A Rogue of Her Own

by Grace Burrowes

  Oh, Aunt…no.

  “I’d like to start by courting Miss Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte?” Uncle Percival asked. “I cannot believe the tableau that greeted us. If you were in any way coerced, then courtship, much less marriage, is out of the question and Mr. Sherbourne will return to Wales, permanently.”

  Mr. Sherbourne was watching her, waiting for her to see him effectively banished from England through no fault of his own. She couldn’t do that, couldn’t make him pay for her lack of caution. Of all women, she refused to see an innocent party ruined simply because she’d stolen one more kiss.

  “I was in no way coerced, Uncle. I apologize for upsetting you and Aunt. I am very fond of Mr. Sherbourne, though that is no excuse for how I’ve behaved.”

  “The fault is mine,” Mr. Sherbourne said, with a credible rendition of bashful chagrin. “I apologize to Your Graces as well.”

  Aunt Esther reached for Uncle Percival’s hand, suggesting that Charlotte had rattled a woman who thought nothing of scolding King George himself. Uncle Percival tucked her hand over his arm and rested his palm over her fingers.

  “Apologies accepted,” he said. “Don’t let it happen again. Mr. Sherbourne, you will spare me a few minutes in the garden when you’ve bade my niece a proper farewell.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Leave this door open,” Aunt Esther said. “For the sake of my nerves and Mr. Sherbourne’s continued good health, you will leave this door open.”

  They left, and Charlotte took a seat on a chair by the hearth rather than on the sofa where she’d—

  “Did you mean it?” Mr. Sherbourne asked. “I’ll not have it said you were forced, Charlotte. You either tell your family you were having a small adventure with a willing bachelor, or you become Mrs. Lucas Sherbourne. Don’t lead me around Mayfair by the nose only to reject me several weeks hence.”

  “My family would be disappointed in me for that small adventure.” Then they would ruin Lucas Sherbourne without even trying. The invitations would disappear, the greetings would become perfunctory, civilities would be withheld.

  A man who’d done nothing wrong would make a hasty departure for Wales, like a chambermaid who’d been turned off without a character for refusing the lord of the manor’s advances.

  Sherbourne’s disgrace would be Charlotte’s fault.

  “Make up your mind,” Mr. Sherbourne said, “and know that if we marry, I will be a husband to you in every way that matters. Ours won’t be a match based on affection, but neither will it be a union of appearances. Choose carefully, Charlotte, and I will honor your decision.”

  Chapter Five

  Sherbourne could honor Charlotte Windham’s decision, but could he honor her?

  This question plagued him even as he knocked on the Earl of Westhaven’s door two days after becoming an engaged man.

  Charlotte had kissed him like every bachelor’s naughty dream, then flung his proposal…well, not flung it in his face, but handed it back to him like a wrinkled, damp, handkerchief.

  He had no title, no illustrious family history, no impressive coat of arms, no family motto beyond “Make money, and sneer at the titled fools.” Of course she’d refused him. He’d been a fool to expect otherwise.

  Only when she’d stood to lose her family’s respect had she agreed to become Mrs. Lucas Sherbourne.

  Sherbourne lacked aristocratic antecedents, but he had pride, and thus he’d insisted on negotiating the settlements with the Earl of Westhaven in person. His lordship was the ducal heir, and apparently the financial brains of the Windham family.

  “Mr. Sherbourne, welcome,” said a liveried butler. “His lordship awaits you in his study.”

  Sherbourne passed over his hat and walking stick and followed the butler down a corridor that boasted not one cobweb, not one speck of dust or smudged mirror. Those mirrors had been placed to catch and reflect sunlight, giving the house an airy, pleasant quality at variance with the priggish butler.

  “Mr. Lucas Sherbourne to see you, my lord.” The butler presented Sherbourne’s card on a silver tray.

  Westhaven bore a resemblance to both of his parents. He had Moreland’s height, the ducal nose, and lean build, and the duchess’s green eyes and chin. His hair was chestnut, and he exuded about as much hospitality as an elderly cat welcoming an invasion of noisy children into the library.

  “Sherbourne, good day.”

  A lordly perusal followed. Sherbourne had endured many such inspections, and he perused Westhaven right back.

  “You had a reputation for brawling at school,” Westhaven said after the butler had withdrawn. “Aunt Arabella says you were cheerfully dedicated to the ruin of a neighbor of longstanding—which neighbor is married to my cousin—and now you demand that the settlements be negotiated in person rather than through the good offices of the diplomatic intermediaries whose job it is to tend to these matters. Don’t expect many concessions, Sherbourne.”

  Sherbourne took a moment to look over the earl’s study. The desk was tidy to the point of obsessive organization, from the gleaming silver pen tray to the immaculate blotter, to the sealed correspondence sitting in a neat stack in another silver tray.

  “Cheerfully dedicated to the ruin of a neighbor…” Sherbourne replied. “Interesting, and here I thought I’d cheerfully awaited repayment of debts decades overdue. May I remind your lordship that Haverford and I have made our peace? Perhaps you and I should change the subject. Discussing another man’s finances strikes me as ill bred.”

  Now came the lordly reassessment, which from Westhaven meant a twitch of the ducal proboscis and a narrowing of green eyes. “Quite. Please have a seat.”

  As a former schoolyard brawler, Sherbourne took that seat at one end of the sofa rather than perch before the altar of Westhaven’s desk like a supplicant. With the toe of a boot, Sherbourne flipped up a fringe of the carpet as he sat.

  “Charlotte is dear to us,” Westhaven said, taking a wing chair. “We will expect a generous contribution to her settlements, and I have a very specific figure in mind for her pin money.”

  Delightful. The royal we had a Windham counterpart.

  “Charlotte is dear to me as well,” Sherbourne said, “and as pleased as I am to pass the time of day with you, I’d rather spend my afternoon with her. Perhaps you’d share that specific figure before sunset?”

  A footman interrupted, bearing a fortune in silver on a tea tray. The next five minutes were spent testing Sherbourne’s manners, though in fairness to Westhaven, the cakes were excellent and the tea strong. Some hosts served Sherbourne the day-old cakes and the used tea leaves, as if he’d not know a stale sweet when he bit into it.

  Westhaven set about an interrogation that was doomed to brevity. Sherbourne’s family consisted of one crotchety great-uncle on the maternal side. His residential real estate was one modest dwelling of twenty bedrooms, the former dower house to Haverford Castle. He did not wager on cards or horses, or make stupid bets on the book at White’s.

  “You would have me believe you are a dull fellow,” Westhaven said. “I cannot credit that Charlotte Windham would yoke herself to a drudge.”

  To an untitled drudge. “We drudges tend to redeem ourselves in important regards. I will keep the lady in comfort and style, for example, and I won’t insult her with a string of mistresses whom I flaunt at the theatre before her friends. I will never break my neck riding to hounds half-drunk out of sheer boredom. I won’t gamble away her pin money merely to impress the fellows. I don’t trifle with the help. Might we discuss figures, my lord?”

  “Charlotte is forthright,” Westhaven said. “One shudders to think what sort of children the two of you will raise.”

  Sherbourne set his teacup beside the tray, not on it. “We will raise well-loved children, if the heavenly powers grant us offspring, and we will raise them. They won’t be packed off to public school from infancy for the ritual starvation and torture that passes for aristocratic education. Nor
will they be banished to the fourth floor until the age of six, at which time they’ll be permitted to parade through the parlor twice a week spouting Latin and sums.”

  Westhaven set Sherbourne’s teacup on the tray. “The parade was nigh daily, if you must know, and started when I was four. My father was a military man and in some ways always will be.”

  Hence the immaculate desk, the pens laid neatly in the tray, and the compulsion to subject all new recruits to parade inspection.

  “I brought a set of figures,” Sherbourne said. “I’d like to discuss them with you.”

  The door burst open, and a small boy cantered—he did not run, he cantered—across the carpet. “Tally ho! Tally ho! Reynard is making for his covert!”

  The boy came to a halt, confusion in eyes the same shade of green as Westhaven’s. “Excuse me, Papa. I thought you met Uncle Valentine for lunch on Mondays.”

  “Uncle Valentine is working on the final movement of a new sonata,” Westhaven said, gathering the boy into his lap. “You know how he is about finales.”

  The child was utterly at home roosting on his papa’s knees. “He’s awful. Aunt Ellen says so, then she kisses him. We have company.”

  “We do. This is Mr. Sherbourne. He’s a friend of Cousin Charlotte’s. A good friend.”

  Well, no he wasn’t. He was her fiancé. “Greetings, young sir.”

  “I’m a viscount, but not the real kind,” the child said. “Cousin Charlotte doesn’t like to climb trees, but she can do sums in her head even better than Papa. Her favorite cakes are lemon, which is capital, because I don’t care for lemon.”

  Sherbourne would have bet his walking stick—if he were to bet anything—that Charlotte had no particular fondness for lemon cakes, though for this nephew, she’d have told that lie.

  “I hear something,” Westhaven said, cocking his head. “Do you hear it?”

  The boy scrambled off his father’s lap. “Is it a fox? Do you hear the wily Reynard making designs upon our biddies? Foul dastard! You shall not menace our biddies! Tally ho! Pericles, Tally ho!”

  Westhaven rose to close the door behind the first flight, pausing to smooth the carpet fringe Sherbourne had flipped.

  “His brother prefers shooting expeditions in the garden. God help the pigeons if the boy ever learns to aim his slingshot.”

  Foul dastard? That was not a small boy’s oath. “Westhaven, have you been riding to hounds in the parlor?”

  His lordship resumed his chair, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. “When my wife goes calling, I sometimes take it upon myself to entertain the children. About those figures?”

  Sherbourne extracted a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket and passed them over. Westhaven drank another cup of tea while he studied the proposed settlements.

  “Can you afford this, Sherbourne?” The question was merely curious, which was all that saved Westhaven from wearing tea on his tidily knotted cravat.

  “My cash reserves are not where I’d wish them to be,” Sherbourne said, “though most would envy me my solvency. I’ve lately taken on a charitable project of considerable proportions, invested in a new mining venture, and otherwise committed liquid assets. I never involve the resources of my bank in personal obligations, nor do I allow the other directors or owners to do so.”

  “That charitable project would be Cousin Elizabeth’s lending libraries,” Westhaven said. “I’ve heard something about them.”

  Part of making peace with the duke next door had been indulging the Duchess of Haverford’s passion for lending libraries. Sherbourne had purchased a fortune in books—from His Grace—and in essence forgiven the rest of Haverford’s indebtedness.

  The decision had seemed prudent at the time, though Sherbourne dreaded his meetings with the duchess. She was so very enthusiastic about her causes—and about her damned duke.

  “The short answer is that I can afford the settlements proposed. If I acquire a sleeping partner or two for my mining venture, I’ll have more latitude, but those figures are within my means. If there’s one asset I bring to this union, it’s the ability to assure Charlotte of a comfortable dotage.”

  “She’ll have a comfortable dotage with or without you, Sherbourne. The Windhams take care of their own.” Gone was the doting master of foxhounds and in his place sat the prosy ducal heir.

  “Review the figures, your lordship. I’m prepared to negotiate within limits, but you will please assure me that Charlotte’s funds will be managed by you or one of your brothers, not by some paunchy solicitor whose attachment is to Charlotte’s coin rather than her welfare.”

  Westhaven popped a tea cake into his mouth—the whole thing at once. “I will manage the funds personally, or in conjunction with my sister, the Countess of Hazelton. Her ladyship’s skill with investments goes beyond genius. She will like you, though her version of liking can leave a fellow feeling as if he’s been mauled by a lioness. One makes allowances. She’s married to Hazelton, after all.”

  Sherbourne resigned himself to further study of the Windham family tree. No other lord of his acquaintance would liken his sister’s approval to an attack by a wild creature, and yet, Westhaven conveyed genuine affection for the lady.

  “I’ll await your response to my proposal,” Sherbourne said, rising. “My thanks for the hospitality. I have one question for you.”

  “Ask.” Westhaven wrapped two tea cakes in a table napkin and slipped them into his pocket, then got to his feet.

  “Do you hoard food?”

  “Of course not. Those are for the hunt breakfast.”

  Westhaven loved his son, which reassured Sherbourne as signed settlement agreements would not have.

  “Who is Charlotte’s best friend?”

  Westhaven paused with his hand on the door latch. “Her best friend now? She was thick as thieves with the Porter girl, but that was years ago. The poor thing left town amid some talk, and I gather Charlotte has kept mostly to the company of her sisters since then. Why do you ask?”

  “I’d thought to make the acquaintance of Charlotte’s friends.” To learn what he could from them about a woman he was likely to spend the rest of his life with.

  “Ah, now, there I can offer you a bit of marital advice,” Westhaven said, with more enthusiasm than the topic warranted. “You be Charlotte’s friend and allow her to be yours. The other part is lovely of course—connubial bliss is more than a cliché—but be Charlotte’s friend.”

  The aristocracy was prone to eccentricity—foxes under the sofa, for example. “I’ll be her husband, once you approve those settlements. Good day, my lord.”

  Sherbourne left the earl’s townhouse with much to ponder. Westhaven was a lordly prig, a ferociously devoted father, a loyal brother and cousin, and a conscientious minder of the family fortunes.

  Also besotted with his countess, if gossip was to be believed.

  Sherbourne was not besotted with Charlotte Windham, but one admission she’d made gave him peace where their union was concerned: If I were to marry anybody, it would be you.

  If Charlotte was honest—and Sherbourne believed she was—then her objection was not to him personally, but to marriage in general. He wasn’t overly fond of the institution himself, which boded well for their expectations of each other, if not for their connubial bliss.

  * * *

  “The only possible risk is that he might from time to time be somewhat cash poor,” Maggie, Countess of Hazelton, said. “The same ailment afflicts half the titled families in the realm.”

  “Sherbourne is poor?” Charlotte couldn’t keep the dismay from her tone.

  “Far from it,” Maggie replied, taking off a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. “We would never allow you to entertain his suit if he were without means. Sherbourne’s worth is impressive. He owns majority shares in a bank, shipping ventures, and numerous mercantile establishments. He owns an entire school in the Midlands and built a hotel last year in the Lakes that was booked to capacity all summer.” />
  “May I see the figures?”

  Westhaven had given Charlotte a summary version of the negotiations: Sherbourne had met or exceeded every item on the Westhaven’s list—unasked.

  His lordship hadn’t seen fit to explain to Charlotte what the list of demands had entailed. If Sherbourne had been negotiating settlements on behalf of a cousin, he would have ensured that she grasped every detail, down to the penny.

  “Charlotte, I understand that you’re nervous,” Maggie said, pouring herself a third cup of tea. “But you needn’t fret about the settlements. Sherbourne assured Westhaven that every aspect of his proposal was within his means.”

  “You have doubts.” Charlotte certainly had doubts, an entire queasy tummy full. She’d sent Tansy to the post with next month’s payments for the various Mrs. Wesleys, but Tansy wasn’t coming to Wales. Charlotte would need to establish alternate arrangements almost as soon as she arrived at Sherbourne Hall.

  “I have reservations,” Maggie said, “but then, I’ve become averse to risk since the boys came along.”

  The boys were at present with their papa in the park, flying kites, sailing boats on the Serpentine, and otherwise enjoying a pretty autumn day. Would Sherbourne take time for outings with his children?

  And good gracious, Charlotte blushed to think of how those children would be conceived. Sharing passionate kisses was all well and good—also safe. Never had a child resulted from intemperate kisses alone. This marriage would involve far more than kisses, though, Sherbourne had made that clear.

  “I need pin money, Maggie. Lots and lots of pin money.”

  Her ladyship was a formidable redhead nearly six inches taller than Charlotte. The countess had a regal air, despite having been born on the wrong side of the ducal blanket.

  “The sums proposed are generous to a fault, Charlotte. Why do you need more?”

  “I just do. Sherbourne has never had a wife before, and he can’t very well waltz into his club and ask the nearest viscount how much a well-born missus costs these days. He won’t know enough to quibble over the figure for pin money.”