “You made inquiries on my behalf?” Inquiries Sherbourne could not have made himself.

  “On behalf of the valley. Spare one beef sandwich for me, and please explain how we’re to resolve your contretemps with my least favorite earl.”

  The relief of having Hannibal Jones exonerated for the tunnel collapse felt to Sherbourne like an omen, an indication that determination and hard work—and some hard riding—would see his problems solved.

  Determination, and a bit more help from His Grace.

  Over excellent food and piping hot tea, Sherbourne detailed the situation with Brantford. Haverford listened while doing his part by the comestibles and asking the occasional question.

  “So you have come here to avail yourself of a handy duke,” he said, when the teapot was all but empty.

  Haverford had been honest, he’d listened, he’d believed Sherbourne’s recitation even when it reflected badly on a peer.

  And Haverford was family.

  “No, actually,” Sherbourne said. “I’ll settle for a mere duke if that’s the only aid I can find, but I’d hoped my cause might instead merit the support of a friend.”

  Haverford brushed nonexistent crumbs from his breeches. “A friend. Well.” He looked around as if hoping his duchess might rescue him. “A friend, whom you will owe for all eternity, even more than you already do. You do realize it’s colder than hell’s root cellar out there?”

  “The fresh air will put roses in our cheeks. Come along, Haverford, while there’s still a sliver of daylight to guide us.”

  Muttering and cursing, Haverford came along as any friend would.

  Any good friend.

  * * *

  The damned snow had made the footing treacherous enough that Dalrymple had called a halt to the hunting after the morning run. The post had brought no word from Lucas Sherbourne regarding the colliery contract, and the buxom maid hadn’t bestirred herself even once the livelong afternoon to see if a guest might want for some female companionship.

  Brantford was paying his third call of the evening on the decanter in Dalrymple’s library when the door opened, and the maid who’d been least in sight all day appeared with a bucket in each hand.

  “Do come in,” Brantford said. “Can’t have the fires going out when winter has announced its arrival.”

  The library was empty, every other gentleman having gathered in Dalrymple’s game room for another evening of cards, drink, and bawdy jokes. Footmen would attend that company, else the gathering would descend into outright debauchery.

  What did it say about Brantford that outright debauchery had lost its appeal?

  “Evening, milord,” the maid said, setting both buckets before the hearth and bobbing a curtsy. She added a scoop of coal to the blaze and replaced the hearth screen. “Shall I light another candle for you, sir?”

  Though her manner was deferential—Dalrymple himself might stumble through the door at any moment—her question held innuendo.

  Not invitation, exactly.

  “In another half hour, you can bring some extra candles to my bedroom. I’m in the mood to read on this cold and lonely night.”

  “Won’t be any trouble a’tall, sir. Shall I bring a tea tray as well?”

  He didn’t want tea and biscuits. He wanted to roger the daylights out of the insolent baggage. “Just the candles.”

  She collected a tray’s worth of dirty glasses from the sideboard, bobbed another curtsy, and headed for the door. Before she withdrew, she cast Brantford a look he’d occasionally received from his wife. Exasperation and long-suffering, along with a dash of superiority.

  She’d offered to bring a tea tray so that she might end her day with two cups of good China black—none of the reused gunpowder the staff was likely to get—and a plate of shortbread, in addition to the coins Brantford would have given her.

  Not a stupid woman, though slyness in a domestic was unattractive.

  “What’s your name?” Brantford asked, before she was out the door.

  She stopped, her back to him, and turned slowly. “My name?” She’d given him a romping good time, but this request made her cautious.

  “How are you called?”

  “Veronica, sir. My name is Veronica.”

  Damned if she didn’t look like Veronica, too. Good breeding figure, dark hair, and that expression.…

  “Don’t bother coming to my room. Send the footmen up with a bath, and let the stable know I’ll need a sound riding horse for tomorrow.”

  “You’ll be leaving us, then?”

  Was she relieved? “If I have business to tend to or a call to pay on His Grace of Haverford, that is none of your affair. Be off with you before you let all the warmth out of this room.”

  She curtsied again, the tray of dirty glasses balanced against her hip, and withdrew.

  Swilling Dalrymple’s brandy and swiving his help was all well and good for a diversion, but Brantford had come to Wales to do business. Lucas Sherbourne would soon realize that a failed colliery was only the start of the troubles Brantford would cause him, if that business was not satisfactorily concluded.

  * * *

  “Haverford will prevent matters from degenerating into violence,” Elizabeth said, holding her needle up to the light. Yesterday’s snowfall gave the afternoon sunshine a brilliant quality, making the landscape beyond the window almost too bright to behold.

  And yet, Charlotte had spent most
of her day staring out the window.

  “I want matters to degenerate into violence,” Charlotte replied. “Mr. Sherbourne would give an excellent account of himself, having been on the receiving end of many an unfair blow. A pummeling is the least of what Brantford deserves.”

  Elizabeth dampened a length of red silk thread between her lips and attempted to pass it through the eye of the needle. “You are worried. You sound furious, but you’re worried.”

  How could Elizabeth sit there so serenely when both husbands were off on such a momentous errand? “I’m both. Why aren’t they back yet?”

  Elizabeth had appeared immediately after breakfast, her workbasket in hand, and she hadn’t budged much since. She jabbed the needle into the arm of the sofa and set the thread aside.

  “They had some distance to travel if they were to meet with the Earl of Brantford, and that assumes he’s still at Dalrymple’s hunting party. Might you stop pacing, Charl?”

  “Pacing helps me refrain from throwing fragile objects and using foul language. I need a parlor like yours, in a high tower, so I can keep watch over the approach to my castle.”

  Elizabeth closed the lid of her workbasket. “Your pacing has tired me. I must beg the use of a guest room, for a short respite will soon befall me, whether I find a bed or not.”

  “The fatigue hits me the same way,” Charlotte said, nudging a candlestick to the exact center of the mantel. “One moment I’m fine, my thoughts trotting along where I send them. The next, I can’t keep my eyes open, and my mind has turned to a quagmire. I’ve put a guest room in readiness, because you will please spend the night here if the men aren’t back by supper.”

  Elizabeth rose. “Charlotte? What are you saying?”

  Gracious angels. “Nothing, until I’ve had a certain discussion with Mr. Sherbourne.”

  Elizabeth hugged her. “As it should be. Then you will have a certain discussion with me. Biddy and Lady Radnor will join us, and we’ll be merry and quite frank. Then our menfolk can have a turn cosseting us.”