A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(68)
The weather served its usual purpose, and various courses were presented and removed, until the ladies abandoned the menfolk. Sherbourne, having been instructed by Charlotte previously, escorted the women to the family parlor, which private moment gave him a chance to receive fresh orders from his wife.
“I trust you will manage without us men for a short time,” Sherbourne said, “and I won’t allow the gentlemen to tarry too long with their port.” He bowed over Charlotte’s hand and would have returned to the dining room, but Charlotte kept his fingers clasped in hers.
“Kiss my cheek,” she muttered. Her back was to the ladies. Nobody else would have heard her quiet words.
Sherbourne did as she bid, which had the other three ladies smiling at him. He kissed Charlotte’s other cheek as well—one good kiss deserving another—and then left the women to their tea and talk.
He passed through the foyer on his way back to the dining room and noticed correspondence sitting in the salver on the sideboard. Charlotte—for the direction was in her hand—had written to a Harold Porter, who had the great misfortune to dwell in a godforsaken corner of Brecknockshire. Three other letters lay beneath the epistle to Mr. Porter.
One to Mrs. Wesley Smythe, one to Mrs. Scott Wesley, a third Mrs. Morton Wesley.
Interesting. Charlotte wrote only to family that Sherbourne knew of, and no Windhams rusticated in Brecknockshire.
He was tempted to pocket the letters and study them further, but Griffin poked his head out of the dining room at that moment and motioned Sherbourne down the corridor. He rejoined the gentlemen, who were looking more forlorn than relieved to have parted company with their ladies.
“Shall we to the decanter?” Sherbourne asked. “I’m under strict orders from Mrs. Sherbourne not to tarry over the port for more than thirty minutes.”
His guests brightened, Griffin launched into an earnest panegyric to the Welsh laying hen, and Sherbourne breathed a sigh of relief. His first dinner as host to multiple titles—even Griffin was a courtesy lord—was going well. Charlotte knew what she was about, and tomorrow Sherbourne could get back to creating a mine where even nature seemed determined that he should not build one.
“You are quiet,” Griffin observed. “Do you miss your wife? I miss Biddy.”
“Might as well admit the truth,” Radnor said. “We miss our ladies, don’t we, Haverford?”
Haverford’s smile was less than dignified. “Terribly. Eight minutes to go, though. Courage, lads.”
Sherbourne was not a lad. “Nothing says we must wait the full thirty minutes. This is an informal gathering of family, and we’ve discussed the weather enough to last us until spring. If the rest of you are too domesticated to storm the tea tray, I am not.”
The three other men rose as one, and Radnor finished his drink in a single swallow. “Lay on, MacDuff, and damned be him that first cries, ‘Hold, for I’m too domesticated to storm a teapot.’”
“Is Radnor sozzled?” Griffin asked. “He’ll have a sore head in the morning if he is.”
“He’s in love,” Haverford said, heading for the door. “He’ll be fine in the morning, if Glenys lets him out of bed.”
Griffin’s beatific smile was back. “Biddy sometimes won’t let me—”
“To the parlor,” Sherbourne said. “I expect each of you to compliment my wife effusively on her hospitality.”
“Right,” Radnor said.
“Of course,” Haverford added.
Griffin was already out the door.
Sherbourne followed, mostly pleased with the evening. Charlotte had been right—they’d needed a dress rehearsal, a family-only gathering for practice. That Haverford and Radnor were family still boggled Sherbourne’s mind.
And yet, the evening had been disquieting as well. Charlotte had made no mention of sending a basket to the Caerdenwal household, and she was writing to some man in Brecknockshire whom she’d also never raised in conversation with her husband.
Also to several women who’d married men named Wesley.
Charlotte had kept her fear of heights from her family’s notice for years.
What was she hiding from her husband, and why?
*
The Earl of Brantford was a fine specimen of English nobility, blond, above average height, with the pale blue eyes of the typical Saxon. Every instinct Haverford possessed told him Elizabeth had disliked the earl on sight, though her manner had remained gracious throughout the introductions and ensuing small talk.
“If you gentlemen will excuse me,” she said, rising, “I’ll let the housekeeper know our guest has arrived.”
Haverford bowed. “Until dinner, my dear.”
The housekeeper had doubtless known the instant Brantford’s coach had turned up the drive. Elizabeth was simply abandoning ship, doubtless off to enjoy a solitary nap, while Haverford was left to make yet more small talk with Sherbourne’s pet earl.
Brantford offered the duchess a bow as well, then resumed decimating the tea tray.
“I hadn’t realized you’d married such a beauty, Haverford. Never hurts when the wife is easy on the eyes, eh?”
The remark rankled. Exceedingly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Wait until you’ve been married a few years. The early days can be lively, but after that, boredom sets in, particularly if your best efforts don’t result in a full nursery. You’re a duke. I needn’t spell out the obvious.” Brantford wiggled his eyebrows while he munched a beef sandwich.