A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(75)
Radnor was soon back in the saddle, leaving his best wishes for Mrs. Sherbourne and a promise that he’d join the inspection tomorrow afternoon. Sherbourne watched him ride off, not sure if the call had been friendly, for all it was appreciated.
Charlotte’s dog cart came up the drive even as Radnor turned his horse onto the lane, and Sherbourne waited in the chilly wind until he could assist his wife to alight from her vehicle. Morgan appeared from the stables to lead the horse away, and Sherbourne abandoned all decorum to kiss his wife’s rosy cheek.
“Mr. Sherbourne, good day. The vicarage sends greetings. I hope you and Lord Radnor had a pleasant chat?”
“His lordship spread a pall of gloom thicker than the foul miasmas wafting off the Thames in July.”
Charlotte took Sherbourne by the arm. “This sounds serious, even for you. You must tell me all about it, and I shall explain how thrilled Vicar was that you have agreed to repair the church steeple.”
Sherbourne stopped halfway up the front steps. “Charlotte, I cannot spare a single mason to repair a steeple that hasn’t gone anywhere for nearly three hundred years.”
She peered up at him, nothing but concern in her eyes despite how sharply he’d spoken. “I was standing in the churchyard, visiting with Miss MacPherson, and a stone fell and nearly struck me on the head. I thought it was a sign from on high that I’d found the most public, charitable project for you to undertake. I’m sorry.”
Many more such signs from on high, and Sherbourne would be the one drinking to excess. He made it as far as the foyer and even got the door closed before drawing Charlotte into his arms.
“I’ll see to the steeple repairs, I promise, just as soon as Lord Brantford has pranced off on his merry way. He’s coming to dinner tomorrow night and will tour the works in the afternoon.”
Charlotte stepped back to untie her bonnet ribbons. “Shall I join this tour of the works? He will behave himself if I am on hand.”
Sherbourne undid the frogs of her cloak. “You mean, I’ll behave myself. I’d rather let him do his worst, then get rid of him once for all.”
“What is the worst he could do?”
Ruin me. “Withdraw his funds because I’ve misrepresented the state of the project, in which case I’ll find another investor.” A near impossibility if Brantford spoke ill of what he’d seen.
Charlotte kissed Sherbourne’s cheek, treating him to a soothing hint of gardenia. “As long as his lordship can do nothing serious, we shall contrive.” The same phrase she’d used when nearly in a swoon from her fear of heights.
“Shall we contrive with a shared midday nap, Mrs. Sherbourne?” The suggestion arrived to Sherbourne’s mouth without having given any notice to his brain. He had much to do, not enough time to do it, and canoodling with his wife wouldn’t help one bit.
Though it wouldn’t hurt, either.
“Tomorrow,” Charlotte said, going up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “I am yet plagued by my inconvenience, but tomorrow I will be better able to share naps with you.”
Share a nap with me anyway. Sherbourne kept that sentiment to himself, for he didn’t know what he’d be asking of her. Simple affection? A quiet respite from his worries? Rest?
“Another time, then. I’m sure you’ll want to confer with Cook regarding tomorrow night’s menu.”
Charlotte slipped her arms around his waist. The butler had found someplace else to be, and thus Sherbourne had a private moment with his wife. She simply hugged him, and before he could reciprocate the embrace, she was bustling off in the direction of her personal parlor.
*
“I am growing to dislike Quinton, Earl of Brantford,” Charlotte said. “How does a man develop a head cold when he has not stirred from Haverford Castle for three days?”
His lordship had waited until early afternoon to send along a note postponing the tour of the works, and Charlotte had dispatched Morgan straightaway to inform Sherbourne at the colliery.
The weather was beautiful, of course—mild, sunny, not much of a breeze. Gulls strutted around on the terrace, while Sherbourne’s expression across the small table beneath the maples put Charlotte in mind of sea cliffs.
Stoic and endlessly beset by the tides.
“You received this an hour past?” Sherbourne asked, studying the note she’d had taken to the colliery.
“Not even that. Will you eat something if I order you luncheon?”
Sherbourne had been gone since dawn and had come stalking across the garden’s carpet of fallen leaves only five minutes ago. His hair was windblown, but he’d taken care with his wardrobe, even to wearing a gold cravat pin tipped with a small emerald.
One didn’t wear jewels during the day, but on Sherbourne the effect was a dash of daring amid casual elegance.
“Brantford is toying with me,” Sherbourne said, gazing off toward the colliery. “He’s rapping me on the nose with his newspaper, as if I’m a naughty puppy who piddled on the carpet.”
Like the younger sons and lordlings, who’d broken a young boy’s nose, ankle, and arm for sport?
“I suspect he is simply enjoying ducal hospitality for as long as he can. Haverford was notably reclusive until this summer’s house party. Brantford wants bragging rights, wants to be able to say that he was the first guest Their Graces of Haverford welcomed after their nuptials. He doubtless hopes that Haverford will take him shooting, and if he attends services, he will delight in sitting in the ducal pew.”