A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(20)

“Your siblings are titled nonetheless, while I am a mere mister, not even an honorable.”

And Charlotte was not her siblings. “You are very honorable. If I were to marry anybody, it would be you. I’ll see you out before either one of us says something regrettable.” Charlotte regretted turning him down.

She did not regret kissing him.

He rose. “No need to see me out. I lack a title, but I do possess the ability to find the front door.”

Charlotte got to her feet as well, lest he be seen stalking from the parlor in high dudgeon.

“Mr. Sherbourne, I will accompany you to the door. You will bow over my hand, I will curtsy, and what has passed between us in this room will remain private. Women turn down proposals every day. We’re fickle creatures and our whims are of no moment.”

He pulled on his gloves. “You are neither fickle nor whimsical, and you don’t turn down proposals every day.”

“I turn them down, nonetheless.” With appalling regularity, but he doubtless didn’t offer proposals, ever, and thus a frisson of guilt threaded through Charlotte’s regret. “I am sorry Mr. Sherbourne. Any woman would be lucky to have your esteem.”

His perusal was brooding, but at least he wasn’t dashing off in a temper. “If you mean that, then why reject my suit? If some other man has a claim on your affections, I’ll concede the field, of course. Otherwise, I’m prepared to be generous with the settlements. I’ll be a decent and faithful husband, and you’ll have a sister biding not a thirty-minute stroll from our home.”

He was genuinely perplexed, and Charlotte’s heart was genuinely, and very inconveniently, breaking. Fidelity didn’t characterize every marriage, or even most society marriages, but Lucas Sherbourne would keep his vows.

“I wish you joy, Mr. Sherbourne. Shall I see you to the door?”

“For a woman wishing me joy, you look like you’re about to cry.”

Why must he turn up perceptive now? “Tears are soon dried.”

“Charlotte?” He was calm now, or worse than calm, he was focused. She’d become a puzzle for him to solve, and his scrutiny was more than Charlotte could bear.

She cupped his cheek against her palm, and went up on her toes to give him a farewell kiss. He held her hand with his own and kissed her back with a tenderness that tried Charlotte’s resolve to the utmost.

One more embrace, just one more…

A breeze wafted past Charlotte as she bundled closer to the man she’d never marry.

“What on earth is afoot here?” The Duchess of Moreland’s question cracked like thunder across Charlotte’s awareness. For a moment, she held on to Mr. Sherbourne simply to remain upright.

Sherbourne stepped back, but kept his hands on Charlotte’s arms until she was standing independently.

“Charlotte Windham, explain yourself,” Her Grace snapped. “And you, Mr. Sherbourne, taking unseemly liberties under the guise of paying a social call. Is this how you repay my welcome?”

Uncle Percival stood at Aunt’s elbow, a portrait of the outraged patriarch. “Sir, you will step away from my niece.”

“Uncle, Aunt, please calm yourselves. Mr. Sherbourne was about to leave, and I…”

Two people whom Charlotte loved very much were regarding her with heartrending dismay. If she explained that she’d just refused Mr. Sherbourne’s proposal, then kissed him as if he were her every wish come true, they’d be hurt and angry past all bearing.

“Mr. Sherbourne,” said the man himself, “was about to ask a servant where to find you, sir, for Miss Charlotte has done me the great honor of indicating that she’d welcome my addresses, were I to gain your permission to court her.”

Charlotte’s heart thumped against her ribs, as if she stood on a high precipice and couldn’t make herself step back.

“You’d like to court our Charlotte?” Her Grace asked.

Oh, Aunt…no.

“I’d like to start by courting Miss Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?” Uncle Percival asked. “I cannot believe the tableau that greeted us. If you were in any way coerced, then courtship, much less marriage, is out of the question and Mr. Sherbourne will return to Wales, permanently.”

Mr. Sherbourne was watching her, waiting for her to see him effectively banished from England through no fault of his own. She couldn’t do that, couldn’t make him pay for her lack of caution. Of all women, she refused to see an innocent party ruined simply because she’d stolen one more kiss.

“I was in no way coerced, Uncle. I apologize for upsetting you and Aunt. I am very fond of Mr. Sherbourne, though that is no excuse for how I’ve behaved.”

“The fault is mine,” Mr. Sherbourne said, with a credible rendition of bashful chagrin. “I apologize to Your Graces as well.”

Aunt Esther reached for Uncle Percival’s hand, suggesting that Charlotte had rattled a woman who thought nothing of scolding King George himself. Uncle Percival tucked her hand over his arm and rested his palm over her fingers.

“Apologies accepted,” he said. “Don’t let it happen again. Mr. Sherbourne, you will spare me a few minutes in the garden when you’ve bade my niece a proper farewell.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave this door open,” Aunt Esther said. “For the sake of my nerves and Mr. Sherbourne’s continued good health, you will leave this door open.”