A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(67)

Radnor kept right on walking. “Oh, of course. The lending libraries. If anything happens to Her Grace’s little sister, your duchess will take it much worse than amiss, and Her Grace’s little sister seems much taken with Sherbourne.”

“Ergo, nothing awful must happen to Sherbourne. As distasteful as the duty to safeguard his venture will be, you have the right of it. For the sake of my duchess, Sherbourne’s interests must be guarded.”

That logic worked as well as any, though Elizabeth would see right through it.





Chapter Fifteen



Charlotte was poised and relaxed—to appearances—as her dinner guests moved from the formal parlor into the dining room. As hostess, she took Haverford’s arm, leaving Sherbourne to escort the duchess.

“Is Charlotte as happy as she seems?” Her Grace murmured.

“You should ask her,” Sherbourne replied. “I pray she’ll answer in the affirmative.”

“She’s your wife, sir. I hope you’ll trouble yourself to read her moods.”

Sherbourne allowed the duchess her scold, because she spoke as a concerned sister, not as Her Grace of Haverford.

“We have been married barely a fortnight, and we had no courtship, at the insistence of the bride’s family. If I do not presume to speak for my wife’s happiness, I am acknowledging my ignorance as a new husband, not my indifference.”

“You’ll suit,” the duchess said, patting his arm. “Charlotte thrives on confrontation and challenge.”

No, she does not. Charlotte thrived on solving problems, on being of use, though her talents were not those a lady typically cultivated—thank God.

Griffin St. David, escorting his sister Lady Radnor, nearly collided with them at the door to the dining room. He grinned, bowed, and let Sherbourne escort the duchess to her seat. Lady Griffin was on Radnor’s arm, though in this company Charlotte had decided the couple would be addressed as Griffin and Biddy.

By extension, they were Sherbourne’s family now, too, the pick of the lot in his estimation.

The dining room was large enough to hold thirty at supper, though Charlotte had had all the extra leaves removed from the table. Bowls of heartsease served as centerpieces, and two footmen stood by the sideboard. The meal would be informal, and thus conversation could fly in all directions.

Sherbourne suspected this was how the Windham family typically dined.

His correspondence that morning had included letters from two of Charlotte’s titled cousins—both earls—while Charlotte had received letters from one sister and yet another cousin—a duchess and a marchioness.

“Now we all sit down,” Griffin announced, “and we have witty conversation.” He beamed at the company, as if pleased to instruct them.

“Exactly so,” Sherbourne said, “and we enjoy good food as well. Haverford, I nominate you, as the ranking title, to lead the witty repartee.”

The duke left off goggling at his duchess long enough to deliver a pointed stare in Sherbourne’s direction. “Surely that is mine host’s privilege?”

“We had a lovely visit with the vicar yesterday,” Charlotte said. “Miss MacPherson is a delightful young lady. Very dedicated to supporting her papa’s work.”

The lovely visit had consisted of tepid, weak tea, served with small, stale cakes and not many of them. Charlotte had finagled an invitation to join the lady’s charitable committee while Sherbourne had endured Mr. MacPherson’s innuendos about christenings that followed too soon after weddings.

“We should find Miss MacPherson a fellow,” the duchess said, “or she’ll be her father’s unpaid curate for the rest of her days.”

“Maybe she likes life at the vicarage,” Charlotte countered. “Not every woe is solved by marriage.”

“My every woe has been solved by marriage.” Griffin was in complete earnest, and his comment earned smiles and laughter. Biddy blew him a kiss across the table—most unladylike behavior, but then, why not let a husband know he was appreciated?

“If we’re looking for spouses,” Griffin went on, “couldn’t we find one for Maureen Caerdenwal? She has a baby, so she should have a husband.”

Haverford, Radnor, Lady Radnor, and the duchess all reached for their wineglasses simultaneously.

“A fine notion,” Charlotte said, “one that speaks well of your kind-heartedness, Griffin. If we can’t find the young woman a husband, perhaps you could spare her some chickens?”

“We have lots of chickens,” Griffin replied. “Biddy and I will take Miss Caerdenwal some hens. Then the baby can have eggs. We’ll bring a big basket, as big as the one Miss Charlotte sent, and just as full of good things.”

“We’ll do it tomorrow,” Biddy said, “unless it rains.”

“If it rains, we’ll go the day after tomorrow.”

Griffin and Biddy shared a gaze of such mutual approval, Sherbourne could not look away. They were a couple completely without artifice, entirely besotted, and entirely unconcerned what anybody thought of them.

Though when had Charlotte had time to send a basket to the local fallen woman?

“Would anybody like more wine?” Radnor asked. “At the mention of rain this time of year, all I can think is, snow would be worse.”