A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(90)

A week went by during which benevolent providence sent Sherbourne neither deluges, mudslides, marital cataclysms, nor workplace riots, and yet he was miserable.

Charlotte slept beside him each night, even ended up in his arms sometimes in the darkest hours, but she never rubbed his feet, never kissed him, never arranged him in her embrace such that all his worries floated away on a cloud of marital contentment.

If she missed his lovemaking, her longing for him had been buried beneath her righteous certainty that Brantford should be ejected from the colliery project on his lordly arse.

“Brantford is biding over in Monmouthshire,” Radnor said, as he escorted his guests to his game room. Sunday dinner this week was at Radnor House, another gathering organized in the churchyard before smiling witnesses, several of whom had loudly remarked on the progress of the steeple repairs.

“Why would his lordship’s whereabouts concern me?” Sherbourne asked.

“Because turning your back on a serpent is unwise,” Radnor said, heading directly for the sideboard. He poured three glasses and passed the first to Haverford, the second to Sherbourne.

The game room was a spacious masculine chamber. The walls were half-paneled in mellow oak, the furniture heavy and comfortably worn. The billiards table stretched like a bowling green down the length of the room, and books and stacks of newspapers lined shelves near the fireplace.

“That’s an interesting choice of portrait,” Sherbourne said. A painting of a smiling lady in powder and panniers hung over the mantel. She was more handsome than beautiful, though merry eyes and a smile that hinted of secret joys made her attractive.

“My dear mama,” Radnor replied. “Papa said of all places, her influence should most be felt here, lest drunkenness, lewd talk, or idleness be mistaken for congenial company. They were not a love match, but affection grew nonetheless.”

They had certainly loved their only son, which left Sherbourne with a question: If his own parents had loved him the way Radnor had clearly been treasured by his mama and papa, how would life have been different?

“That scowl will frighten small children,” Haverford said. “Is the brandy not to your liking?”

Sherbourne took a taste and once again found the flavor familiar. “The potation is quite fine.”

“Haverford won’t tell me where he got it,” Radnor said, tossing a square of peat onto the fire. “Gave me two bottles as a wedding present. Wants me to think he’s had midnight dealings with the coastal trade, when I know he probably got it from his fancy in-laws.”

The duke had been given this brandy by an in-law indeed. A recently acquired in-law. Haverford was studying his drink, suggesting Sherbourne and the duke were to share a secret.

A family secret—his first. “Wherever this is from, it’s excellent quality.”

“So why the thundering frown?” Haverford asked.

“Because my billiards game is rusty.” Sherbourne set his drink aside. “Upon whom shall I sharpen my skills?”

“Haverford. He’s fretful these days, owing to his duchess’s delicate condition, or his nerves, or some repair or other to his castle walls. You can distract him, and I shall cheer you on from the world’s most comfortable sofa.”

“While you’re a rock of spousal imperturbability,” Haverford retorted, taking a cue stick from the rack and rolling it across the green felt of the billiards table. “Though my sister, to whom you happen to be married, paints a somewhat different picture of your steely reserve.”

The duke and the marquess bickered their way through two games, Sherbourne winning the first, Haverford the second. All the while, Sherbourne wondered why Brantford hadn’t returned to England. The weather would become increasingly cold and difficult, excellent hunting was available closer to the earl’s seat in the north, and—

Haverford nudged his sleeve with the tip of his cue stick. “Your shot.”

“I’m considering options.” The table did indeed present several half-decent possibilities.

“You’re fretting over Brantford. I wish I could tell you he’s not worth the bother, but he was a guest in my home. The man’s a gold-plated ass.”

Sherbourne neatly potted the red ball off a side bumper. “He met certain criteria that I find useful in an investor.”

“What criteria does an investor have to meet, besides having money to spare?” Radnor asked around a yawn.

What to say? Sherbourne replaced the red ball on the black dot. “He should be sufficiently knowledgeable to grasp the risks he faces, but not so expert or meddlesome as to interfere in every detail of project management. When do we rejoin the ladies?”

“Not soon enough.” Haverford took aim at the red ball. “Charlotte lent me some books.”

“This book lending must be contagious,” Radnor offered from the depths of the sofa. “Or perhaps it’s inherited. We shall see when you both have some little darlings populating your nurseries.”

Sherbourne stifled an urge to bash Radnor over the head with his cue stick. Charlotte had decreed that there would be no babies, and Sherbourne—for reasons he could not have articulated in his most honest hour—wanted very much to raise children with her.

“What manner of tomes did my wife lend the man who until recently owned half the books in Wales?”