A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(45)
Sunday night being their standing appointment in her ladyship’s bed.
“I’ll leave on Saturday.”
Veronica was asserting her independence. She’d begun this amusing habit about a year ago, when she’d turned five-and-twenty. Sometimes, her tantrums manifested in bills from the milliner, sometimes they took the form of Sunday night megrims, though not often.
The lack of a child was his sorrow but her shame, after all.
“Then I’ll see you on Friday,” Brantford said.
Because if Veronica was inclined to dally with her cousin, any resulting child must at least in theory be Brantford’s. To support that theory, Brantford would do his wife the courtesy of swiving her before they went their separate ways.
And if Tremont could get her with child, so much better, for Brantford would soon weary of trying.
Chapter Ten
Charlotte left her spouse privacy to bathe in their bedchamber because Sherbourne had not indicated that her assistance was needed or welcome. Perhaps Turnbull had been summoned, or perhaps Sherbourne had bathed himself, shaved himself, washed his own hair…
A procession of footfalls outside the door of Charlotte’s private parlor suggested the footmen were wheeling the tub away.
She forced herself to concoct another week’s worth of menus, then tidied up her desk, banked the fire, blew out the candles, and prepared to consummate her wedding vows.
She stopped with her hand on the bedroom door latch and chose not to knock.
Please let this go well.
The bedroom was warm, humid, and perfumed with the scent of floral soap. Few candles were lit, and thus Sherbourne made a contemplative picture, wrapped in his dressing gown in a chair by the fire.
“Are you waiting for your hair to dry?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m waiting for my wife to come to bed.”
Well. He’d apparently eschewed a nightshirt, for the V of the dressing gown revealed the bare flesh of his throat and sternum.
She took two steps into the room, abruptly feeling uncertain and resentful. “Shall we see to the consummation, Mr. Sherbourne?”
He rose, which made the dressing gown gape open farther. “Perhaps you’re too tired?”
“I am weary of the anticipation. These intimacies are a normal part of married life, and we’ve yet to tend to them.”
He raised a hand to cradle her cheek, and Charlotte had to steel herself not to shrink away, which made no sense. She liked to touch her husband, liked knowing the feel of him, liked that she had the right to be affectionate with him.
Perhaps that was the problem: She liked taking the initiative.
Sherbourne stepped closer, bringing Charlotte the fragrance of freshly bathed male. “I have a suggestion, madam.”
Now, she wished he’d toss a few orders at her: Undress, come to bed, hold still—though surely there was more to it than that?
“I’d be pleased to hear your suggestion.”
“Feel free to revisit your decision at any point, that’s my suggestion. Married couples do, if they’re lucky, have regular occasions of intimacy, but we’ve yet to establish the habit. Perhaps approaching the challenge in steps will serve us better than attempting the whole endeavor at one go.”
The challenge. Making love to his wife was a challenge? Charlotte wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or appalled, but Sherbourne was right: The next step was to change into nightclothes, which she had been doing every night of her adult life.
She turned her back and swept her hair off her nape. “If you’d oblige?”
His hands settled on her shoulders, shifting her so the fire’s light would illuminate her hooks. Sherbourne’s breath brushed at the back of her neck, a curious sensation.
“Was this why you paid a call on your sister today?” he asked.
This…? Oh, this. “Elizabeth maundered on about what she calls her basic collection, a few books every library ought to have. One could not distract her from the topic.”
One had tried, but raising the topic of…the topic, had proved impossible.
Sherbourne continued right down to the bottom-most hooks, which wasn’t necessary. The sensation of his fingers fiddling with Charlotte’s dress even over the swell of her derriere was unnerving.
“Haverford can probably distract your sister from her lending libraries with a single glance. One suspects they are in anticipation of a happy event.”
Had Sherbourne kissed Charlotte’s nape? “You said you like children. Their Graces will make you an uncle.”
“I subscribe to the philosophy that a woman should thoroughly recover from a lying in before conception is risked again, though I do like children.”
Do you like me? He desired her, which was of no moment. Charlotte believed that men, young men anyway, could probably work up a case of desire for any comely woman.
Her stays eased, and Charlotte turned to face her husband. This was, by any other name, their wedding night, and she wasn’t making the least effort to behave like a bride.
“I like you, Mr. Sherbourne. I like that you are hardworking, patient, considerate, and not one to tax a lame horse merely to preserve your boots. I like that you don’t waste food, and I admire that you have been so generous with your neighbors, despite their lack of appreciation. I like that you say thank you to the servants, and I am pleased beyond all telling that your staff respects you. That speaks volumes, particularly where the maids are concerned.”