Charlotte smelled much nicer, and she was his wife.
Sherbourne blew out the candles, banked the fire, draped his dressing gown over Charlotte’s at the foot of the bed—a metaphor, that—and appropriated the opposite side of the mattress. Some fool had forgotten to warm the sheets, which was probably a blessing.
“Tell me of your second thoughts, Mrs. Sherbourne.”
A gusty sigh greeted his invitation.
“Madam wife, I’d like to hear your second thoughts, if you’re inclined to share them.”
On the other side of the bed, a good yard from where Sherbourne lay, Charlotte shifted. “I was prepared to endure you.”
Likewise, I’m sure. “We are man and wife. I’m confident a fair amount of enduring will be necessary all around.”
She stirred about some more. “I meant…”
Sherbourne waited. He was not up to this conversation at this hour, but the alternative was sleeping in the library, possibly for the next thirty-seven years.
“I worried about you,” Charlotte said. “The weather was fickle, you were gone for hours, and you didn’t send a note. Men are pigheaded, and mines can be dangerous.”
“You worried about me.” The unhappy former bachelor part of Sherbourne wanted to resent her worry, to see it as yet another burden, more proof that marriage was an undeserved penance.
Except…nobody worried over Lucas Sherbourne. They worried that he’d call in their debts, accelerate a promissory note, reveal the state of their finances.
They did not worry about him.
“I’ll send a note next time I’m delayed. We haven’t even dug our main shaft yet and won’t until spring at the rate we’re not progressing. I’ll show you around the premises tomorrow, if the weather’s fair.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t want her thanks. He wanted to get to sleep, to forget this whole miserable, bloody day, and wake up with his life back as it had been before he’d gone to London.
And he wanted to wrap himself around his wife and know that he was welcome in her embrace.
Sherbourne pondered that insight for several long minutes.
“Charlotte?”
A soft sigh, and then, “’Night, Bethan.”
Now, she was drifting off? “We have only the one tub that’s large enough to accommodate me, the one you were using last night. I wanted to bathe but couldn’t, and then it was too late to wake the staff. One shouldn’t come to one’s new bride in all one’s dirt when consummating a marriage.”
Sherbourne delivered a few sincere blows to his pillow. His explanation had sounded like Haverford giving a Boxing Day speech at the punch bowl. Sherbourne had bathed thoroughly before leaving the house that morning, and in the normal course would have bathed again before retiring.
He was married now, and the normal course was nothing but a fond memory.
*
“I know you’re awake,” Sherbourne said, stretching his chin up and scraping a razor along his throat.
“I’m admiring the view,” Charlotte replied, from the cozy haven of the bed. Some of the leaden fatigue of travel had eased, and she’d shared a bed with her husband for the first time. She was also getting her first look at him naked from the waist up. “You don’t use a valet in the morning?”
Sherbourne tapped the razor against a porcelain basin and took another smooth swipe over his throat and jaw.
“I did without a manservant for years, and Turnbull has enough to do seeing to my wardrobe. You don’t snore.”
“Neither do you, though you talk in your sleep.”
He shot her an amused look in the mirror, as near as she could tell. His left cheek was still covered with lather. “I do not.”
“You mutter about timbers, ventilation, and hoses. Very romantic.”
“Very profitable, I hope. Would you like to see the colliery today?”
Charlotte would like to see her husband without his breeches. She was reassured to learn that she found him attractive in a semi-undressed state. Very attractive.
“I would, if it’s not too much bother.”
“No bother at all.” He was soon finished shaving, and donning a shirt and waistcoat.
Charlotte climbed out of bed to tie his cravat, and from a tray on his vanity she chose a simple silver pin to secure it.
“This is the most subdued waistcoat you own.” Plain black, though silk-lined and well made. He had several more like it in the wardrobe—dark green, grey, brown. Charlotte had gone through his clothes press as well, finding that fewer than half of his waistcoats adhered to the peacock style of his London attire.
“A colliery is a monument to dirt, or mud depending on the season. You’ll take a chill without your dressing gown.”
Charlotte was wearing a lawn nightgown that fell below her knees. Before she could assure Sherbourne that she was warm enough, he’d draped her night robe over her shoulders, though she caught him glancing down and then fixing his gaze over her head.
Oh. Oh. “Do we ride or drive to the colliery?” Charlotte asked, finding the robe’s sleeves.
“Drive, given the dampness.”
Heulwen interrupted with the tea cart, and an awkward moment arose as Sherbourne grumbled about the kitchen forgetting his damned tea in their haste to impress the lady of the house.
“Share my chocolate,” Charlotte suggested, taking a seat at the table by the window. “I’m sure the teapot will be on the tray tomorrow.”
“It had better be,” Sherbourne muttered, taking the opposite chair. “How soon can you be ready to leave?”
Charlotte set down her chocolate and threw caution to the wind. “If you’ll lace me up, fifteen minutes after we finish our meal.” Husbands did that. Charlotte had been assured of same by no less than three sisters and five cousins.
The look Sherbourne gave her was wary and intrigued. “Lace you up.”
“If you insist that we share a bedchamber, then you’d best be prepared to make yourself useful. I tied your cravat, and I assume you’re capable of dealing with my stays. They’re not complicated.”
Sherbourne applied strawberry jam to a triangle of toast and set it on Charlotte’s plate. “I can manage your stays. Wear boots. The colliery will be a swamp given all the rain here lately.”
Charlotte served him eggs, they shared the pot of chocolate, and the meal progressed in domestic tranquility. Sherbourne excused himself to let the stables know to hitch up the landau, and Charlotte chose an older carriage dress that was more comfortable than stylish.
As it happened, Heulwen came back to collect the tea cart, so Charlotte prevailed on the maid for assistance with her stays. When Sherbourne returned, Charlotte was putting the finishing touches on her coiffure, a simple knot secured with pins.
“You managed without me,” he said.
“I gather time is of the essence,” Charlotte replied, rising. “Shall we be off?”
He held the door, and Charlotte could read nothing in his gaze. Not relief, but not disappointment either.
Chapter Eight
Somewhere between pummeling the pillow, staring at the bed canopy by the hour, falling asleep to the sound of Charlotte’s sighs, and waking in a state of procreative readiness well before dawn, Sherbourne had had a brilliant insight.
He was a married man.
As Charlotte had said, no sensible person arrived to the married state free of all misgivings. His misgivings were the sort that would abate with time or grow worse. He couldn’t think himself into trusting Charlotte’s regard for him, and he couldn’t talk himself out of his regard for her.
He’d offered for her because he was convinced they’d suit. She’d refused him, and then she’d changed her mind. Women changed their minds all the time, as did men.
Charlotte had put up with being hauled away from her family on her very wedding day.
She’d barely scolded Sherbourne for neglecting her on her first day in her new home.