A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(44)

Charlotte recounted her visit to Haverford Castle, most of which she’d spent listening to Elizabeth discuss the infernal lending libraries. The moment had shifted however, from a husband and wife enjoying a private meal at the end of the day, to a wife humoring her thoughtless husband.

Again.

“Shall I see to your bath?” Charlotte asked, taking the trays to the sideboard. “The water should be hot by now.”

Sherbourne was warm and fed, and had he been a bachelor, he would have stretched out on the sofa, and drifted off after a long and tiring day.

“A bath would be appreciated.” Particularly if Charlotte was offering to attend him. Spouses did that for each other in some marriages.

“I’ll let Turnbull know,” she said, “and have the footman take these trays. Would you like another toddy?”

He’d like his wife to sit in his lap and kiss him until his eyes crossed. “No, thank you.”

“Good night, then. Enjoy your bath, Mr. Sherbourne.” She withdrew on a soft click of the door latch, probably off to drag Crandall into the wine cellar for a late night inventory of the clarets.

“My name is Lucas,” he muttered to the empty room. “Not Mr. Sherbourne, not husband, not sir. To my wife, when we’re alone, late at night, I’d like to be Lucas.”

*



“Good evening.” Brantford offered the greeting with a slight smile, which his wife returned. They avoided one another socially, though occasional encounters happened.

“My lord. I hope you’re enjoying the music.”

Veronica was still pretty, still lovely even, but she was no longer dewy.

“I am very partial to a well-played pianoforte,” Brantford said. “And you, my dear?”

Around them polite society gossiped, laughed, and watched. Brantford and his countess were known to be cordially bored with each other. Her ladyship had failed to produce offspring, and thus her diversions were limited to the insipid variety.

Poor thing.

“I thought the violinist was superb,” Veronica said. “Would you like to sit with us?”

Across the room, her second cousin, Tremont, Viscount Enderly, nodded politely. Doubtless his mama, the viscountess, was at the punch bowl mentally assessing the settlements of any young lady who offered her son so much as a simper.

“I’d enjoy visiting with your family,” Brantford replied, “but I’m promised elsewhere and won’t be staying for the vocalists. Did I mention to you that I’m leaving for Wales next week?” The notion had just popped into Brantford’s head, and being a decisive person, now was as good a time as any to announce his plan. He and Veronica saw each other infrequently of late, and keeping her apprised of his whereabouts was only courteous.

Veronica studied her fan, which bore a painted image of pink roses, blue butterflies, and stylized greenery. She was a talented artist and might have created the artwork herself.

“Shooting?” she asked.

“Some shooting, and I thought I’d look in on a colliery in which I’ve secured an interest. You’ll manage without me, I’m sure.”

She waved her fan gently. “How long will you be gone?”

“A few weeks. I’ll leave my direction, of course.”

Enderly was in conversation with Lady Ophelia Durant. She dined on young bachelors at every opportunity, sometimes several at once, if rumor was to be believed. And yet, Enderly, while giving every appearance of attending to Lady Ophelia, was also casting discreet glances in Veronica’s direction.

“I might travel with Aunt and Cousin down to Enderly House for a visit,” she said. “The opening hunt is next week.”

Veronica was happiest in the saddle. Perhaps equestrian pursuits had affected her ability to bear children. The quack had also mentioned that a bout of the French disease could impair a man’s ability to sire offspring, but Brantford had gone more than three years without any symptoms of that indignity, and he’d been careful to keep a distance from his wife when she might have suspected he was ailing.

“Autumn in the country has many charms,” he observed. Was Tremont’s company among those charms for Veronica? She and her handsome cousin had grown up together. Perhaps she regretted choosing the earl over the viscount, or perhaps she hadn’t had a choice.

Brantford had had a choice, and like any sensible man, he’d chosen enormous settlements at the first opportunity. He should have realized that Veronica’s settlements were the last, desperate show of bravado by a family that hadn’t a clue how to manage their fortune.

“You wouldn’t object to my leaving town for a time, my lord?”

Did she think he’d drag her along to Wales? “Your happiness will ever concern me, my dear. I’m sure the viscountess will be a congenial hostess. Why would I object?”

“No reason.”

Must she sound so plaintive? Brantford saw to her every comfort, was never less than gracious in public, and only bothered her once a week for conjugal favors that by right were his any time he chose.

“I see our hostess over by the dessert table,” Brantford said. “She looks determined to end this intermission. Enjoy the vocalists.” He brushed a kiss to Veronica’s cheek, a gesture of loyalty before the gossips lurking in every corner. “Until Sunday, my lady.”