A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(11)

“Having a husband oversee my expenditures is preferable?”

“Your settlements will spell out which funds remain under your exclusive control as pin money, and will provide that should you be widowed, you and you alone will manage your finances. One item I have in adequate supply is coin.”

“One item you lack is delicacy, Mr. Sherbourne.” This cup of tea was not as hot as Charlotte preferred, but it was fortifying and perfectly sweet.

“Precisely. I lack delicacy, which is why you should marry me.”

His command of a tea service was excellent, his shoulders were broad, his logic eluded her. “I’m to subject myself to a husband’s supervision rather than be pitied for failing to secure any spouse at all?”

Sherbourne set the teapot down rather too hard on the tray. “Nobody would dare pity you.”

Charlotte wanted to believe him, but too many tittering, gossiping, spiteful conversations prevented her. He did not pity her, and that meant more than it should.

“All spinsters are pitied, Mr. Sherbourne. We’re supposed to pine away for lack of children to wait upon or a husband to serve, when in fact, our greater sorrow is that we could become a burden on the parish.”

“Many married women have no children and see little of their spouses, but I hope our union would be fruitful. I like children, and think you’d make a marvelous mother.”

How casually he flung compliments at her. “Why?”

“Because you are fierce. Your children would be fierce, and if they’re to help shape the future of a realm threatened by a profligate imbecile on the throne, they’ll need to be fierce.”

The destruction of the entire nation didn’t concern Charlotte. She was focused instead on lives left in tatters thanks to heedless young men. She liked that Britain’s fate concerned Sherbourne, though, even if his politics were the nearest thing to blaspheming under Uncle Percival’s roof.

“You see us married and filling the nursery, Mr. Sherbourne, when I have yet to consent to even a courtship.”

He held up the plate of teacakes for her. “Would you like to be courted?”

Charlotte chose a cake draped in orange glaze and tried to focus on the question rather than on the lazy heat in Sherbourne’s blue eyes. He’d kissed her passionately, with the door open and the house full of servants. How would he kiss late at night, tucked beneath the covers with his wife?

Charlotte took a small bite of her sweet.

“Your expression is far from a resounding yes,” Sherbourne said, selecting a lavender cake and popping the whole treat into his mouth.

Part of Charlotte yearned to be courted, for the petty pleasure of flaunting Sherbourne at all the nincompoops who had presumed she’d be delighted with their offers.

At all the debutantes who’d spread unkind gossip about her.

At all the matchmakers who’d regarded Charlotte as the sole reason their daughters hadn’t taken.

At all the Windhams, who’d be surprised at her choice, and even a little worried.

Especially at the Windhams.

“You shouldn’t gobble the whole teacake at once,” she said. “Take a genteel bite, then put the rest back on your plate as you chew.”

“Genteel bites leave crumbs everywhere. Shall I court you, Miss Charlotte? I’m sure you could instruct me on the particulars.”

Charlotte wanted to be courted, to be flirted with, to be given indulgent looks by married couples, while she earned envious sighs from the unmarried ladies.

Such longings were foolish. She didn’t love Sherbourne, and he didn’t love her. She’d be the only Windham in the history of Windhams who had failed to attract a love match.

“You shall not court me,” Charlotte said. “Such a farce would have no point.”

Sherbourne held up the plate of cakes for her again. She chose a slice of shortbread this time and got crumbs all over her lap while nibbling genteelly.

“The lady’s wishes should be controlling,” he said. “I’d enjoy squiring you about for a few weeks, but I applaud your pragmatism too.”

“Mr. Sherbourne, what on earth are you—?”

He kissed her, a friendly smack on the lips. “A special license it shall be. I’ll apply tomorrow.”

“Mr. Sherbourne! A special license will not in any way—”

He kissed her again, more lingeringly. “Please, Charlotte? I’m not hopeless, and I will honestly try to make you happy.”

Her inclination was to flounce away and leave him on the sofa with a signature Charlotte Windham set down. A laugh, a wave, a witticism.

But he was asking her to marry him. Not flinging an offer at her as if she should be desperate to become his wife. Perhaps this was what her version of matrimony needed to look like—pragmatic, with an element of attraction, but no delusions, no flummery.

“I must have time to think about this,” Charlotte said. “To think about the settlements.”

She’d surprised him, which pleased her.

She’d surprised herself. Mr. Sherbourne was not the dashing swain of her fervent, girlish dreams, but he fixed her tea the way she liked it, didn’t put any value on small talk, and kissed intriguingly even with the door open.

He didn’t strike Charlotte as the type to hover about his wife, though he would be very mindful of the finances. In short, he had possibilities.