A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(59)

Charlotte sighed sleepily as Sherbourne plied the brush. Her hair was thick and soft, a pleasure to touch. His braiding skills had been learned in the stables, though that seemed adequate for the occasion.

What had he been saying? “I wanted our wedding night to be memorable.” Perhaps this aspiration was a symptom of the first incidence of financial uncertainty Sherbourne had ever faced. He’d spend tomorrow with his ledgers, reassessing his situation, but a woman who enjoyed her husband’s attentions would be less likely to abandon him if finances became constrained.

Or perhaps Sherbourne was becoming attached to his wife.

Which made no sense at all. Fondness was acceptable, but attached?

“I want our wedding night to be memorable too,” Charlotte said, sitting up. “Last night was very memorable.”

Sherbourne’s cock heard that bit of encouragement. “Would you like to do again what we did last night?” How casual he sounded, and yet, he couldn’t get the damned hair ribbon wrapped around her braid, much less secured into a proper knot.

“No, thank you.”

Well, hell. He’d been fairly certain his wife had enjoyed herself. With women, though, a man never—

“I want to see your face,” Charlotte said. “I want to touch you too. I want to see your eyes.”

He finished with her braid, though his bow was lopsided. “I want to see all of you.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Said the man who just spent the better part of an hour lounging about in the altogether. I’m glad you’re not overly shy.”

“I was overly in need of a bath. One usually bathes in the altogether.”

Charlotte rose and disappeared behind the privacy screen. “Would you mind warming the sheets? The footmen can deal with the tub in the morning.”

When filled with cold, less than pristine water, the tub was not a fixture in any erotic fantasy Sherbourne could conjure. He pushed the whole business into the corridor, which exertion reminded him that his hip was sore, and likely to be downright painful in a day or two. He set the empty buckets outside the door as well, and gave himself up to a moment of resentment.

He resented being married. Resented having to think of a wife, share a room with a wife, consider her social priorities, and send her notes. Listening to Charlotte humming softly behind the privacy screen, Sherbourne resented all the servants who knew he’d abandoned the lady of the manor for dinner more often than he’d joined her.

He resented the weather, which would go from bad to worse to awful.

He resented Brantford, who couldn’t be bothered to spend a night under the roof of a business associate, but must instead prevail on His Grace of Have-A-Title for accommodations.

“Your turn,” Charlotte said, emerging from the privacy screen. “I left you some warm water, though you hardly need it.”

“The sheets…”

“No matter.” She unbelted her robe, and damned if the woman wasn’t naked. “I’m sure we’ll be quite cozy in no time.”

She climbed under the covers, depriving him of an opportunity to gawk—for now—but he’d glimpsed a slim haunch, the curve of her breast.

Sherbourne used his tooth powder and blew out the candles, but he didn’t bank the fire. Charlotte had said she wanted to see his eyes, or some damned nonsense to that effect, so a little illumination was basic husbandly consideration.

He shrugged out of his dressing gown and draped it over a chair. “My hair is still damp.”

“All the more reason for you to get under the covers lest you take a chill. You seem to have the constitution of a bull, but tempting fate is for fools.”

Sherbourne got under the covers, the sheets cool rather than frigid. He considered waiting until morning to make love with his wife—they were both tired, the hour was late, he wasn’t at his best—but in the morning, he’d be off to the colliery, arguing with Jones about moving a row of houses that should probably never have been laid out at the foot of the hill.

“Lucas?”

He found Charlotte’s hand beneath the covers and brought her fingers to his lips. “You’re sure?”

She tucked herself along his side. “I’m more sure by the moment.”

Sherbourne draped himself over his wife and kissed her. His hip hurt, which was good, because a little pain would offer a distraction when a distraction was needed. Charlotte kissed him back, which was very good.

He needed her kisses. He needed the pleasure he could share with her while he forgot, for one blessed, private hour, the tons of mud that had destroyed his schedule, his budget, and some of his confidence.

As Charlotte took his hand and tucked it over her breast, Sherbourne spared one last thought for his commercial undertakings: He, who thrived on a challenge and had schemed for years to bring mining into the valley, resented his colliery.

He resented his colliery mightily.

*



Charlotte considered letting Sherbourne drift off to sleep, or—more likely—lie beside her, fretting over his tenant houses, tram lines, and business associations. Two thoughts stopped her from pursuing that course. First, she refused to yield the very consummation of her vows to the press of business. Beginning as she intended to go on in the marriage meant that in this instance, she was owed her husband’s attention at the time and place of her choosing, exactly as he’d promised.