Sherbourne held her while she cried, though the horse stomped, and at last, Heulwen’s red cape became visible over the rise, along with Morgan—holding her hand. Sherbourne resented the intrusion mightily, for Charlotte might never again cry on his shoulder.
Her tears were brief, which he also resented, because holding her as a husband held an upset wife was a new and oddly precious experience.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” she said, straightening. “Please, let’s go home.”
Home, not back to the hall. Sherbourne took up the reins and set the horse to a brisk walk, because a trot was asking for spinal injury.
“May I ask why you invited Haverford and his duchess to dinner on Friday?”
“I need the practice,” she said. “Our staff needs the practice. Haverford and Elizabeth are family, so they won’t go bearing tales if the footman drops the tureen or my menu lacks imagination.”
Sherbourne’s staff was well trained, but Charlotte had a point: They were not well trained when it came to waiting on lofty titles. That Charlotte might doubt her own abilities was hard to believe.
“If you are trying to repair relations between Haverford and me, I appreciate the overture, but it won’t work.”
“Relations between you and the duke are no concern of mine. I simply want my sister’s aid as I acquaint myself with managing your staff.”
Our staff.
Sherbourne cast around for a way to keep the conversation afloat. “Haverford’s sister married the Marquess of Radnor, whom you know from last summer’s house party. You might consider inviting her and her husband.” In truth, Sherbourne did need to become more familiar with Radnor, for his lordship sat on the board of directors for the mine.
“A duke and marquess,” Charlotte said, as Sherbourne steered the gig up the main drive. “That could be a challenge, though I liked both Radnor and Lady Glenys.”
Do you like me? He didn’t dare ask. “Why not invite the vicar and his daughter?”
“We haven’t called on them yet. I can impose on my sister, and by extension, Lady Glenys—Lady Radnor now—but until I’ve been introduced to other households, we’re limited to family connections.”
Dinner parties were usually groups of at least twelve, weren’t they? “What about Griffin and Biddy? They’re Haverford’s family.”
“I like Lord Griffin, of course, and Lady Griffin is very dear, but would they be an unusual addition to the gathering? Griffin is…”
“Different,” Sherbourne said, turning off the drive to the lane that led to the carriage house. “He’s a decent, honest, hard-working soul who isn’t half so simple as people claim he is. He’s different, so am I, so are you. I like him.”
“You don’t seem to like many people.”
“I like you.” Damnation to any who said honest feelings shared between a husband and wife were unrefined.
Charlotte smoothed her glove over the lap robe. “One rather hoped that was the case. I’ll invite Lord and Lady Griffin. By the time the Earl of Brantford is in the area, the staff will be prepared to entertain him.”
That’s what this was about? “Thank you.”
“For the soup?”
Sherbourne pulled up before the stable, and a groom came out to hold the horse, who’d grown muddy indeed during his morning’s labors.
“Oats for our noble Athelstan,” Sherbourne said, climbing down and coming around to assist Charlotte. “He’s slogged through more mud than Napoleon faced at Waterloo.”
Charlotte put her hands on Sherbourne’s shoulders and let him swing her to the ground. “I apologize for my lapse of composure. I am not usually prone to displays of sentiment.”
Sherbourne suspected he’d married a woman whose sentimentality was eclipsed only by her vast dignity.
“The topic warranted your ire,” he said. “Thank you for all you did this morning. Not for the men, for me. The food was lovely, but you spotted the error Jones himself didn’t see, and that will save lives, Charlotte.”
Standing in the stable yard, the air redolent of manure, horses, and hay, Charlotte blossomed. The last shadow of her tears disappeared into a wondrously warm and happy smile.
“I like numbers.” The sun rose higher in her eyes, to a brilliant zenith. “I like you, Mr. Sherbourne.”
He leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. “I like when you call me Lucas.”
She brushed a kiss to his cheek and whispered back, “Lucas.”
The sun took up residence in Sherbourne’s chest, along with a compulsion to smile fatuously at his bride, which would not do.
“I could bring home Jones’s calculations,” he said, oh-so-casually offering his arm. “Perhaps you might review them for me?”
“That would be my pleasure, and when I ask Mr. Jones the occasional question, I will tell him I’m trying to understand my husband’s commercial interests, which will be the truth.”
“Thank you.” The words got easier with practice, at least when spoken to Charlotte.
“Thank you, Lucas.”
Chapter Twelve
Haverford’s duchess had obligingly conceived a child either on their wedding night or shortly thereafter.
Or possibly shortly therebefore. Elizabeth had informed her duke this was something of a tradition with her family where firstborn children were concerned. Haverford was a great believer in tradition, but in this one case, he had reservations.
“You’re certain you don’t care for any tea?” Haverford had joined his wife in her tower parlor because a midafternoon tea tray was one of his guilty pleasures—also because her company was infinitely preferable to that of his land steward.
To anybody’s.
Elizabeth’s knitting needles kept up a steady rhythm. “Julian, unless you want to be the first duke to wear hot tea as a hair tonic, I suggest you put that pot down.”
He put the pot down. Last night, after they’d made love, she’d dragged him to the kitchens because a cup of peppermint tea with a dash of honey had become her reason for living. The staff was indulgent regarding such eccentric behavior, while Haverford pretended to be amused.
He and Elizabeth had had a short courtship, and a man wanted some time to enjoy his beloved’s exclusive company. Elizabeth had not conceived a child on her own initiative, however, so what could a chronically worried duke do but love his wife and pray for the best?
“Charlotte is inviting Griffin and Biddy to this dinner,” Elizabeth said, sparing her sister’s note a glance. “Radnor and Glenys will join us as well. Charlotte says she wants Sherbourne to be confident of her and his staff when the Earl of Brantford comes to visit.”
If Lucas Sherbourne were any more confident, he’d appoint himself Minister Plenipotentiary of the Universe for Life.
“If the company is limited to us, Radnor and Glynis, and your sister and her husband, then Griffin and Biddy should manage well enough.”
In the previous century, His Grace of Chandos had bought a hostler’s castoff wife at a wife sale and made her his duchess. Compared to that choice, Biddy was a more conventional spouse for a duke’s son, but only just. She was a local yeoman’s daughter and had been Griffin’s housekeeper before joining him in holy matrimony.
Elizabeth’s needles went still. “You find even saying Sherbourne’s name distasteful. I find him somewhat difficult, but then, Charlotte is short of charm herself. We must commend Mr. Sherbourne for being willing to take on a challenge.”
Charlotte Windham was a termagant who at least stood a chance of dealing effectively with Lucas Sherbourne.
“A crooked pot needs a crooked lid,” Haverford said. “They can be uncharming together, and raise up a brood of holy terrors in their nursery. Should I review dinner party etiquette with Griffin?”
Haverford poured himself a third cup of tea. No sense letting it go to waste.
“Griffin has joined us for any number of meals, and his manners are exquisite. What do we know of the Earl of Brantford?”
Griffin’s manners were a monument to rote memorization and practice. He had many limitations, but nearly perfect recall, often at the worst times.
“I honestly don’t know Brantford well. He says he’ll be in the area for some shooting—”
A tap sounded on the door of Her Grace’s private parlor.
“Come in,” Elizabeth called.