He’d fall asleep in the tub, had done so on many occasions and awakened all the more stiff and cold, because Turnbull allowed foolish employers to reap the results of their decisions.
“My horse slipped in the mud and came up lame,” Sherbourne said, as Charlotte worked her way down the front of his greatcoat. “I had to walk him most of the way back.” In the dark, in the cold, in the pouring rain, cursing like a schoolboy given extra sums to do in detention. “I’m more interested in food than a bath at present.”
“Thank goodness the beast didn’t send you into the ditch. Crandall, you’ll need to hang Mr. Sherbourne’s coat in the kitchen if it’s to dry by morning.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“And please have Mr. Sherbourne’s warmest dressing gown brought to the library. We’ll take trays there, and a toddy wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I’ll see to it, ma’am.”
She peeled Sherbourne’s sodden coat from his shoulders, and the chill of the unheated foyer penetrated to his bones.
“The fire in the bedroom must be built up as well,” Charlotte went on, “for Mr. Sherbourne will have a bath after we’ve eaten.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
“Don’t just stand about looking dignified, Crandall. Please take Mr. Sherbourne’s coat to the kitchen this instant.”
Crandall bowed and withdrew, the sopping coat leaving a damp trail on the carpet.
“What are you grinning at,” Charlotte asked, fussing with Sherbourne’s hair. “You’d think he had nothing better to do than eavesdrop.”
“He doesn’t. I don’t believe anybody has ever scolded Crandall for looking dignified.”
Charlotte kissed Sherbourne’s cheek. “Gracious, you’re cold. I’ve been wanting to do that since you walked in the door, but didn’t know if—”
Sherbourne kissed her on the mouth. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you knocked my arrow from its path at Haverford’s house party this summer.”
They stood smiling at each other until a shiver passed over Sherbourne.
“To the library with you,” Charlotte said, taking his hand in a warm grasp. “What did you and Mr. Jones get up to this afternoon?”
Sherbourne cast back over hours spent arguing, explaining, and insisting. Haverford had given grudging support to the mine on condition that it meet high standards for safety, while Jones, veteran of years in the coalfields, knew every corner there was to cut.
“I’ll be curious to see what Brantford makes of some of Jones’s reasoning,” Sherbourne said.
Charlotte had taken Sherbourne’s green dressing gown from the footman, held the garment to the fire screen, then wrapped it around Sherbourne in place of his coat. The bliss of finally being warm, of having soft cushions to sink into, was exceeded only by the pleasure of hot soup and fresh, generously buttered bread consumed while regaling Charlotte with the day’s efforts at the works.
“Who is this Brantford?” Charlotte passed over another slice of bread. “You’ve mentioned him, though I can’t place the name—or is Brantford a title?”
“The Earl of Brantford has become a junior partner in the mine.” Sherbourne dipped his bread into the soup, then realized his wife was watching him. “Sorry.”
“Mr. Sherbourne, we are private, and you are famished. I’d rather you get some food into you than impress me with your manners. I like to dip shortbread in my tea.”
“I’d like, given the circumstances, for you to call me Lucas.” Two hours from now, they would be in bed, and he desperately hoped Charlotte had decided the occasion was right to consummate their vows.
She’d threatened as much. Mrs. Lucas Sherbourne was not a woman who made threats lightly.
“Were you named for Luke the Physician?”
“I was nearly named for the Fiend. I arrived to this world at the start of a new day. When I was placed in my mother’s arms, she gazed out the window to behold the dawn star on the far horizon, and decided I should be Lucifer. My father persuaded her that a saint would be a more fitting namesake than a fallen angel. What of you?”
“Nothing so colorful as a biblical debate. I was named for the late queen, of course. Tell me about this partner of yours.”
“He’s forward-thinking, he agreed to my terms, and he has coin to invest. I won’t make him enormously wealthy, but neither will I squander his money and disappear on the next packet for Calais. If you don’t care to finish your soup, I’ll see that it doesn’t go to waste.”
Another breach of manners, though Charlotte passed over her bowl.
“I wonder why I haven’t heard much about Lord Brantford. Is his seat in the north?”
“It is, which is why he has experience with mines. God help me if he decides to pay us a call before I get Jones sorted out.”
Charlotte tore a slice of bread in half. “Pay us a call? We’re to have a visitor?”
Shabby table manners hadn’t caused her to blink, and she’d taken in stride a husband who’d twice neglected to appear on time for dinner. The prospect of a visitor had her sitting up very straight.
“He’ll probably stay with Haverford, being titled, but I do respect when a man takes an interest in his investments.”
“Does Lord Brantford have a countess? Children? If he’s thinking to visit soon, I must have details, Mr. Sherbourne. Guest rooms must be prepared, the wine cellar put in order, menus decided, a dinner party or two planned. Guests are not a small matter, sir.”
Mr. Sherbourne, spoken in that tone, did not bode well for the balance of the evening. “You’re nervous about having company?”
“We are newly married, and first impressions matter, as I suspect you know. Am I a good hostess? Do I set a fine table? Can I assemble a group of guests who are both lively and congenial even when I’m new to the shire myself? You don’t undertake an investment without significant planning, and my role as your wife is similar. I will be scrutinized by Lord Brantford, and he will carry a report to his countess. She will have correspondents, and thus my reputation as a hostess will be established or doomed.”
Sherbourne had taken Brantford on as an investor without thorough investigation—he’d had time for only the usual inquiries—and now, more than a week later, that decision resulted in unease.
“You think Brantford will carry tales because we married in haste?” Sherbourne asked.
Charlotte took a nibble of her bread. “We did not marry in haste, as far as anybody knows. I met you this summer, and many couples in polite society marry by special license after a short courtship.”
Their marriage would be subject to greater scrutiny because Charlotte Windham had married down. Just when Sherbourne had convinced himself that the difference in their stations didn’t matter, doubt reared its ugly head.
“Don’t fret,” Sherbourne said, cutting into a serving of steak. “If the weather stays this nasty, the roads alone will prevent anybody from journeying into the wilds of Wales. Did you visit your sister today?”
Charlotte recounted her visit to Haverford Castle, most of which she’d spent listening to Elizabeth discuss the infernal lending libraries. The moment had shifted however, from a husband and wife enjoying a private meal at the end of the day, to a wife humoring her thoughtless husband.
Again.
“Shall I see to your bath?” Charlotte asked, taking the trays to the sideboard. “The water should be hot by now.”
Sherbourne was warm and fed, and had he been a bachelor, he would have stretched out on the sofa, and drifted off after a long and tiring day.
“A bath would be appreciated.” Particularly if Charlotte was offering to attend him. Spouses did that for each other in some marriages.
“I’ll let Turnbull know,” she said, “and have the footman take these trays. Would you like another toddy?”
He’d like his wife to sit in his lap and kiss him until his eyes crossed. “No, thank you.”
“Good night, then. Enjoy your bath, Mr. Sherbourne.” She withdrew on a soft click of the door latch, probably off to drag Crandall into the wine cellar for a late night inventory of the clarets.
“My name is Lucas,” he muttered to the empty room. “Not Mr. Sherbourne, not husband, not sir. To my wife, when we’re alone, late at night, I’d like to be Lucas.”
*