A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(14)

Brantford studied him while laughter erupted from a table that included two earls, a baron, and a ducal heir. Sherbourne hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t attracted notice in any way, but he’d reached the limit of his manners.

“And that,” Brantford said, a slow smile breaking over his features, “is why your endeavors are notoriously profitable. Shall I come by Tuesday at two of the clock?”

Better. “Two o’clock will suit.”

Brantford rose and extended a hand. “Until next we meet. A pleasure, Sherbourne.”

That gesture was as unexpected as Brantford’s smile. Sherbourne rose and shook hands—without smiling—but when he reached the street he did toss his hat into the air and catch it on the end of his walking stick. He had enormous work to do before he was accepted by polite society, but that achievement would come closer to fruition if an earl became involved in the mining venture.

And if Sherbourne were accepted, then his children might find themselves not merely tolerated, not simply accepted, but included among the best families in the realm.

Provided he could equip them with the right mother.

*



Hour by hour, Charlotte was talking herself into accepting Lucas Sherbourne’s marriage proposal. He would provide well. His property marched with the Duke of Haverford’s, meaning Charlotte would be neighbors with her sister Elizabeth.

Sherbourne wasn’t stupid, arrogant, or idle, as Charlotte’s previous suitors had been.

She took another turn down the stable aisle, the horses eyeing her as they munched their hay.

She could mail bank notes from any location, provided she had a little discreet assistance from a loyal staff.

“I’m not being entirely fair,” she informed Her Grace’s bay gelding. “Mr. Sherbourne is quite bright, confident without being an ass, and he brings a sense of energy with him as some women wear a signature scent.”

He was also attractive.

“Attractive,” Charlotte admitted to her own chestnut mare, “is not the same as handsome.”

Handsome was commonplace. Every ballroom in Mayfair was full of handsome. Lucas Sherbourne commanded attention—one wanted to know where he was, what he was about, because he was no respecter of meaningless conventions. His movements, thoughts, and decisions were unpredictable.

Witness, he’d chosen Charlotte Windham for his bride.

“So you’re visiting the stables in the grand Windham tradition.” Her Grace of Moreland, silhouetted in the stable doorway, cut a dash in a fine blue driving ensemble. “Would you like to tour the park with me today?”

Sherbourne wouldn’t be caught dead gossiping under the maples at the fashionable hour. “No, thank you, Aunt.”

The duchess stroked a gloved hand over the mare’s nose. “Are you avoiding anybody in particular or the whole lot of them?”

“The whole lot. I have been taken into dislike by several of last season’s unclaimed blossoms. I’m leaving them a clear field. What do we know of Lucas Sherbourne?”

“Come outside and we’ll talk.” Her Grace chose a bench in the sun, the afternoon light bearing that blend of mellowness and sharp contrast unique to early autumn. “I have consulted with Aunt Arabella and a few of her friends, because Mr. Sherbourne is something of a puzzle.”

“You read the history books, so to speak.” The duchess was clearly not surprised that Charlotte was curious. Would she be surprised if Charlotte became Mrs. Lucas Sherbourne?

“When His Grace of Haverford put in a word for Mr. Sherbourne, I decided some research was appropriate, and the tale is interesting. Mr. Sherbourne’s grandfather, Optimus Sherbourne, was engaged to marry a daughter from the Haverford ducal line. She fell in love with another, and Optimus took the slight badly. He married a banker’s daughter, became appallingly wealthy, and set about ruining the successor to the Haverford title.”

“His attempt at a feud failed,” Charlotte said. “The St. David family thrives, and Haverford Castle is lovely.” If quaint. Elizabeth would soon have all in hand, though.

“Optimus didn’t expect to bring down a ducal family at one go,” Aunt said. “He raised his son Alcestus to take over the task, and the present Mr. Sherbourne was apparently brought up in the same tradition. Thank the good celestial ministers that Mr. Sherbourne and Haverford have settled their differences. Some say the Sherbournes have a head for business; others declare them vulgar and vengeful.”

Lucas Sherbourne was robust rather than vulgar, and Charlotte would never judge another person who had legitimate grounds for vengeance. Had she the means, she’d have wreaked vengeance on a certain titled dandy years ago.

“What do you say about Mr. Sherbourne, Aunt?”

Her Grace’s driving habit was a soft periwinkle wool, the hems draping over smart black boots. She fussed with skirts that were tailored to arrange themselves into graceful folds even while hanging in the wardrobe.

“Mr. Sherbourne is not the average climbing cit,” Aunt Esther said, “and you never were a marriage-mad henwit. Do you fancy him, Charlotte?”

Yes. “He doesn’t put on airs.”

“Your uncle wishes Mr. Sherbourne wouldn’t put on such remarkable waistcoats.”

“I like those waistcoats. They remind me of our Scottish relations in their kilts. Only a confident man wears such noticeable attire.”