“Jones laid the houses out there because workers should live near the works, one of Haverford’s requirements. The men aren’t to be tramping three miles each day to and from the colliery, out in all kinds of weather. They are to have decent housing at or near the colliery itself.”
Which left many choices besides the lee of a steep hill. Charlotte was about to make that point when another conveyance rattled past the white tent, the Duke of Haverford at the reins.
“What is he doing here?” Sherbourne muttered.
“He’s our neighbor. Perhaps he came to offer assistance.”
Sherbourne gave Charlotte an incredulous look and rose. “Haverford.”
The duke brought his trap to a halt. “Anybody hurt?”
“Not a soul.”
Haverford remained on the bench, looking very much the properly turned out gentleman. “You had a row of houses planned where that mudslide landed, didn’t you?”
“Close to the works,” Sherbourne said, crossing his arms. “As required.”
A tense silence sprang up. Charlotte rose from the stack of timbers and joined Sherbourne beside the vehicle.
“Your Grace, good day.”
If Haverford was surprised to see her, he was too well bred to show it. “Madam.” He touched his hat brim. “If you don’t mind my asking, Sherbourne, what in blazes happened here? Griffin said you’d had a mudslide. Half the hill has landed on your work site, and I don’t see how you’ll get it put back where it belongs before winter arrives.”
“Rain happened,” Sherbourne said. “Tons and tons of rain. We’ll manage.”
Charlotte wanted to smack her husband. Haverford owned much of the valley, and that meant he might also have an empty cottage or two, or a pensioner’s patch to spare.
“Harvest is in,” Haverford said, as the men began to wander back to their shovels and picks. “I’ll send some of my tenants over, shall I? They don’t like to be idle, and if you’re putting that hill back where it belongs, you need manpower.”
Charlotte squeezed Sherbourne’s arm, hard. He shot her a glance that blended annoyance and amusement. A married glance?
“We can use all the help you can spare,” Sherbourne said. “Some prayers for a stretch of sunny weather would also be appreciated.”
“You’ll have to take up the prayer request with Mr. MacPherson,” Haverford replied. “I’ll see who I can muster for a few days of fresh air and free ale. Don’t be surprised if Griffin shows up with a batch of shortbread. Why has the Earl of Brantford decided to impose himself on my hospitality?”
Sherbourne ran a hand through his hair. “Brantford is paying a call on you?”
“I have a passing acquaintance with him from various Parliamentary encounters, and on the strength of that acquaintance, he’s asked for the castle’s hospitality. His letter mentioned having an interest in a new colliery, and I sent him the appropriate gracious reply. He should be here by the end of next week.”
* * *
“Why did you do that?” Sherbourne asked, as he drove Charlotte to the house. Heulwen and Morgan were walking home together, and Sherbourne wished them the joy of their flirtation. Dishes rattled in the back of the vehicle, and the aroma of beef stew blended with the scent of a muddy autumn landscape.
And gardenias.
“Why did I invite Haverford and his duchess to dinner on Friday?”
“That too, but why did you bring food when I hadn’t asked you to come to the site?”
Sherbourne had spent a good five minutes staring at a scrap of paper, pencil poised to write a message that would allay Charlotte’s fears without conveying any of his own. He’d never once considered that Charlotte would want to be involved.
He’d stuck with the facts: Extensive damage, no fatalities.
The project budget had sustained a severe injury, though, as had Sherbourne’s confidence in Hannibal Jones.
Two hours later, Sherbourne had looked up and seen his wife, his passionate, shy, blunt wife, perched on a hard chair, spouting off about the weight of a cubic yard of water, and his heart had felt lighter.
“I came to the works because I was worried,” Charlotte said, bracing herself as the gig hit a rut. “Your note was cryptic, and when is food a bad idea?”
No more cryptic notes, then. Full sentences, a greeting, a signature. He could do that. “The food was good. The men appreciated it.” Sherbourne had appreciated it. He’d told her that, hadn’t he?
Good God, when had this lane become so full of potholes?
“You don’t have to mince words, Mr. Sherbourne. I should not have stuck my nose in, implying that you were less than equal to the situation. One grows concerned—‘no fatalities’ can imply grievous injuries—and merely sending a footman with a few sandwiches when I know the colliery has no cooking facilities did not seem…” Charlotte snatched away a bonnet ribbon that the wind insisted on whipping against her mouth. “I’m glad the men enjoyed the soup.”
She sounded forlorn rather than glad. Across the valley, clouds were thickening into the pewter-bellied masses that always, always brought rain.
“I had plans for us this morning.” What his own declaration had to do with anything, Sherbourne did not know.
“I meant for us to pay a call on the vicar today,” Charlotte replied. “One starts with the vicar, and nobody can take offense.”
They’d reached the stretch of the lane that wasn’t visible from the house or the works. Sherbourne brought the horse to a halt.
“I had hoped to waken you this morning with kisses, Mrs. Sherbourne.” He couldn’t see Charlotte’s expression because of the damned brim of her bonnet.
She ran a gloved fingertip over the padded armrest. “I had hoped to waken you with similar affectionate displays.”
Affectionate? Charlotte had come apart in his arms last night like a Catherine wheel whirling over the Thames on a moonless night. For a few moments, she’d been wholly claimed by pleasure. Sherbourne had fallen asleep marveling at the lover whom fate had given him in the person of his wife—and he’d fallen asleep aching.
“We’ll have many mornings.” Sherbourne hoped that was so, but he had no illusions: Charlotte expected and deserved to be kept in a style befitting her station. The mine did not have to produce enormous wealth, but it could not continue to lose enormous sums if Sherbourne was to uphold his end of the marital bargain.
“Were you angry with me for going to the works this morning?”
Sherbourne turned Charlotte’s chin, so he could see her eyes. “And if I was? What then?”
Charlotte batted his fingers from her face. “The day you strike me is the day we part company permanently, and I don’t care what the laws of this benighted realm say about my having become your property. Raise a hand to me and you will never see me again.”
Of all the words she could have flung at him, Sherbourne would never have expected to hear those. They reassured him that Charlotte would stand up for herself, but they appalled him too.
“Madam, if you think I would raise a hand to my wife—to any woman—then you should not have married me.”
They were surrounded by a veritable marsh, and even the lane was more puddles than pathway, which meant Charlotte could not abandon the vehicle with her dignity intact.
Fortunately for Sherbourne’s much abused boots, because he would have gone after her until this discussion was concluded.
“Men do,” Charlotte said, hands fisted in her lap. “They strike their wives, some men even strike women they profess to love, and the diabolical church—”
Now, Sherbourne was angry, not annoyed, frustrated, irritated, or flummoxed. He was furious. “Charlotte, I would never, ever use my strength against you. Do you think because my antecedents are untitled, that I can’t control my temper?”
Her glower turned to confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am common,” Sherbourne said. “I am as common as mud, but governing one’s temper is not a skill rese
rved to the aristocracy.”
“I never said…I never thought…” She twitched at the lap robe covering her skirts. “You are mistaken. Let’s get out of this wind.”
Most of Sherbourne wanted to do just that, and yet he didn’t take up the reins. “One moment, we’re discussing kisses, the next you’re threatening to leave me. I feel as if a mudslide has landed on my morning twice. What is this about, Charlotte?”
A man could not apologize if he had no idea what his transgression was. Neither could a woman.
Charlotte glanced back toward the works, though Heulwen and Morgan were apparently returning to the house by way of Scotland.
“I once mentioned to you my late friend,” Charlotte said, gaze fixed on the muddy lane curving toward the house.
Foreboding edged aside Sherbourne’s ire. “Go on.”
“I told you that she got with child. I did not tell you that when she confronted the father, he at first laughed and said the child could not be his. The child could only have been his.”
“He was a rutting disgrace to his gender.”
“When my friend became insistent—he’d promised her marriage—he struck her and told her not to bother him again. He struck the mother of his child and cast her out.”
A single droplet landed on the back of Charlotte’s glove. The sky above was still bright, the clouds distant, which meant…
Charlotte swiped at her cheek. “He was in line for a title, Lucas. Fern told me that much about him when she begged me for coach fare to return to her family. If I’m critical of violent men, that has nothing whatsoever to do with your antecedents.” Charlotte sat stiffly as two more drops landed on the back of her gloves.
She hadn’t referred to any other friends, ever. Was this why?
Sherbourne produced a wrinkled handkerchief. “I’m sorry, Charlotte.” He passed over the handkerchief, loathing the sense of helplessness, the useless anger that Charlotte’s recitation provoked. Charlotte Windham—Charlotte Sherbourne—would hate to cry, and whoever this aristocratic varlet was, he’d made Charlotte cry, among his many other sins.
She pressed her forehead to Sherbourne’s shoulder. “I was afraid you’d been injured. I hardly know you, and already, you matter to me. If you were wroth with me, sent me back to my parents…”
She spoke so softly Sherbourne had to bend close to hear her. When her words penetrated, he understood her odd logic. If Charlotte feared rejection for having intruded into a difficult situation at the mine, she must threaten him with the same fate, on any grounds she could use. Give no quarter, and never threaten with an empty gun.
At the negotiating table, she’d be fearless. Sitting on a cold Welsh farm lane, she was still fearless.
Sherbourne held her while she cried, though the horse stomped, and at last, Heulwen’s red cape became visible over the rise, along with Morgan—holding her hand. Sherbourne resented the intrusion mightily, for Charlotte might never again cry on his shoulder.
Her tears were brief, which he also resented, because holding her as a husband held an upset wife was a new and oddly precious experience.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, straightening. “Please, let’s go home.”
Home, not back to the hall. Sherbourne took up the reins and set the horse to a brisk walk, because a trot was asking for spinal injury.
“May I ask why you invited Haverford and his duchess to dinner on Friday?”
“I need the practice,” she said. “Our staff needs the practice. Haverford and Elizabeth are family, so they won’t go bearing tales if the footman drops the tureen or my menu lacks imagination.”
Sherbourne’s staff was well trained, but Charlotte had a point: They were not well trained when it came to waiting on lofty titles. That Charlotte might doubt her own abilities was hard to believe.
“If you are trying to repair relations between Haverford and me, I appreciate the overture, but it won’t work.”
“Relations between you and the duke are no concern of mine. I simply want my sister’s aid as I acquaint myself with managing your staff.”
Our staff.
Sherbourne cast around for a way to keep the conversation afloat. “Haverford’s sister married the Marquess of Radnor, whom you know from last summer’s house party. You might consider inviting her and her husband.” In truth, Sherbourne did need to become more familiar with Radnor, for his lordship sat on the board of directors for the mine.
“A duke and marquess,” Charlotte said, as Sherbourne steered the gig up the main drive. “That could be a challenge, though I liked both Radnor and Lady Glenys.”
Do you like me? He didn’t dare ask. “Why not invite the vicar and his daughter?”
“We haven’t called on them yet. I can impose on my sister, and by extension, Lady Glenys—Lady Radnor now—but until I’ve been introduced to other households, we’re limited to family connections.”
Dinner parties were usually groups of at least twelve, weren’t they? “What about Griffin and Biddy? They’re Haverford’s family.”
“I like Lord Griffin, of course, and Lady Griffin is very dear, but would they be an unusual addition to the gathering? Griffin is…”
“Different,” Sherbourne said, turning off the drive to the lane that led to the carriage house. “He’s a decent, honest, hard-working soul who isn’t half so simple as people claim he is. He’s different, so am I, so are you. I like him.”
“You don’t seem to like many people.”
“I like you.” Damnation to any who said honest feelings shared between a husband and wife were unrefined.
Charlotte smoothed her glove over the lap robe. “One rather hoped that was the case. I’ll invite Lord and Lady Griffin. By the time the Earl of Brantford is in the area, the staff will be prepared to entertain him.”
That’s what this was about? “Thank you.”
“For the soup?”
Sherbourne pulled up before the stable, and a groom came out to hold the horse, who’d grown muddy indeed during his morning’s labors.
“Oats for our noble Athelstan,” Sherbourne said, climbing down and coming around to assist Charlotte. “He’s slogged through more mud than Napoleon faced at Waterloo.”
Charlotte put her hands on Sherbourne’s shoulders and let him swing her to the ground. “I apologize for my lapse of composure. I am not usually prone to displays of sentiment.”
Sherbourne suspected he’d married a woman whose sentimentality was eclipsed only by her vast dignity.
“The topic warranted your ire,” he said. “Thank you for all you did this morning. Not for the men, for me. The food was lovely, but you spotted the error Jones himself didn’t see, and that will save lives, Charlotte.”
Standing in the stable yard, the air redolent of manure, horses, and hay, Charlotte blossomed. The last shadow of her tears disappeared into a wondrously warm and happy smile.
“I like numbers.” The sun rose higher in her eyes, to a brilliant zenith. “I like you, Mr. Sherbourne.”
He leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. “I like when you call me Lucas.”
She brushed a kiss to his cheek and whispered back, “Lucas.”
The sun took up residence in Sherbourne’s chest, along with a compulsion to smile fatuously at his bride, which would not do.
“I could bring home Jones’s calculations,” he said, oh-so-casually offering his arm. “Perhaps you might review them for me?”
“That would be my pleasure, and when I ask Mr. Jones the occasional question, I will tell him I’m trying to understand my husband’s commercial interests, which will be the truth.”
“Thank you.” The words got easier with practice, at least when spoken to Charlotte.
“Thank you, Lucas.”
Chapter Twelve
Haverford’s duchess had obligingly conceived a child either on their wedding night or shortly thereafter.
Or possibly shortly therebefore. Elizabeth had informed her duke this was som
ething of a tradition with her family where firstborn children were concerned. Haverford was a great believer in tradition, but in this one case, he had reservations.
“You’re certain you don’t care for any tea?” Haverford had joined his wife in her tower parlor because a midafternoon tea tray was one of his guilty pleasures—also because her company was infinitely preferable to that of his land steward.
To anybody’s.
Elizabeth’s knitting needles kept up a steady rhythm. “Julian, unless you want to be the first duke to wear hot tea as a hair tonic, I suggest you put that pot down.”
He put the pot down. Last night, after they’d made love, she’d dragged him to the kitchens because a cup of peppermint tea with a dash of honey had become her reason for living. The staff was indulgent regarding such eccentric behavior, while Haverford pretended to be amused.
He and Elizabeth had had a short courtship, and a man wanted some time to enjoy his beloved’s exclusive company. Elizabeth had not conceived a child on her own initiative, however, so what could a chronically worried duke do but love his wife and pray for the best?
“Charlotte is inviting Griffin and Biddy to this dinner,” Elizabeth said, sparing her sister’s note a glance. “Radnor and Glenys will join us as well. Charlotte says she wants Sherbourne to be confident of her and his staff when the Earl of Brantford comes to visit.”
If Lucas Sherbourne were any more confident, he’d appoint himself Minister Plenipotentiary of the Universe for Life.
“If the company is limited to us, Radnor and Glynis, and your sister and her husband, then Griffin and Biddy should manage well enough.”
In the previous century, His Grace of Chandos had bought a hostler’s castoff wife at a wife sale and made her his duchess. Compared to that choice, Biddy was a more conventional spouse for a duke’s son, but only just. She was a local yeoman’s daughter and had been Griffin’s housekeeper before joining him in holy matrimony.
Elizabeth’s needles went still. “You find even saying Sherbourne’s name distasteful. I find him somewhat difficult, but then, Charlotte is short of charm herself. We must commend Mr. Sherbourne for being willing to take on a challenge.”
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