A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(108)
“Let’s hope she’ll have eyes for her husband too. Did you know that Mrs. Sherbourne and I were a love match?”
“One would conclude this, sir.”
“I hadn’t concluded it, but I’ve heard it from the lady’s own mouth, and a gentleman never argues with a lady.”
Sherbourne had heard a good deal of Charlotte’s tirade, but rather than the words, the utter conviction in her tone had struck him. They hadn’t been a love match, not by any stretch.
But they were now.
Epilogue
“Evander’s English and his Latin are both progressing,” Charlotte said. “His French is hopeless.”
Sherbourne plucked the letter from her hand. “All boys have hopeless French, until they realize that the ladies speak it quite well. Are you recovered from your parents’ leave-taking?”
Sherbourne hadn’t recovered from his in-laws’ holiday visit, but then, one didn’t recover from being married into the Windham family. One coped as best one could with good fortune of a magnitude that surpassed description. Charlotte’s cousins and in-laws had responded en masse to her request for assistance where Brantford had been concerned, and the earl and his countess had taken an indefinite repairing lease in Portugal.
Brantford had requested permission to write to his son, which petition Haverford, Radnor, and Charlotte were considering.
Sherbourne was considering the various queries and hypotheticals her cousins had also posed by letter: Did Sherbourne think steam would render canals obsolete? Was steam a viable means of powering navigable craft? Had he an opinion on the commercial potential of indoor plumbing?
Indoor plumbing, for God’s sake? That question had been posed by the ever practical Earl of Westhaven, and Sherbourne had joined him in investing in copper piping. This flurry of correspondence was Charlotte’s doing, for even before the whole business with Brantford had been resolved, she’d sung the praises of her husband’s commercial genius—her word—to any Windham she’d been able to reach by post.
Charlotte tugged her husband down beside her onto the sofa. She’d made a small chamber on the third floor her personal parlor, claiming that she wanted to be able to see clear to the colliery when she couldn’t be there in person. The view was lovely, and if the perspective was elevated, well, that didn’t seem to bother her of late.
“Mama and Papa are a force of nature,” she said, stroking the kitten in her lap, “but yes, I am recovered from their visit.”
The beast’s name was Beowulf, and he’d been among Sherbourne’s holiday gifts to Charlotte.
“Your parents will be back,” Sherbourne said, for he was learning to read Charlotte’s moods. “With not one but two grandchildren on the way, we won’t be able to keep them from a return visit.”
And that was…that was lovely. If half the cousins and sisters and in-laws who threatened to visit showed up, Sherbourne Hall would need an entire wing of guest rooms…Rather like a castle.
The butler rapped on the door jamb.
“Come in,” Charlotte said. “I was about to order Mr. Sherbourne a pot of peppermint tea. My parents’ departure has left his nerves in a state.”
“Another pot of tea. Of course, madam, and His Grace of Haverford has come to call.”
Haverford strolled in, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, his hair windblown. “We announce family now? That will prove problematic when the shire is overrun with Windhams at next summer’s house party.”
“Not another house party,” Sherbourne groaned. “Scavenger hunts, kite flying, piquet, and whist until I’m bilious—”
“A house party would be delightful,” Charlotte said, rising and kissing the duke on the cheek. “Have a seat, and stay for a cup of tea.”
Haverford sent Sherbourne an unreadable look, but he sat beside Charlotte like a good duke. “I come bearing news.”
“Who’s expecting now?” Sherbourne asked.
“In a sense,” Haverford replied, “you are.” He placed a folded sheet of vellum on the table before the sofa.
Charlotte picked the paper up and smoothed it out. “This is…” She blinked rapidly. “Oh, Haverford. You didn’t.”
Was that a happy you didn’t or an upset you didn’t?
Charlotte threw her arms around the duke and delivered a crushing hug, while the kitten scampered off with an indignant hiss.
“Oh, you are awful, Haverford,” Charlotte said. “You are the worst duke ever, and I will name my firstborn after you.”
“We’re not naming our firstborn Dunderhead,” Sherbourne said, picking up the paper. “This is merely a list of names.” Though reading the list sent an odd sensation shivering over Sherbourne’s skin.
“That is the New Year’s honors list,” Haverford said. “Congratulations, Sir Lucas.”
Sherbourne’s gaze lit on his own name. He dropped the paper on the table and crossed the room to throw himself into the reading chair by the window.
“I have no need of a baronetcy. I don’t want a baronetcy.” Sir Lucas Sherbourne. His father and grandfather were probably dancing a jig in heaven for a baronetcy was hereditary. “I have no need of anything. My colliery is coming along, I have an assistant engineer who can jolly Mr. Jones without offending him and keep track of all three pairs of his new spectacles, not that Jones needs jollying now that’s he’s remarried. I’ve sold my damned bank shares. My in-laws pronounced me a fine addition to the family. What need have I…?”