A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(54)

“Thank you.” The words got easier with practice, at least when spoken to Charlotte.

“Thank you, Lucas.”





Chapter Twelve



Haverford’s duchess had obligingly conceived a child either on their wedding night or shortly thereafter.

Or possibly shortly therebefore. Elizabeth had informed her duke this was something of a tradition with her family where firstborn children were concerned. Haverford was a great believer in tradition, but in this one case, he had reservations.

“You’re certain you don’t care for any tea?” Haverford had joined his wife in her tower parlor because a midafternoon tea tray was one of his guilty pleasures—also because her company was infinitely preferable to that of his land steward.

To anybody’s.

Elizabeth’s knitting needles kept up a steady rhythm. “Julian, unless you want to be the first duke to wear hot tea as a hair tonic, I suggest you put that pot down.”

He put the pot down. Last night, after they’d made love, she’d dragged him to the kitchens because a cup of peppermint tea with a dash of honey had become her reason for living. The staff was indulgent regarding such eccentric behavior, while Haverford pretended to be amused.

He and Elizabeth had had a short courtship, and a man wanted some time to enjoy his beloved’s exclusive company. Elizabeth had not conceived a child on her own initiative, however, so what could a chronically worried duke do but love his wife and pray for the best?

“Charlotte is inviting Griffin and Biddy to this dinner,” Elizabeth said, sparing her sister’s note a glance. “Radnor and Glenys will join us as well. Charlotte says she wants Sherbourne to be confident of her and his staff when the Earl of Brantford comes to visit.”

If Lucas Sherbourne were any more confident, he’d appoint himself Minister Plenipotentiary of the Universe for Life.

“If the company is limited to us, Radnor and Glynis, and your sister and her husband, then Griffin and Biddy should manage well enough.”

In the previous century, His Grace of Chandos had bought a hostler’s castoff wife at a wife sale and made her his duchess. Compared to that choice, Biddy was a more conventional spouse for a duke’s son, but only just. She was a local yeoman’s daughter and had been Griffin’s housekeeper before joining him in holy matrimony.

Elizabeth’s needles went still. “You find even saying Sherbourne’s name distasteful. I find him somewhat difficult, but then, Charlotte is short of charm herself. We must commend Mr. Sherbourne for being willing to take on a challenge.”

Charlotte Windham was a termagant who at least stood a chance of dealing effectively with Lucas Sherbourne.

“A crooked pot needs a crooked lid,” Haverford said. “They can be uncharming together, and raise up a brood of holy terrors in their nursery. Should I review dinner party etiquette with Griffin?”

Haverford poured himself a third cup of tea. No sense letting it go to waste.

“Griffin has joined us for any number of meals, and his manners are exquisite. What do we know of the Earl of Brantford?”

Griffin’s manners were a monument to rote memorization and practice. He had many limitations, but nearly perfect recall, often at the worst times.

“I honestly don’t know Brantford well. He says he’ll be in the area for some shooting—”

A tap sounded on the door of Her Grace’s private parlor.

“Come in,” Elizabeth called.

The butler stepped into the room. “Lord Radnor has come to—”

“No need to announce me.” The Marquess of Radnor, looking gloriously blond and fit, sidled around the butler. “I’m always welcome, or so I was told before I married into the family. Greetings, all. Duchess, you look radiant. Haverford, you look lucky to have chosen Her Grace for your duchess.”

Radnor bowed over Elizabeth’s proffered hand, took the place beside her on the sofa, then helped himself to the freshly poured cup of tea.

“I’m told hot tea is the latest fashion in hair tonics,” Haverford said. “Particularly when applied directly to the coiffure of a presuming caller.”

Radnor appropriated a piece of shortbread from Elizabeth’s plate. “Do your worst, Haverford, for my good spirits are beyond even your ability to dim. I bring joyous news.”

“You’re moving to France. Excellent, provided Glenys visits us often.”

Radnor balanced the cup and saucer on one knee and affected a concerned expression. “My, my. Is somebody going short of sleep?”

What an obnoxious…Well, yes. Somebody also missed the sister who’d shared his castle until recently. Glenys did visit, but she was thriving as Radnor’s marchioness, almost as if leaving Haverford Castle had been a relief.

“Your Grace,” Radnor said, addressing Elizabeth, “we must forgive Haverford his testy mood. He’s worried about you, and soon you will have to forgive me similarly, for Glenys is with child.”

Radnor’s sunny bonhomie faltered, and a rare shyness took its place.

“Congratulations,” Haverford said. “Take good care of my sister or I’ll kill you.”

Elizabeth resumed knitting. “You two gentlemen will take good care of each other, or Glenys and I will send you both to darkest Peru for a repairing lease. Please give Glenys my most sincere good wishes, and know that we’re ready to stand as godparents if that suits.”