A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(101)

“Or the poor little wretch who has Brantford for a father.”

They remained cuddled on the sofa, and though nothing was resolved, Sherbourne’s anxiety ebbed yet more, enough that he could focus on Charlotte’s words: Brantford had a child, and that child deserved his father’s support.

A question threaded through Sherbourne’s jumbled thoughts: Radnor had clearly been the apple of his parents’ eyes, Haverford a treasured ducal heir. Sherbourne’s upbringing had been challenging, but he’d been fed, clothed, housed, and given a name in which he could take pride.

What was life like for that small boy in godforsaken Brecknockshire? What name had his mother given him, and what had he been told about his antecedents?

“What shall we do about Heulwen and Hector?” Charlotte asked. “They have been foolish, but half my family has indulged in the same foolishness without benefit of matrimony. Heulwen says those with money can be foolish, and yet, her child will have no money.”

“I’m thinking,” Sherbourne said, which was a lie. He was wallowing in the pleasure of holding his wife, in the scent of gardenia, and in a blossoming of hope, despite the snow coming down outside.

Charlotte twiddled the damp hair at his nape. “We forgot to pick up the post, Mr. Sherbourne.”

“Hang the post. Very likely it will hold another scold from Brantford, threatening dire consequences unless I double his money by Easter.”

Charlotte’s fingers went still. “He threatens you?”

“Politely, but yes. He claims I haven’t given him an opportunity to earn a decent sum in a reasonable time, you see. He has instead lent his cachet to a dodgy venture, placed his faith in a man who’d do well to respect his betters when they give him an opportunity to improve his situation.”

“You can’t call him out,” Charlotte said, grabbing Sherbourne by the ears. “There’s a code about these things. He’s titled and you’re not, and that means you cannot blow him to bits.”

Sherbourne kissed her nose. “Would ridding the world of Brantford be a disservice? Would the boy be any worse off with no father than he is with Brantford for a father?”

“You have the same look in your eye that you did when you came upon Neederby trying to intimidate me into accepting his proposal. You are vexed.”

Exceedingly. “I am determined. I must pay a call on Haverford, and then I’d like to prepare for a confrontation with Brantford. I should be back by tomorrow evening, the next morning at the latest.”

Charlotte rose from his lap, bringing the quilt with her, like a queen in an ermine cape. “Haverford Castle is not an hour’s journey, even in this weather. What are you about?”

Cold air assailed Sherbourne from all sides. “Brantford has tarried in Wales and threatened to pay another call on us, biding with Radnor if he must. He’s intent on revising the terms of the contract so I’m beggared and he’s enriched. We can renegotiate that document, but I’d rather my next encounter with him be on my terms and not his.”

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?”