A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(21)
They left, and Charlotte took a seat on a chair by the hearth rather than on the sofa where she’d—
“Did you mean it?” Mr. Sherbourne asked. “I’ll not have it said you were forced, Charlotte. You either tell your family you were having a small adventure with a willing bachelor, or you become Mrs. Lucas Sherbourne. Don’t lead me around Mayfair by the nose only to reject me several weeks hence.”
“My family would be disappointed in me for that small adventure.” Then they would ruin Lucas Sherbourne without even trying. The invitations would disappear, the greetings would become perfunctory, civilities would be withheld.
A man who’d done nothing wrong would make a hasty departure for Wales, like a chambermaid who’d been turned off without a character for refusing the lord of the manor’s advances.
Sherbourne’s disgrace would be Charlotte’s fault.
“Make up your mind,” Mr. Sherbourne said, “and know that if we marry, I will be a husband to you in every way that matters. Ours won’t be a match based on affection, but neither will it be a union of appearances. Choose carefully, Charlotte, and I will honor your decision.”
Chapter Five
Sherbourne could honor Charlotte Windham’s decision, but could he honor her?
This question plagued him even as he knocked on the Earl of Westhaven’s door two days after becoming an engaged man.
Charlotte had kissed him like every bachelor’s naughty dream, then flung his proposal…well, not flung it in his face, but handed it back to him like a wrinkled, damp, handkerchief.
He had no title, no illustrious family history, no impressive coat of arms, no family motto beyond “Make money, and sneer at the titled fools.” Of course she’d refused him. He’d been a fool to expect otherwise.
Only when she’d stood to lose her family’s respect had she agreed to become Mrs. Lucas Sherbourne.
Sherbourne lacked aristocratic antecedents, but he had pride, and thus he’d insisted on negotiating the settlements with the Earl of Westhaven in person. His lordship was the ducal heir, and apparently the financial brains of the Windham family.
“Mr. Sherbourne, welcome,” said a liveried butler. “His lordship awaits you in his study.”
Sherbourne passed over his hat and walking stick and followed the butler down a corridor that boasted not one cobweb, not one speck of dust or smudged mirror. Those mirrors had been placed to catch and reflect sunlight, giving the house an airy, pleasant quality at variance with the priggish butler.
“Mr. Lucas Sherbourne to see you, my lord.” The butler presented Sherbourne’s card on a silver tray.
Westhaven bore a resemblance to both of his parents. He had Moreland’s height, the ducal nose, and lean build, and the duchess’s green eyes and chin. His hair was chestnut, and he exuded about as much hospitality as an elderly cat welcoming an invasion of noisy children into the library.
“Sherbourne, good day.”
A lordly perusal followed. Sherbourne had endured many such inspections, and he perused Westhaven right back.
“You had a reputation for brawling at school,” Westhaven said after the butler had withdrawn. “Aunt Arabella says you were cheerfully dedicated to the ruin of a neighbor of longstanding—which neighbor is married to my cousin—and now you demand that the settlements be negotiated in person rather than through the good offices of the diplomatic intermediaries whose job it is to tend to these matters. Don’t expect many concessions, Sherbourne.”
Sherbourne took a moment to look over the earl’s study. The desk was tidy to the point of obsessive organization, from the gleaming silver pen tray to the immaculate blotter, to the sealed correspondence sitting in a neat stack in another silver tray.
“Cheerfully dedicated to the ruin of a neighbor…” Sherbourne replied. “Interesting, and here I thought I’d cheerfully awaited repayment of debts decades overdue. May I remind your lordship that Haverford and I have made our peace? Perhaps you and I should change the subject. Discussing another man’s finances strikes me as ill bred.”
Now came the lordly reassessment, which from Westhaven meant a twitch of the ducal proboscis and a narrowing of green eyes. “Quite. Please have a seat.”
As a former schoolyard brawler, Sherbourne took that seat at one end of the sofa rather than perch before the altar of Westhaven’s desk like a supplicant. With the toe of a boot, Sherbourne flipped up a fringe of the carpet as he sat.
“Charlotte is dear to us,” Westhaven said, taking a wing chair. “We will expect a generous contribution to her settlements, and I have a very specific figure in mind for her pin money.”
Delightful. The royal we had a Windham counterpart.
“Charlotte is dear to me as well,” Sherbourne said, “and as pleased as I am to pass the time of day with you, I’d rather spend my afternoon with her. Perhaps you’d share that specific figure before sunset?”
A footman interrupted, bearing a fortune in silver on a tea tray. The next five minutes were spent testing Sherbourne’s manners, though in fairness to Westhaven, the cakes were excellent and the tea strong. Some hosts served Sherbourne the day-old cakes and the used tea leaves, as if he’d not know a stale sweet when he bit into it.
Westhaven set about an interrogation that was doomed to brevity. Sherbourne’s family consisted of one crotchety great-uncle on the maternal side. His residential real estate was one modest dwelling of twenty bedrooms, the former dower house to Haverford Castle. He did not wager on cards or horses, or make stupid bets on the book at White’s.