A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(52)
She sounded forlorn rather than glad. Across the valley, clouds were thickening into the pewter-bellied masses that always, always brought rain.
“I had plans for us this morning.” What his own declaration had to do with anything, Sherbourne did not know.
“I meant for us to pay a call on the vicar today,” Charlotte replied. “One starts with the vicar, and nobody can take offense.”
They’d reached the stretch of the lane that wasn’t visible from the house or the works. Sherbourne brought the horse to a halt.
“I had hoped to waken you this morning with kisses, Mrs. Sherbourne.” He couldn’t see Charlotte’s expression because of the damned brim of her bonnet.
She ran a gloved fingertip over the padded armrest. “I had hoped to waken you with similar affectionate displays.”
Affectionate? Charlotte had come apart in his arms last night like a Catherine wheel whirling over the Thames on a moonless night. For a few moments, she’d been wholly claimed by pleasure. Sherbourne had fallen asleep marveling at the lover whom fate had given him in the person of his wife—and he’d fallen asleep aching.
“We’ll have many mornings.” Sherbourne hoped that was so, but he had no illusions: Charlotte expected and deserved to be kept in a style befitting her station. The mine did not have to produce enormous wealth, but it could not continue to lose enormous sums if Sherbourne was to uphold his end of the marital bargain.
“Were you angry with me for going to the works this morning?”
Sherbourne turned Charlotte’s chin, so he could see her eyes. “And if I was? What then?”
Charlotte batted his fingers from her face. “The day you strike me is the day we part company permanently, and I don’t care what the laws of this benighted realm say about my having become your property. Raise a hand to me and you will never see me again.”
Of all the words she could have flung at him, Sherbourne would never have expected to hear those. They reassured him that Charlotte would stand up for herself, but they appalled him too.
“Madam, if you think I would raise a hand to my wife—to any woman—then you should not have married me.”
They were surrounded by a veritable marsh, and even the lane was more puddles than pathway, which meant Charlotte could not abandon the vehicle with her dignity intact.
Fortunately for Sherbourne’s much abused boots, because he would have gone after her until this discussion was concluded.
“Men do,” Charlotte said, hands fisted in her lap. “They strike their wives, some men even strike women they profess to love, and the diabolical church—”
Now, Sherbourne was angry, not annoyed, frustrated, irritated, or flummoxed. He was furious. “Charlotte, I would never, ever use my strength against you. Do you think because my antecedents are untitled, that I can’t control my temper?”
Her glower turned to confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am common,” Sherbourne said. “I am as common as mud, but governing one’s temper is not a skill reserved to the aristocracy.”
“I never said…I never thought…” She twitched at the lap robe covering her skirts. “You are mistaken. Let’s get out of this wind.”
Most of Sherbourne wanted to do just that, and yet he didn’t take up the reins. “One moment, we’re discussing kisses, the next you’re threatening to leave me. I feel as if a mudslide has landed on my morning twice. What is this about, Charlotte?”
A man could not apologize if he had no idea what his transgression was. Neither could a woman.
Charlotte glanced back toward the works, though Heulwen and Morgan were apparently returning to the house by way of Scotland.
“I once mentioned to you my late friend,” Charlotte said, gaze fixed on the muddy lane curving toward the house.
Foreboding edged aside Sherbourne’s ire. “Go on.”
“I told you that she got with child. I did not tell you that when she confronted the father, he at first laughed and said the child could not be his. The child could only have been his.”
“He was a rutting disgrace to his gender.”
“When my friend became insistent—he’d promised her marriage—he struck her and told her not to bother him again. He struck the mother of his child and cast her out.”
A single droplet landed on the back of Charlotte’s glove. The sky above was still bright, the clouds distant, which meant…
Charlotte swiped at her cheek. “He was in line for a title, Lucas. Fern told me that much about him when she begged me for coach fare to return to her family. If I’m critical of violent men, that has nothing whatsoever to do with your antecedents.” Charlotte sat stiffly as two more drops landed on the back of her gloves.
She hadn’t referred to any other friends, ever. Was this why?
Sherbourne produced a wrinkled handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.” He passed over the handkerchief, loathing the sense of helplessness, the useless anger that Charlotte’s recitation provoked. Charlotte Windham—Charlotte Sherbourne—would hate to cry, and whoever this aristocratic varlet was, he’d made Charlotte cry, among his many other sins.
She pressed her forehead to Sherbourne’s shoulder. “I was afraid you’d been injured. I hardly know you, and already, you matter to me. If you were wroth with me, sent me back to my parents…”