A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(35)
As it happened, Heulwen came back to collect the tea cart, so Charlotte prevailed on the maid for assistance with her stays. When Sherbourne returned, Charlotte was putting the finishing touches on her coiffure, a simple knot secured with pins.
“You managed without me,” he said.
“I gather time is of the essence,” Charlotte replied, rising. “Shall we be off?”
He held the door, and Charlotte could read nothing in his gaze. Not relief, but not disappointment either.
Chapter Eight
Somewhere between pummeling the pillow, staring at the bed canopy by the hour, falling asleep to the sound of Charlotte’s sighs, and waking in a state of procreative readiness well before dawn, Sherbourne had had a brilliant insight.
He was a married man.
As Charlotte had said, no sensible person arrived to the married state free of all misgivings. His misgivings were the sort that would abate with time or grow worse. He couldn’t think himself into trusting Charlotte’s regard for him, and he couldn’t talk himself out of his regard for her.
He’d offered for her because he was convinced they’d suit. She’d refused him, and then she’d changed her mind. Women changed their minds all the time, as did men.
Charlotte had put up with being hauled away from her family on her very wedding day.
She’d barely scolded Sherbourne for neglecting her on her first day in her new home.
She’d worried about him.
The image that stayed with Sherbourne on the chilly drive to the colliery was Charlotte, barefoot, her nightgown dipping low across her bosom, while she tied a neat Mathematical knot in his cravat. She’d fashioned it perfectly the first time, though even Turnbull occasionally resorted to fresh linen to get the look just so.
The confluence of emotions assailing Sherbourne as Charlotte had knotted his cravat had been uncomfortable: desire, affection, protectiveness, tenderness, joy, and some messy, inconvenient yearning that blended all of the above. Maybe Haverford had a word for it, not that Sherbourne would inquire.
“Can we see the works from the house?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes, though only from the upper floors of the east wing. By the lanes, the distance is nearly a mile and a half. Across the fields, it’s less than a mile.”
“I read about coal mining yesterday. You have many books on the subject.”
Was that a rebuke for leaving her unattended? “Feel free to add to the library so the collection reflects your interests as well as mine.”
“Elizabeth is the bookworm. Has she driven you daft with her lending library scheme?”
“Yes.” Daft and somewhat short of coin. Sherbourne had agreed to finance Her Grace’s charitable libraries in part as consideration for Haverford’s acceptance of the mine.
“Then you must assign the library project duties to me,” Charlotte said. “Elizabeth means well, but I won’t allow her to ride roughshod over common sense. She’d turn every schoolchild into a literary critic and leave the nation devoid of farmers, laundresses, and other useful people.”
“You have no interest in libraries.”
“Neither do you.”
A gentleman didn’t argue with a lady when she was right. Instead Sherbourne handed his wife down from the landau carefully, making quite certain she had her footing before he dropped his hands from her waist.
As she linked arms with him, he came to another brilliant insight, this one not half so cheering: Their marriage would best be consummated at the time and place of Charlotte’s choosing. For both of their sakes, she should not merely endure his attentions, but welcome them.
“You’re constructing houses of stone?” Charlotte asked, as he guided her along a gravel path. “That has to be costing a fortune.”
The “works” were a warren of cart tracks, stacked supplies, excavations, and tents. Heavy machinery sat under tarps, and some of the property was staked with ropes and cords. An enormous pile of building stone lay in a great, grey heap beyond the tents.
Why on earth had he thought she might be interested in any of it?
“We have lumber here in Wales,” Sherbourne said, “unlike most of England, but we have stone in greater abundance. Stone dwellings will last, whereas anything constructed of wood falls prey to the elements. Besides, stonemasons are easier to find locally than carpenters, and local craftsmen will do a better job than itinerants.”
“You’ve even accounted for kitchen gardens.” Tidy rectangles had been laid out with twine behind where the long rows of houses would stand.
“Haverford’s idea, and we’re to have hogs, sheep, and chickens, also a few dairy cows. The colliery will be an estate of sorts, an experiment.”
A young man trotted forth from one of the tents. “Beg pardon, Mr. Sherbourne, Mr. Hannibal Jones would like a moment, if you can spare the time.”
“Tell Mr. Jones—” Sherbourne began.
“Tell Mr. Jones that Mr. Sherbourne will be along directly,” Charlotte said.
The lad tugged his cap and darted back the way he’d come.
“I spent all of yesterday with Mr. Jones,” Sherbourne said, “and I left him with a list of tasks that’s so long, he ought not have the time to bother me today.”
“You could hire a manager.”