A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(88)

Her finger trailed along the spinning surface of the globe, a diversion children enjoyed. When the sphere came to a stop, she was touching darkest Peru.

“I esteem you above all others,” she went on. “You persist in the face of discouragement. You have a vision for the nation’s future that encompasses all walks of life, not simply your own interests. You can admit when you’ve erred, and that makes the present situation all the more baffling, because Brantford is so very, very wrong. He has no place in your affairs.”

Sherbourne would have agreed with her—but for the requirement that an honorable man provide for his dependents and keep his word at all times.

“This gets us nowhere, Charlotte.”

“Where do you want us to be?” She spared the desk a glance, where the hairpin and cravat pin lay side by side in the silver pen tray. Sherbourne had tucked the beribboned lock of hair he’d snipped earlier into his breast pocket.

“I would like to be back to the place we occupied before Brantford intruded on our marriage. You are my wife, and I esteem you above all others as well. That hasn’t changed.”

Her defenses faltered if the downward sweep of her lashes was any indication, but the damned tea tray ruined the moment. The footman set it on the low table before the sofa, bowed, and withdrew.

“Will you join me, Mr. Sherbourne?”

He wasn’t hungry, and her invitation wasn’t a concession. “One cup.”

They sat side by side on the sofa, not touching, while Charlotte poured out. She was pale, and in her very composure, Sherbourne sensed roiling emotion.

If she was preparing to tell him she was bound for the Windham family seat in Kent, he’d smash every piece of porcelain in the library, throw every book into the fire, and drink himself insensate.

Which would also get them nowhere, though it might leave him feeling less helpless.

“Sandwich?” Charlotte asked.

“Please.”

She set two beef sandwiches on a plate along with a square of shortbread. “You need not wait dinner on me. I’m developing a headache and will retire early.”

Not a month into marital bliss, and she’d trotted out the much vaunted wifely headache, though this was Charlotte, and she’d not dissemble about even so minor a detail.

“Would it help if I rubbed your feet?” Would anything help?

She set down her teacup, the saucer and spoon rattling against the library’s quiet. “That is a very gracious offer, but I’ll decline for the present.” She rose and moved toward the door. “I’ll wish you a good evening, Mr. Sherbourne.”

Sherbourne suspected she offered a civility because rote manners and platitudes were all she could manage, which was some consolation.

Not enough. “If I attempt to join you later this evening, will I find my own bedroom door locked?” Sherbourne asked.

He couldn’t see her. She stood behind him, while he studied the delicate floral pattern of the china. So pretty, so easily shattered.

“I will never lock that door to you,” Charlotte said. “But my earlier words stand as well.”

No children, she’d said, though she wasn’t to shame him before the servants. Not yet, and he couldn’t bear to shame her by setting up his own private apartment so soon after the wedding.

“Good night, Charlotte.”

The library door clicked softly, and Sherbourne pitched a pillow as hard as he could at the nearest wall.

He and his wife were having a civil disagreement—for now—but sooner or later, one of them would slip. A harsh word would be said that crossed what lines remained. A look would pass between them in the churchyard that publicly confirmed enmity had found its way into the marriage.

While part of Sherbourne longed to blame his proud, aristocratic wife for her unreasonable ire, another part of him accepted blame for having been arrogant himself. He’d wanted an earl’s coin to bolster his budgets. He’d wanted to prove to Haverford that even a fairy-tale version of a colliery could be made profitable provided Lucas Sherbourne was in charge.

He’d wanted polite society to pronounce his marriage a success rather than a mésalliance.

“Charlotte believes I persist in the face of discouragement,” he said to the empty room. “She esteems me above all others. She rubs my feet.”

He could not speak the rest of the litany aloud: She also broke his heart.

*



“Her Grace is off at the village lending library,” Haverford said. “Shall I ring for a tray?”

“No, thank you,” Charlotte replied.

She stayed within two feet of the parlor door, while Haverford, who’d been raised with a sister, weighed options. He could pretend that a pale, silent Charlotte Sherbourne was a normal occurrence, and convey her regrets to Elizabeth when the duchess returned.

He could insist on observing at least the civilities—a cup of tea would require fifteen minutes of idle chatter from them both. Not too much to ask from family.

Or he could do as he’d done with Glenys, Elizabeth, and any other woman about whom he cared, and drop the ducal posturing.

“Then you can keep me company while I pine for my duchess,” Haverford said. “She’s been gone long enough that her return becomes more likely by the moment.”

Still Charlotte remained by the door. “Elizabeth does love her libraries.”