“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 reserved 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.