A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(40)

Or perhaps holding his wife did that. She was warm and pliant in his arms, and abruptly, the prospect of an afternoon spent yelling at Mr. Jones in a cold, damp tent held no appeal.

Charlotte nuzzled his cravat. “One of the lists I’ll make is of local families upon whom we will call. We are newly married, and thus socializing is required.”

They were to converse while holding each other, right in the doorway of the breakfast parlor. Married life was a procession of revelations.

“I will endure the civilities if I must.”

“You must. We will also have guests for dinner, and work up to a dinner party or two. At Christmas, we’ll have an open house.”

All of which would cost money. “I will try to contain my ebullient anticipation of these ordeals.”

“We will contain our anticipation together, Mr. Sherbourne. I would rather be setting Mr. Jones’s tent to rights than fussing over menus, but in pursuit of cordial relations with the neighbors, sacrifices must be made.”

The prospect of a nap appealed—merely a nap, with Charlotte, behind a locked bedroom door. “Must they?”

“You will never be a duke, thank God,” Charlotte said, easing away, “but this whole valley will know you for the gentleman you are if I have to dance with every one of their spotty sons to make it so.”

A gentleman. More to the point, her gentleman.

Maybe that was as good as being duke—or maybe it was better.





Chapter Nine



Charlotte’s husband had parted from her at the front door with a maddeningly perfunctory kiss, but then, the butler had stood not six feet away holding Sherbourne’s hat and gloves. Mr. Sherbourne, for all his way with a passionate kiss, was dignified—for now.

Marriage to a Windham took a toll on any man excessively attached to decorum.

“Will I do?” Charlotte asked, surveying her reflection in the bedroom’s cheval mirror.

“You’ll do splendidly, ma’am,” Heulwen replied. “That’s a very fetching carriage dress. My hair gets all a fright in this damp, but you don’t have that problem.”

“I do, but one must persevere in the face of challenges.” Heulwen’s comment brought to mind a missing amber hairpin. Eleven was a bothersome number when, for years, Charlotte had managed with twelve. She’d taken to using her nacre set until she could find the twelfth amber pin.

“Heulwen, where might I safely keep a small sum of money or other form of valuable?”

Charlotte would never have posed that question to a London servant, even a retainer of longstanding, absent exigent circumstances. All of the Mrs. Wesleys’ circumstances were exigent, however, and needs must.

Heulwen left off rearranging bed pillows. “Whatever are you asking, ma’am? Nobody on Mr. Sherbourne’s staff would steal from him. That would be wicked and stupid.” Heulwen’s expression bore consternation, also a hint of suspicion.

“I may want to surprise Mr. Sherbourne,” Charlotte said, “with a nightgown I’ve embroidered for his enjoyment, or with a new cravat pin that matches his eyes. For such gifts to be effective, I need a private place to store personal items.”

Lying had never been Charlotte’s strong suit, and Heulwen’s frown said she wasn’t convinced. “You could use a hat box. No man troubles himself to look in hat boxes.”

“An excellent suggestion, and you remind me that I have the perfect bonnet for this dreary weather.”

Charlotte sent her maid into the dressing closet to riffle through the hat boxes. Why had she asked Heulwen such a question? She ought to have solved the dilemma herself, of course, or as a last resort, prevailed upon Elizabeth for help.

The lanes were muddy, so the trip to Haverford Castle was undertaken at a frustratingly decorous pace. The groom driving the gig refused to proceed at anything faster than a walk, lest the mud fly up and ruin madam’s cloak.

Sherbourne’s servants were either devoted to him or terrified of him—perhaps both.

As the gig rounded a bend, a woman came into view walking alone beside the road. She wore a plain brown cloak and plain straw bonnet, and carried a covered wicker basket over her arm.

“Give her room,” Charlotte said, “or she’ll be brushing the mud from her skirts for the next week.”

The groom, who’d been introduced to Charlotte as Morgan, attempted to steer the carriage to the side, but the lane was ancient, with high berms both left and right.

“Good day,” the woman called in cheerful Welsh. She was young, dark-haired, and sturdily built. Her most striking feature was her friendly blue eyes.

Fern had had such eyes. “Good day,” Charlotte replied. “Morgan, a moment please.”

The coach rolled to a stop between puddles.

“I’m Clara MacPherson,” the woman said. “My father is the vicar. You must be the new Mrs. Sherbourne, and you will doubtless be appalled at my lack of manners.”

Civilities in the countryside were vastly less bothersome than elsewhere. “I am Charlotte Sherbourne, Miss MacPherson, and we must contrive when nobody is on hand to make introductions. Are you bound in our direction?”

The groom cleared his throat.

“That depends on where you’re going,” Miss MacPherson replied. “Oh, don’t look all sniffy at me, Hector Morgan. Visiting the less fortunate is our Christian duty.”