A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(102)
“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.”