A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(91)

“Books on how to establish and manage a coal mine. She’s apparently read them word for word, though my own progress is halting at best.”

When had this occurred, and why had Charlotte done it? “Who are the authors?”

Haverford recited titles and authors, while Radnor snored quietly on the couch.

“Those are good basic texts, though they’ll soon be out of date. Did Charlotte say why she’d lent them to you?”

“She said I know next to nothing about mines.” Haverford put up his cue stick. “She’s right.”

What to say to that? Haverford hadn’t exactly admitted to putting ridiculous conditions on the colliery, but he’d come close.

“Charlotte is almost invariably correct.”

“Have you any more such books?”

What was Haverford asking? “Many. I also have some recent treatises on steam power, which will make your head spin with possibilities.”

“Does Mrs. Sherbourne read those as well?”

“If she hasn’t, she soon will.” Though given the state of the marriage, Sherbourne still hadn’t asked Charlotte to look over any of Hannibal Jones’s calculations.

Haverford took Sherbourne’s cue stick and replaced it on the wall rack. “Elizabeth is concerned about her sister.”

So was Sherbourne. “I appreciate Her Grace’s solicitude, but can assure you that my wife enjoys excellent health.”

For now. How would Charlotte fare after another six months of this arms’ length misery that their marriage had become? How would Sherbourne? They ate dinner separated by a distance as great as the billiards table, took their baths at opposite ends of the day, and barely spoke in passing. The trip to and from Sunday services was made in awkward silence, though Charlotte was polite and agreeable to anybody they encountered.

“You look gaunt,” Haverford said, “and I don’t think it’s marital devotions robbing you of your sleep.”

“Haverford, you will desist, lest I demonstrate my pugilistic skills on your damned ducal nose.”

Except that now—years after Sherbourne had beaten respect into every schoolyard bully who’d served him a bad turn—striking the duke held no appeal. Haverford was family, and Sherbourne suspected he was trying to be helpful.

The duke’s interrogation felt arrogant and presumptuous, but he was a duke, and nearly everything he turned his hand to would come across as arrogant and presumptuous. Charlotte had been quite clear on that point, and if anybody knew her way around dukes and titles, it was she.

Haverford crossed to the sideboard and poured half a glass of brandy. “Be that way, but if you think I’m difficult, just wait until Charlotte’s mama and papa come to visit for the winter holidays. Were I you, I’d get my house in order before the in-laws come to call, or Charlotte might well accompany them back to England in the new year.”

Sherbourne managed to remain standing, but Haverford’s taunt—or warning—landed on him like so much cold, wet mud.

Charlotte was being unreasonable, and yet, she was Charlotte. She would never relent, never give quarter where her sense of justice was concerned. Sherbourne loved that about her.

Loved that about her, too.

“You did know the in-laws are planning to visit?” Haverford asked. “You look as though you’ve suffered a significant blow to the head.”

To the heart, more like. “I am well aware that the in-laws intend to grace us with their presence for the holidays, and I hope they are frequent visitors. Mama-in-law loves her homeland, and Charlotte loves her mother and father.”

Did she love her husband? Could she ever love a man who did business with the likes of Brantford? Sherbourne had married expecting that attraction and respect would see him and Charlotte through well enough, but now…

Now he loved his wife, and “well enough” was less than she deserved.

Radnor sat up, his head appearing over the back of the sofa. “Did you trounce Haverford? He benefits from regular trouncing. I’ve made a career out of keeping His Grace from getting too high in the instep. The job is thankless and tiring, but what are friends for?”

Sherbourne wouldn’t know, never having had any. The more pressing question was, what was a husband for, when a woman could simply remove to her parents’ household, never to be seen again?





Chapter Twenty



Charlotte did not flatter herself that she was welcome at the Caerdenwal household, but after three weeks of polite distance from her husband, she needed a reason to leave her home, any reason at all.

Besides, she wanted to see how the baby was faring, and what household couldn’t use a bag of apples and one of pears? She’d also purloined some oranges from the larder, along with half a wheel of cheese and a tub of butter. A small ham had also fit into her basket. Cook’s growing consternation had stopped Charlotte’s plundering of the larders after she’d appropriated a loaf of sugar and raided the tea chest.

The lot of it rattled and jostled in the back of Charlotte’s gig as she drove over the frozen, rutted lane. Day by day, the sun set earlier and rose later, the temperatures dropped, and the wind became more frigid.

The weather felt like a metaphor for Charlotte’s marriage, and for her life. She’d put off socializing beyond family and the vicarage, because Sherbourne ought by rights to pay calls at her side.