A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(28)
But they soon would be, and Brantford had a good feeling about that. Sherbourne wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty, to ask the rude questions upon which the whole transaction hinged. Mining ventures weren’t for the faint of heart—Brantford avoided touring his more than once a year, if he could help it, and he never went below the surface—but they could be wonderfully profitable.
“I’ll have my man bring around the funds tomorrow,” Brantford said.
He waited a moment for Sherbourne to pontificate about the hazards of entrusting a man of business with an actual bank draft, but Mr. Sherbourne only held the door open, like a footman, or one of the large fellows hired to eject unruly persons from taverns.
“Best wishes on your upcoming nuptials, Sherbourne, and safe journey to Wales. May your union be both happy and fruitful.”
Brantford trotted down the steps, entirely in charity with life. He was paying a call on a comely mistress, he’d just secured a significant interest in a new mine, and his business partner had a Midas touch.
Brantford did wish his own union could be fruitful though, not that he’d given up hope. As for the happy part, who needed a happy marriage when life was otherwise humming along to such a cheerful tune?
*
Charlotte had tried counting turnpikes, posting inns, cows, even trees. She’d read, she’d played solitary card games, she’d penned a trio of letters from a nonexistent deceased husband—Mr. Wesley Cowper this time—until the rocking of the coach gave her a headache.
The journey to Wales was taking forever.
Sherbourne left her to the joys of his traveling coach, a monstrosity of a vehicle pulled by teams of gigantic horses. The size of the conveyance meant speed was sacrificed to comfort, and the state of the king’s highway ensured comfort was a lost cause.
Charlotte’s constant companion was worry, about the wedding night, about marriage to a man she didn’t know well, about Maggie’s contention that Sherbourne could become financially overextended.
Charlotte worried about the unknown unfortunates in London whom she might have helped, and she resolved to continue offering aid wherever it was needed in Wales. Somehow, she’d send out her bank notes to the Mrs. Wesleys, and find a way to broach the matter with Sherbourne when the time was right.
Though the time might not be right for years.
The route was somewhat familiar, because Charlotte had visited Wales frequently as a child, and because she’d attended a house party at Haverford Castle only a few months earlier. A cold, sleety rain began to fall as they prepared to leave the final inn before reaching their destination.
That Charlotte should bring bad weather with her to her new home was appropriate, for her mood was less than sunny.
The coach door opened without warning.
“Might I join you?” Sherbourne stood outside, waiting for Charlotte’s permission to enter his own conveyance.
“You’ll catch your death loitering in a downpour. Get in here this instant.”
He climbed in, rocking the vehicle and bringing with him the scents of wet wool, horse, and leather.
“Sit with me,” Charlotte said, when he hesitated to choose a bench. “We’ll share a lap robe.”
They were married. They could share everything, in theory. At the inns, they’d taken meals together in private dining rooms, then retired to separate quarters. Sherbourne had been a conscientious escort, but he’d offered little conversation and less companionship.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Charlotte was swathed in a velvet-lined cloak, and the inn had supplied hot bricks for the coach’s floor, and yet, the damp had crept into her bones.
“A trifle chilly,” she said. “A result of inactivity and fatigue no doubt. Strange beds, however commodious, don’t offer the best sleep.”
Sherbourne withdrew a wool blanket from under the opposite bench and spread it over their knees. Without warning his arm came around Charlotte’s shoulders.
“I could sleep for a week,” he groused. “Every time I make the journey to London, I vow it will be my last.”
“You ride for miles without tiring.” Hour after hour, he had ridden before the coach, changing horses when the coachman swapped teams.
“At twenty, I rode for miles without tiring. Now I merely want to be home. I’ve sent word ahead to your sister, though if she’s on hand to welcome us, that means Haverford will be about as well.”
He tugged at Charlotte’s shoulder, urging her against his side. She complied, though such proximity to an adult male was novel.
Also warm. “You invited Elizabeth and her duke to your home?”
Sherbourne stuffed his riding gloves into a pocket of his greatcoat and tucked the blanket more closely around Charlotte’s legs.
“To our home. Our wedding was small, and any fuss your family can make to excuse their absence at the ceremony ought to be encouraged.”
Charlotte refused to lament the nature of her wedding. No St. George’s at Hanover Square for her, no assembling all of the cousins or reading of the banns. She’d spoken her vows in the Moreland formal parlor, with Aunt, Uncle, Westhaven and his countess, and Maggie and her earl in attendance.
Everybody else was off domesticating or gestating in the country, and Mama and Papa had been visiting family in Scotland.
“Mama sent an express,” Charlotte said. “She’ll visit Elizabeth and me at Christmas.”