A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(57)

Charlotte knew exactly the mood he was in, because it visited her frequently. “So don’t build another wall. Clear enough mud to make the lane passable and well drained, then put the houses elsewhere.”

Fatigue grooved Sherbourne’s mouth and ringed his eyes—fatigue and frustration. “I can’t put the damned houses in the sea, though I’d like to.”

A tap sounded on the door.

“Your bath,” Charlotte said, admitting one footman wheeling in the copper monstrosity, and a half dozen more bearing steaming buckets.

Sherbourne’s expression said he did not want to bedamned bathe, he did not want to be blasted reasonable, and he did not want to dratted deal with a wife who also wasn’t feeling entirely reasonable herself.

Turnbull brought up the rear, laying out a shaving kit, then bowing and retreating with the parade of footmen. Two full buckets sat steaming on the hearth.

Charlotte advanced on her husband. “The water is hot, you are doubtless chilled to the bone. Your clothing is filthy, while you are by nature fastidious. I’m sorry if the notion of soaking in warm, fragrant water and scrubbing yourself from head to toe annoys you, but in all the lending libraries in the world, there is no manual on how to cosset a contrary husband. Please get into the water.”

He remained silent while Charlotte untied his cravat and collected his sleeve buttons.

“Where would you put the houses?” he asked, as she started on his waistcoat.

“Not now, Mr. Sherbourne. Shirt off.”

Long ago, Fern Porter had said that her papa’s mistress was the church. The congregation made endless demands, at all hours, regardless of the inconvenience. Aunt Esther had once remarked that Parliament was a jealous mistress, and Papa had muttered that he competed with all of Wales for pride of place in Mama’s heart.

Charlotte was jealous of a muddy patch of ground that didn’t even qualify as a colliery yet.

Sherbourne sat by the fire to take off his boots, which were a disgrace in progress. He set them outside the door and passed Charlotte his waistcoat.

“Your expression, madam, would have inspired Napoleon to blow retreat at Waterloo before the first shot was fired.”

Another tap sounded on the door. Charlotte took a tray from a footman, and shut and locked the door.

“You’d best make use of the water while it’s hot, sir.”

Sherbourne’s shirt and breeches came off, and Charlotte was appalled to see a long, dark bruising rising along one hip.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m clumsy,” he said, lowering himself into the water. “Slipped and landed on a disobliging rock. God, this feels heavenly.”

Not quite a thank-you, but gratifying nonetheless. “Shall I wash your hair?”

“Please, and don’t let me fall asleep. What’s on the tray?”

“Meat pastries, ale, apple tarts. Shall you wash before I tend to your hair?” And are you the same man who was so patient and understanding with me earlier today?

Sherbourne lifted a pastry and sniffed it. “I am famished. My hands will taste of soap if I wash myself. Perhaps you’d assist?”

He was disappointingly nonchalant about this request, more interested in his viands than in flirting with his wife.

Charlotte knelt by the tub. “Give me your foot.”

She became better acquainted with her husband’s person part by part. Large feet, the arches somewhat high, the second toe longer than the first. Two toes on the left foot were crooked, which Sherbourne explained as the result of having been stepped on by a fractious horse in his youth.

One ankle was larger than the other—a broken ankle having occurred when he’d been tripped at supper his first term at public school.

Sherbourne had muscular calves and thighs, though Charlotte had known that. His hands were in proportion to the rest of him and not the hands of a gentleman for all their elegance. Calluses covered his palms, suggesting he often indulged in manual labor.

Long arms, one of which had been broken in a schoolyard melee, broad shoulders, hair a bit in need of a trim at the back. Charlotte rinsed the soap from that hair.

“Shall I shave you?” Not that she’d ever shaved a man before.

“Perhaps in the morning.”

She took the tray—not a crumb of food left—and set it outside the door. While she relocked the door, Sherbourne lounged in the tub, one foot propped on the rim, the tankard of ale in his hand.

“You’re not to fall asleep, Mr. Sherbourne.”

He saluted with his ale. “Yes, ma’am. Why is your hair still up?”

Charlotte put a hand to her head. “I became distracted.” By a tired, naked husband. “I’ll see to it.”

Sherbourne rose and set his ale on the mantel, water cascading off of him. “If you’d pass me the linen, I’ll take down your hair when I’m dried off.”

Triton in all his glory was not as magnificent a specimen as Lucas Sherbourne fresh from his bath. But for the bruise on his hip, he was male perfection, and though he was standing naked right before Charlotte, he was also still tromping around his bedamned, blasted, dratted colliery.

Charlotte passed him the linen…slowly.

“Thank you, madam wife. It occurs to me that a mudslide is not much of an introduction to married life.” He scrubbed his face first, then his chest and arms, then dragged the towel over his hair. “In spring, we’ll nip off to Paris or Lisbon if the colliery is coming along. I owe you a wedding journey.”