A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(10)
He sat, taking the enormous, torrid liberty of positioning himself a mere fifteen inches from his possible future wife.
*
“Have I been at the modiste’s long enough?” Esther, Her Grace of Moreland, asked her spouse.
Percival, Duke of Moreland, consulted his pocket watch. “By my calculations, you’ve only just arrived there, and I’ve barely opened the newspaper at my club. Do we approve of Sherbourne or not, my love?”
The Welsh upstart had come striding along the walk, handsome as love’s young dream, but sadly lacking in flowers, French chocolates, or proper taste in waistcoats. Percival and his duchess had seen Mr. Sherbourne on their doorstep—the ducal suite afforded an optimal spying perspective—and modified their plans accordingly.
Her Grace took a sip of chocolate. She was a surpassingly lovely blonde of mature years, her proportions those of a goddess, her social power greater than the sovereign’s. At present, she was barefoot and tucked next to Percival on their cuddling couch.
“We give Sherbourne a chance, Moreland. I thought Elizabeth and Charlotte would have each other for company, but then Haverford stole a march on us, and there’s Charlotte.”
“The last of the regiment,” Percival said. “Most soldiers would rather perish defending the colors than be taken prisoner.”
Her Grace kissed his cheek, a half-amused, half-exasperated sort of kiss. After more than thirty years of marriage, Percival was a proficient interpreter of his wife’s kisses.
“Marriage is not a military campaign, sir. What flag is Charlotte defending? She’s a dependent female approaching spinsterhood. Her future might include a modest household of her own, if her papa can be talked into it. For the most part, she’ll be a traveling auntie if she remains unmarried. Her sisters and cousins will think they’re being kind, inviting her all over the realm, but Charlotte will be confronted over and over with Windhams in love.”
Percival delighted in the state of his family, when they weren’t driving him daft. “But Sherbourne? His dearest aspiration is to pile up coin to flaunt at his betters.”
Percival approved of a man improving his station through hard work, ambition, and good fortune, but Sherbourne was…
Running around in public wearing waistcoats that should have blinded the tailors who’d created them.
“What does it say about me, Esther, that I’ve begun to think exactly like my father?”
“Your father was a wonderful man who knew a love match when he saw one. We give Sherbourne a chance—Haverford spoke well of him—but twenty minutes with Charlotte is as much chance as any proper gentleman should need to leave a good impression.”
Charlotte could leave a bad impression in less than thirty seconds, unfortunately.
Percival rose and offered his hand to his duchess. “Twenty-three minutes, to be exact. I was once a bachelor, you know. Twenty-three minutes in the hands of an enterprising young fellow is a very great chance indeed.”
Esther toed on her slippers, a pair of gold house mules lavishly adorned with silk flowers.
She patted his lapel. “You simply want to intimidate poor Sherbourne, but you forget, he’s been neighbor to Haverford for years. A duke will not overawe him, not even the Duke of Moreland.”
“You have it all backward, Esther. I feel it my duty as a gentleman to rescue the poor sod if Charlotte has taken him into disfavor.”
“Gracious. I hadn’t thought of that.”
The duchess invariably moved with perfect dignity, and yet, she beat Percival to the door.
Chapter Three
Had Charlotte been asked, she would have said that kissing could be a pleasant undertaking, albeit unsanitary in its more intimate incarnations. Noses tended to get in the way, and if one wore spectacles as some gentlemen did, those created even more awkwardness.
But kissing Sherbourne…
Such a large, unsubtle man had no business trading in tenderness. He’d teased his way past Charlotte’s expectations and tickled awake dreams more suited to a woman ten years her junior. Sweet, silly, naughty dreams…
Then he’d gone and ruined everything—except her—by proposing marriage.
“Explain yourself,” Charlotte said. “As I foresee the life of a spinster, I’ll have independent means, freedom to occupy myself however I choose, and…” And the freedom to discreetly aid those most in need of assistance.
Charlotte couldn’t say that of course. She didn’t admit of those activities to even her family.
Sherbourne poured a cup of tea. “Freedom and independence. Do go on.”
“I’ll also have a lively and interesting circle of friends.” Aunt Arabella had had that, though she’d been a widow rather than a spinster before joining the herd of Windhams thundering up the church aisle this year.
Sherbourne added milk and sugar, stirred the tea, and passed it to her.
“Your independent means,” he said, “will likely be a charitable trust arranged by your papa, brothers-in-law, or your uncle. Those funds will be controlled by the trustees of their choice, not yours, and once your male relatives are gone, you will be completely at the mercy of the trustees.”
Was that how it worked? Charlotte was not much interested in legal matters, but she would ask a cousin who had read law, for controlling her own money mattered.