A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(96)

But she had kissed him, and she had said…the most outlandish words. Sherbourne cast about for a reply, but Charlotte had already moved away.

She had said…

She had said words in the midst of a fraught exchange, and he would not hold her to them. He would consider later what it meant when a woman who never stooped to manipulation or subterfuge let fly with such a sentiment.

“You asked me to drive you to the posting inn?”

Now, when he needed to see Charlotte’s eyes, she put her bonnet back on. “If you please. I expect correspondence from various family members, and heaven knows what the weather is about to do.”

Sherbourne banked the coals in the stove, grabbed his hat, gloves, and scarf, and left instructions with his foreman to send the crews home until further notice, for by the time Charlotte was sitting in the gig with a thick robe over her lap, the sky was pouring snow.





Chapter Twenty-One



Brantford slapped the maid gently on her bare bottom. “Be off with you. I’ve correspondence to see to, and then I must be downstairs in time for a hand of cards before dinner.”

She tossed him a disgruntled sigh, but left the bed like the well-trained domestic she was. “That’s always the way with you lot. You spare your horses more care than you do the ladies.”

She was no lady, though nature had endowed her with generous curves, lustrous dark hair, and a wide, clever mouth.

“My horse knows better than to give me sassy talk when the ride is over.”

She pulled a worn chemise over her head and grinned at him. “Then your lordship can cuddle up with a horse the next time you’re in the mood to roger.”

Brantford laced her up, gave her a few coins, and let her tarry at the vanity long enough to tidy her hair and don her cap.

“Same time tomorrow, my lord?”

Her tone suggested the question was a matter of complete indifference to her. She’d as soon spend the afternoon on her knees rubbing beeswax into a chair rail as pleasuring him.

“If this weather clears up, I’m sure we’ll be out with the hounds.” Brantford’s host, Sir Cheevers Dalrymple, was hunt mad and pleased beyond telling to count a genuine earl among his sporting guests.

The maid pulled the covers over the bed. “The weather won’t clear up. We’re in for it. First real winter storm, right on schedule. The grooms are scrubbing down the sleighs, and Cook has out her recipes for syllabubs and toddies. If you’re of a mind to roger, let old Harrison know you’d like me to come by with a spare bucket of coal. He’s the most discreet butler you’ll ever meet.”

The bed was quickly made, no sign of an hour spent romping on the mattress, and the maid was soon on her way.

Romping was supposed to be enjoyable, and yet Brantford felt none of the good cheer and lassitude he was entitled to after his exertions. The maid’s charms had been insufficient to inspire his passion until she’d used her mouth, and then matters had progressed well enough.

Veronica’s weekly letter sat on the mantel, a cheerful recitation of Cousin Henry’s latest humorous toast and Cousin Lillian’s satirical poetry. Of Cousin Tremont—the best-looking of the lot—there was again no mention.

Brantford cast himself onto the mattress, wrinkling the freshly made up covers. “I miss my wife, which is the outside of too much.” The point of this excursion was for Veronica to miss him. She was to long for the pleasure of being escorted around town by her lordly husband and cease pretending that galloping across frozen fields was a boon equal to his company.

Near Veronica’s letter was a far less sanguine epistle from her father. The creditors were circling, and Brantford, of course, was to wave them all off.

Which he could do, for a time.

This was all Lucas Sherbourne’s fault, of course. If Sherbourne were applying himself in his customary manner, repayments of Brantford’s investment—with interest—would start as soon as the first of the year.

Brantford rose and rang for a footman to build up the fire. Sherbourne had yet to reply to a letter sent earlier in the week, or to one sent almost two weeks ago. Another reminder was in order, and then perhaps Brantford would write to dear Veronica and regale her at length regarding the fine hunting and lovely company to be had in Wales.

And tomorrow, if the weather proved disobliging, Brantford would spend two hours with the friendly maid. The fire was roaring merrily, and the earl had fortified himself with a bumper of good brandy when he noted a slight flaw in his plans.

If he sought to romp away his afternoon tomorrow, he was to ask the butler to send the dollymop along with a bucket of coal, except…as Brantford had explored the treasures hiding beneath the maid’s skirts, he’d forgotten to ask the woman for her name.

*



The gig rode more smoothly when Sherbourne sat beside Charlotte, and the frigid weather wasn’t as uncomfortable. He was big, solid, warm, and Charlotte loved him.

Her great declaration hadn’t merited any reaction from him besides a willingness to drive her to the posting inn, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Sherbourne feared she was on the verge of leaving him.

Did he want her to go? Was their present difference of opinion truly insurmountable?

“I have done something I should tell you about,” Charlotte said.

“This sounds dire, Mrs. Sherbourne.”