A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(53)

She spoke so softly Sherbourne had to bend close to hear her. When her words penetrated, he understood her odd logic. If Charlotte feared rejection for having intruded into a difficult situation at the mine, she must threaten him with the same fate, on any grounds she could use. Give no quarter, and never threaten with an empty gun.

At the negotiating table, she’d be fearless. Sitting on a cold Welsh farm lane, she was still fearless.

Sherbourne held her while she cried, though the horse stomped, and at last, Heulwen’s red cape became visible over the rise, along with Morgan—holding her hand. Sherbourne resented the intrusion mightily, for Charlotte might never again cry on his shoulder.

Her tears were brief, which he also resented, because holding her as a husband held an upset wife was a new and oddly precious experience.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, straightening. “Please, let’s go home.”

Home, not back to the hall. Sherbourne took up the reins and set the horse to a brisk walk, because a trot was asking for spinal injury.

“May I ask why you invited Haverford and his duchess to dinner on Friday?”

“I need the practice,” she said. “Our staff needs the practice. Haverford and Elizabeth are family, so they won’t go bearing tales if the footman drops the tureen or my menu lacks imagination.”

Sherbourne’s staff was well trained, but Charlotte had a point: They were not well trained when it came to waiting on lofty titles. That Charlotte might doubt her own abilities was hard to believe.

“If you are trying to repair relations between Haverford and me, I appreciate the overture, but it won’t work.”

“Relations between you and the duke are no concern of mine. I simply want my sister’s aid as I acquaint myself with managing your staff.”

Our staff.

Sherbourne cast around for a way to keep the conversation afloat. “Haverford’s sister married the Marquess of Radnor, whom you know from last summer’s house party. You might consider inviting her and her husband.” In truth, Sherbourne did need to become more familiar with Radnor, for his lordship sat on the board of directors for the mine.

“A duke and marquess,” Charlotte said, as Sherbourne steered the gig up the main drive. “That could be a challenge, though I liked both Radnor and Lady Glenys.”

Do you like me? He didn’t dare ask. “Why not invite the vicar and his daughter?”

“We haven’t called on them yet. I can impose on my sister, and by extension, Lady Glenys—Lady Radnor now—but until I’ve been introduced to other households, we’re limited to family connections.”

Dinner parties were usually groups of at least twelve, weren’t they? “What about Griffin and Biddy? They’re Haverford’s family.”

“I like Lord Griffin, of course, and Lady Griffin is very dear, but would they be an unusual addition to the gathering? Griffin is…”

“Different,” Sherbourne said, turning off the drive to the lane that led to the carriage house. “He’s a decent, honest, hard-working soul who isn’t half so simple as people claim he is. He’s different, so am I, so are you. I like him.”

“You don’t seem to like many people.”

“I like you.” Damnation to any who said honest feelings shared between a husband and wife were unrefined.

Charlotte smoothed her glove over the lap robe. “One rather hoped that was the case. I’ll invite Lord and Lady Griffin. By the time the Earl of Brantford is in the area, the staff will be prepared to entertain him.”

That’s what this was about? “Thank you.”

“For the soup?”

Sherbourne pulled up before the stable, and a groom came out to hold the horse, who’d grown muddy indeed during his morning’s labors.

“Oats for our noble Athelstan,” Sherbourne said, climbing down and coming around to assist Charlotte. “He’s slogged through more mud than Napoleon faced at Waterloo.”

Charlotte put her hands on Sherbourne’s shoulders and let him swing her to the ground. “I apologize for my lapse of composure. I am not usually prone to displays of sentiment.”

Sherbourne suspected he’d married a woman whose sentimentality was eclipsed only by her vast dignity.

“The topic warranted your ire,” he said. “Thank you for all you did this morning. Not for the men, for me. The food was lovely, but you spotted the error Jones himself didn’t see, and that will save lives, Charlotte.”

Standing in the stable yard, the air redolent of manure, horses, and hay, Charlotte blossomed. The last shadow of her tears disappeared into a wondrously warm and happy smile.

“I like numbers.” The sun rose higher in her eyes, to a brilliant zenith. “I like you, Mr. Sherbourne.”

He leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. “I like when you call me Lucas.”

She brushed a kiss to his cheek and whispered back, “Lucas.”

The sun took up residence in Sherbourne’s chest, along with a compulsion to smile fatuously at his bride, which would not do.

“I could bring home Jones’s calculations,” he said, oh-so-casually offering his arm. “Perhaps you might review them for me?”

“That would be my pleasure, and when I ask Mr. Jones the occasional question, I will tell him I’m trying to understand my husband’s commercial interests, which will be the truth.”