A breeze wafted past Charlotte as she bundled closer to the man she’d never marry.
“What on earth is afoot here?” The Duchess of Moreland’s question cracked like thunder across Charlotte’s awareness. For a moment, she held on to Mr. Sherbourne simply to remain upright.
Sherbourne stepped back, but kept his hands on Charlotte’s arms until she was standing independently.
“Charlotte Windham, explain yourself,” Her Grace snapped. “And you, Mr. Sherbourne, taking unseemly liberties under the guise of paying a social call. Is this how you repay my welcome?”
Uncle Percival stood at Aunt’s elbow, a portrait of the outraged patriarch. “Sir, you will step away from my niece.”
“Uncle, Aunt, please calm yourselves. Mr. Sherbourne was about to leave, and I…”
Two people whom Charlotte loved very much were regarding her with heartrending dismay. If she explained that she’d just refused Mr. Sherbourne’s proposal, then kissed him as if he were her every wish come true, they’d be hurt and angry past all bearing.
“Mr. Sherbourne,” said the man himself, “was about to ask a servant where to find you, sir, for Miss Charlotte has done me the great honor of indicating that she’d welcome my addresses, were I to gain your permission to court her.”
Charlotte’s heart thumped against her ribs, as if she stood on a high precipice and couldn’t make herself step back.
“You’d like to court our Charlotte?” Her Grace asked.
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.