A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(56)

Haverford joined his friend at the foot of the steps. “Radnor, get hold of yourself, or have Glenys get hold of you.”

“She does, frequently. This delightful discussion reminds me why I asked you to walk me to my horse.”

“It’s damned chilly outside, and I already braved the elements to make sure Sherbourne hadn’t been buried under tons of mud. Say what you have to say.”

“You asked about Brantford.” Radnor used the mirror above the foyer’s sideboard and donned his top hat just so. “I recall some talk, years ago. My mother passed it along, and her sources were extensive.”

“What sort of talk?”

“Brantford ruined a young lady. Got her with child and threw her over for the present countess.”

“You don’t mean he set up an opera dancer as his ladybird?”

“Of course not. Nobody would have thought twice about an arrangement like that. He all but courted a decent young woman of humble origins, then dropped her flat when the inevitable occurred. The lady was packed off to the countryside and not heard from again, but there was a child.”

“Many a squire regrets letting his daughter have a season in town.” And many a duke too?

“She wasn’t a squire’s daughter,” Radnor said, hand on the door latch. “Her papa was a minister, and she was his only daughter. A man who’ll ruin a minister’s daughter bears watching.”

This was Sherbourne’s idea of a business partner? “I appreciate the warning. My regards to Mr. MacPherson.”

Radnor went jaunting on his way, while Haverford went in search of two pots of tea. China black for the duchess, though she’d probably not drink a single cup.

Peppermint for him, and for his nerves.

*



“Heulwen, can you take some letters to the posting inn for me tomorrow?”

“Aye, ma’am,” the maid replied as she unlaced Charlotte’s stays. “You could just as well leave anything for the post on the sideboard in the foyer, though. Crandall will see to them.”

“I’d rather not chance these letters sitting about until the next groom or gardener wanders into the village.”

Charlotte’s back ached, possibly from the journey to and from the works on the horrendously muddy lane. The relief of being unlaced was exquisite.

“As you like, ma’am. Shall I brush out your hair?”

“No, thank you. I’ll bid you goodnight, Heulwen. I’ll have several letters for you to post in the morning. My thanks for all your help today at the colliery.”

“That’s a lot of mud what came down that hill. Will we be taking the nooning out to the works tomorrow?”

Heulwen was clearly eager for any opportunity to consort with the groom, Morgan, but Charlotte hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Mr. Sherbourne.” If he ever comes to bed. “Goodnight, Heulwen.”

Charlotte’s husband had gone back to the works, his saddle bags bulging with sandwiches and a flask. He’d told Charlotte not to wait up for him. Married life thus far had too much of waiting and worrying, and not enough of anything else.

Though last night had been…splendid.

Heulwen tarried, refolding clothing already folded, smoothing covers that hadn’t a single wrinkle.

“Heulwen, I’d like some solitude.” Charlotte also wanted to throw something fragile and use foul language, because her husband should have been here with her, settling in at the end of the day. The intimacies they’d shared the previous night had been wondrous beyond imagining, and then she’d had that disagreement with him on the lane…

Though even that hadn’t ended awfully. They’d managed. They’d been civil and brought the conversation to a friendly conclusion.

“Goodnight, then, ma’am. Ring if you need anything, such as a bath for Mr. Sherbourne, for example. Or a tray. Some chocolate. A fresh bucket of coal. Anything.”

“I’ve already told the kitchen to keep bath water heating.” Charlotte jabbed a finger in the direction of the door, and finally Heulwen left.

Charlotte found her sketch pad and drawing pencils and pulled a chair closer to the fire. The colliery sat between three hills. To the south, the land fell away in the direction of the sea. The retaining wall had been built along the eastern boundary of the planned village, though the slope rising to the west was less steep.

She was still rearranging the work site on paper an hour later when Sherbourne walked into the bedroom without knocking.

“Haverford sent a dozen men.” No greeting, no kiss to Charlotte’s cheek. “Radnor came trotting by and said he’d do likewise. He’s on my board of directors, and of course must poke his nose into the works.”

Charlotte yanked the bell pull three times. “You resent their support?”

Sherbourne took some time divesting himself of papers, two pencil stubs, and a folding knife. Next came a signet ring, his watch, his cravat pin. He shrugged out of his coat and arched his back, hands braced at the base of his spine.

Should Charlotte assist him? Leave him in peace? Ask? Why, if polite society must hold marriage out as the apex of a woman’s ambitions, was so little done to explain how she was to go on once the great prize had been won?

“I resent everything,” Sherbourne said. “Ignore me. A goddamned mountain of mud sits where my tenant cottages should be, and I have no faith another wall won’t give way just as easily.”