“Good evening.” Brantford offered the greeting with a slight smile, which his wife returned. They avoided one another socially, though occasional encounters happened.
“My lord. I hope you’re enjoying the music.”
Veronica was still pretty, still lovely even, but she was no longer dewy.
“I am very partial to a well-played pianoforte,” Brantford said. “And you, my dear?”
Around them polite society gossiped, laughed, and watched. Brantford and his countess were known to be cordially bored with each other. Her ladyship had failed to produce offspring, and thus her diversions were limited to the insipid variety.
Poor thing.
“I thought the violinist was superb,” Veronica said. “Would you like to sit with us?”
Across the room, her second cousin, Tremont, Viscount Enderly, nodded politely. Doubtless his mama, the viscountess, was at the punch bowl mentally assessing the settlements of any young lady who offered her son so much as a simper.
“I’d enjoy visiting with your family,” Brantford replied, “but I’m promised elsewhere and won’t be staying for the vocalists. Did I mention to you that I’m leaving for Wales next week?” The notion had just popped into Brantford’s head, and being a decisive person, now was as good a time as any to announce his plan. He and Veronica saw each other infrequently of late, and keeping her apprised of his whereabouts was only courteous.
Veronica studied her fan, which bore a painted image of pink roses, blue butterflies, and stylized greenery. She was a talented artist and might have created the artwork herself.
“Shooting?” she asked.
“Some shooting, and I thought I’d look in on a colliery in which I’ve secured an interest. You’ll manage without me, I’m sure.”
She waved her fan gently. “How long will you be gone?”
“A few weeks. I’ll leave my direction, of course.”
Enderly was in conversation with Lady Ophelia Durant. She dined on young bachelors at every opportunity, sometimes several at once, if rumor was to be believed. And yet, Enderly, while giving every appearance of attending to Lady Ophelia, was also casting discreet glances in Veronica’s direction.
“I might travel with Aunt and Cousin down to Enderly House for a visit,” she said. “The opening hunt is next week.”
Veronica was happiest in the saddle. Perhaps equestrian pursuits had affected her ability to bear children. The quack had also mentioned that a bout of the French disease could impair a man’s ability to sire offspring, but Brantford had gone more than three years without any symptoms of that indignity, and he’d been careful to keep a distance from his wife when she might have suspected he was ailing.
“Autumn in the country has many charms,” he observed. Was Tremont’s company among those charms for Veronica? She and her handsome cousin had grown up together. Perhaps she regretted choosing the earl over the viscount, or perhaps she hadn’t had a choice.
Brantford had had a choice, and like any sensible man, he’d chosen enormous settlements at the first opportunity. He should have realized that Veronica’s settlements were the last, desperate show of bravado by a family that hadn’t a clue how to manage their fortune.
“You wouldn’t object to my leaving town for a time, my lord?”
Did she think he’d drag her along to Wales? “Your happiness will ever concern me, my dear. I’m sure the viscountess will be a congenial hostess. Why would I object?”
“No reason.”
Must she sound so plaintive? Brantford saw to her every comfort, was never less than gracious in public, and only bothered her once a week for conjugal favors that by right were his any time he chose.
“I see our hostess over by the dessert table,” Brantford said. “She looks determined to end this intermission. Enjoy the vocalists.” He brushed a kiss to Veronica’s cheek, a gesture of loyalty before the gossips lurking in every corner. “Until Sunday, my lady.”
Sunday night being their standing appointment in her ladyship’s bed.
“I’ll leave on Saturday.”
Veronica was asserting her independence. She’d begun this amusing habit about a year ago, when she’d turned five-and-twenty. Sometimes, her tantrums manifested in bills from the milliner, sometimes they took the form of Sunday night megrims, though not often.
The lack of a child was his sorrow but her shame, after all.
“Then I’ll see you on Friday,” Brantford said.
Because if Veronica was inclined to dally with her cousin, any resulting child must at least in theory be Brantford’s. To support that theory, Brantford would do his wife the courtesy of swiving her before they went their separate ways.
And if Tremont could get her with child, so much better, for Brantford would soon weary of trying.
Chapter Ten
Charlotte left her spouse privacy to bathe in their bedchamber because Sherbourne had not indicated that her assistance was needed or welcome. Perhaps Turnbull had been summoned, or perhaps Sherbourne had bathed himself, shaved himself, washed his own hair…
A procession of footfalls outside the door of Charlotte’s private parlor suggested the footmen were wheeling the tub away.
She forced herself to concoct another week’s worth of menus, then tidied up her desk, banked the fire, blew out the candles, and prepared to consummate her wedding vows.
She stopped with her hand on the bedroom door latch and chose not to knock.
Please let this go well.
The bedroom was warm, humid, and perfumed with the scent of floral soap. Few candles were lit, and thus Sherbourne made a contemplative picture, wrapped in his dressing gown in a chair by the fire.
“Are you waiting for your hair to dry?” Charlotte asked.
“I’m waiting for my wife to come to bed.”
Well. He’d apparently eschewed a nightshirt, for the V of the dressing gown revealed the bare flesh of his throat and sternum.
She took two steps into the room, abruptly feeling uncertain and resentful. “Shall we see to the consummation, Mr. Sherbourne?”
He rose, which made the dressing gown gape open farther. “Perhaps you’re too tired?”
“I am weary of the anticipation. These intimacies are a normal part of married life, and we’ve yet to tend to them.”
He raised a hand to cradle her cheek, and Charlotte had to steel herself not to shrink away, which made no sense. She liked to touch her husband, liked knowing the feel of him, liked that she had the right to be affectionate with him.
Perhaps that was the problem: She liked taking the initiative.
Sherbourne stepped closer, bringing Charlotte the fragrance of freshly bathed male. “I have a suggestion, madam.”
Now, she wished he’d toss a few orders at her: Undress, come to bed, hold still—though surely there was more to it than that?
“I’d be pleased to hear your suggestion.”
“Feel free to revisit your decision at any point, that’s my suggestion. Married couples do, if they’re lucky, have regular occasions of intimacy, but we’ve yet to establish the habit. Perhaps approaching the challenge in steps will serve us better than attempting the whole endeavor at one go.”
The challenge. Making love to his wife was a challenge? Charlotte wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or appalled, but Sherbourne was right: The next step was to change into nightclothes, which she had been doing every night of her adult life.
She turned her back and swept her hair off her nape. “If you’d oblige?”
His hands settled on her shoulders, shifting her so the fire’s light would illuminate her hooks. Sherbourne’s breath brushed at the back of her neck, a curious sensation.
“Was this why you paid a call on your sister today?” he asked.
This…? Oh, this. “Elizabeth maundered on about what she calls her basic collection, a few books every library ought to have. One could not distract her from the topic.”