A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(38)
*
Charlotte’s hems were a mess by the time Sherbourne returned her to Sherbourne Hall, but she didn’t seem to notice, much less mind. When he handed her down from the landau, he and his wife stood for a moment nearly embracing, regarding each other.
He wanted her—he’d shown her that before they’d become engaged—but he also wanted her to want him back, and—mirabile dictu—she apparently did.
Despite the difference in their stations, despite the dubious beginning of their union, Charlotte was willing to go forward in good faith.
Or so she’d have him believe. She beamed up at him as if he’d promised to buy her an entire jewelry establishment on Ludgate Hill.
Minx. “Shall we go inside, Mrs. Sherbourne?”
She twined her arm with his. “I asked Cook to make us a proper lunch. Hot soup, beef and ham with all the trimmings. She said you eat whatever she puts in front of you, but that will have to stop.”
“You’d starve me?” Now that Charlotte had mentioned food, Sherbourne realized he was famished.
“I’d pamper you. The menus should reflect your likes and dislikes. Because you are so invariably appreciative, Cook isn’t sure what those are.”
And here, he’d thought sending his regular compliments to the kitchen was simply good manners.
As the groom led the carriage horses away, the front door of the house swung open, revealing the butler, standing militarily straight in the foyer. Sherbourne considered carrying Charlotte over the threshold, then discarded that daft notion, but did set about removing her bonnet and cloak once he’d escorted her inside.
A husband performed those courtesies, and now Sherbourne understood why: They were an excuse to stand close to his wife and to touch her.
“I like hot food to come to the table hot,” Sherbourne said, untying Charlotte’s bonnet ribbons, “and Cook excels at that miracle. I like meat well cooked, but not burned, which she also invariably manages. I like good wine, which Crandall here has a knack for choosing.”
Crandall gave Charlotte’s bonnet a shake, sending water droplets all over the carpet. “My thanks, sir.”
Sherbourne passed the butler Charlotte’s cloak, and Charlotte began unbuttoning her husband’s greatcoat.
“I like some flowers on the table,” she said. “Nothing elaborate. One shouldn’t have to peer around a centerpiece as if one were wildlife in the hedge.”
She gave Sherbourne a shove. He turned and she slid the garment from his shoulders. Turnbull had done likewise numerous times—minus the shove—but the gesture had felt entirely different.
Charlotte handed the coat to Crandall, then took Sherbourne’s top hat.
“Rotten weather.” Sherbourne eyed himself in the mirror, and swiped at his hair to erase the creases left by his hat.
“Let me.” Charlotte ran her fingers through his hair, as Crandall took an inordinately long time to hang their outer apparel on the hooks opposite the porter’s nook.
Amusement and frustrated desire were an interesting combination. Sherbourne clasped his wife’s wrists. “That will be quite enough, madam.”
She merely wrapped herself about his arm again. “Did you know that the Windhams are great believers in naps in the middle of the day?”
“If you bestow any more such helpful insights regarding your family’s domestic habits, I will not survive until sundown.”
“Yes, you will.” Charlotte went up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “It’s tonight for which you must fortify yourself.”
And for the next forty-seven years. Sherbourne had always enjoyed a challenge. “Will you rest after lunch? I promised Jones I’d go back to the works. The old boy frets if I don’t spend at least half my day arguing with him.”
“Does he have an assistant?”
“He has boys to order about. They are less expensive than an assistant engineer.”
Why were there no fresh flowers at Sherbourne Hall? Autumn was advancing, but surely the conservatory had a few blooms yet.
“If Mr. Jones should go visit family,” Charlotte said, “or if he falls prey to another ague, who can find anything amid all the maps, papers, bills, and estimates littering that tent?”
An extraordinary thought assailed Sherbourne as he seated his wife at the table in the breakfast parlor: Charlotte would make an excellent assistant to Hannibal Jones. Her air of feminine authority would accomplish more than Sherbourne’s orders ever had.
But then, if Charlotte were on site at the works, Sherbourne would be distracted by his wife bustling about and smelling of flowers the livelong day.
“Prior to my London trip, I had a fair sense of where Jones had stacked which documents.” Sherbourne took his own seat and sent the footman at the sideboard a glance. “In my absence, Jones has become disorganized.” Or possibly a tornado had touched down inside the engineer’s tent.
The footman remained at his post, gloved hands folded, gaze straight ahead.
“We’ll start with the soup,” Charlotte said, offering the servant a smile. “A small portion for me, though I suspect Mr. Sherbourne is in good appetite.”
That salvo could not go unanswered. Sherbourne lifted his wife’s hand to his lips. “I’m famished.”
“Of course, ma’am.” The footman, Ninian Morgan by name, refused to meet Sherbourne’s gaze while the soup was served, but Sherbourne’s loyal servant was clearly amused.