A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(31)
Sherbourne settled himself onto a sofa that had learned his exact contours years ago. “Sisters interrogate each other?” Charlotte certainly hadn’t had many questions for her new husband.
Haverford appropriated the middle of the same sofa, which caused the cushions to bounce. “Are matters off to an acceptable start between you and Mrs. Sherbourne?”
“Again, this is none of your business, but because you will pester me without mercy until I gratify your vulgar curiosity: I hardly know if matters with Charlotte are off to an adequate start.”
Haverford propped his boots on a hassock. “Then they are not. If a woman is pleased with her new spouse, he’ll know it until he’s sore and exhausted.”
Sherbourne was sore and exhausted. “You have been married a mere handful of weeks, Your Nosiness. You are hardly an expert on holy matrimony, much less on Charlotte Sherbourne.”
The name pleased him. He hoped that someday it pleased his wife.
“I am becoming an expert on how to make my duchess happy. I suggest you apply yourself to the same subject regarding your own spouse.”
“The wife who agreed to marry me only after we’d been found in a compromising position by Their Graces of Moreland? The same wife who, five minutes previous to Their Graces’ untimely interruption, had been telling me I did her a great honor, but to take myself the hell off? That wife?”
Haverford rose and brought the bottle to the sofa. “Dear me, Sherbourne. How does a woman who’s refused your suit manage to be in a compromising situation with you five minutes later? That’s like no sort of refusal I’ve heard of.”
A comforting thought that had kept Sherbourne company in an otherwise unforgiving saddle. He held up his glass, and Haverford obliged with another half inch of his host’s brandy.
“You don’t accuse me of forcing her.”
“I’m not stupid, and Charlotte Windham would have had your tallywags in a knot before you’d so much as kissed her, had she been unwilling.”
“Consenting to a kiss isn’t the same as consenting to marriage.” Which thought had also kept Sherbourne company in that unforgiving saddle.
“She did consent to the marriage too, didn’t she? This is excellent brandy, if I do say so myself.”
“I sent a case over to the castle to remark the occasion of your marriage. Do you have any bastards, Haverford?”
Haverford set his drink aside. “I beg your pardon?”
“We’re family now, God help us. Your business is my business.”
“I have no illegitimate offspring. What about you?”
“None. Why doesn’t a duke of nearly ancient years have any by-blows? Polite society hasn’t grown that priggish, has it?”
“Sherbourne,” the duke said gently, “you are married to the granddaughter of a duke, the sister of two duchesses, the cousin of countless titles. You are now polite society, which ought to restore anybody’s faith in miracles. I haven’t any children born out of wedlock because they and their mamas cost money and create complications. I’m none too wealthy and prefer to avoid needless drama.”
“So by-blows are still acceptable, and turning one’s back on them is not?”
“You’ve become a quick study. Moreland himself raised a pair of by-blows with the ducal herd. If a man takes responsibility for his actions, society tolerates the results. If he doesn’t, he’s no gentleman.”
Then society must know nothing of the affaire that had resulted in the ruin of Charlotte’s friend.
“I assume you’ve looked in on the colliery,” Sherbourne said. “How do matters stand there?”
Haverford took that bait. The duke had resisted allowing any mines in the valley, until he and Sherbourne had reached a compromise: one mine, developed along Haverford’s notions of the valley’s best interests. The duke refused to own shares in the venture, which made his informal oversight disinterested.
Ninety minutes later, Sherbourne was finally escorting Haverford and his duchess to the front door. Charlotte did look a bit more the thing for having been closeted with her sister.
“Did you have a peek at your bedchamber?” Her Grace asked as she kissed Sherbourne on the cheek.
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” he replied.
Haverford held out Her Grace’s gloves. “Stop whispering to my duchess.”
“We’re family now,” the duchess said. “Whispering is part of the fun. Come along, Haverford, I’ve a few things to whisper in your ear as well.”
They wafted down the steps on a cloud of connubial damned joy, leaving behind a profoundly welcome quiet.
Sherbourne both closed and locked the door, feeling as if he’d repelled a siege.
“They’re always like that,” Charlotte said, a little forlornly. “They were that way in town too. I don’t think they knew anybody else was at the church when they spoke their vows.”
“I’ve banished them for a week. Have you ordered a bath?”
“That is a splendid notion.”
“Let’s have a tray in the library, and by the time your bath is ready, we’ll have eaten.”
Sherbourne’s library was a mere gesture compared to the collection at Haverford Castle, which meant the room was cozy. They ate in companionable informality, though Sherbourne marveled to think he could discuss ordering a bath with a female, and she regarded the idea as splendid rather than scandalous.