He and his wife were having a civil disagreement—for now—but sooner or later, one of them would slip. A harsh word would be said that crossed what lines remained. A look would pass between them in the churchyard that publicly confirmed enmity had found its way into the marriage.
While part of Sherbourne longed to blame his proud, aristocratic wife for her unreasonable ire, another part of him accepted blame for having been arrogant himself. He’d wanted an earl’s coin to bolster his budgets. He’d wanted to prove to Haverford that even a fairy-tale version of a colliery could be made profitable provided Lucas Sherbourne was in charge.
He’d wanted polite society to pronounce his marriage a success rather than a mésalliance.
“Charlotte believes I persist in the face of discouragement,” he said to the empty room. “She esteems me above all others. She rubs my feet.”
He could not speak the rest of the litany aloud: She also broke his heart.
*
“Her Grace is off at the village lending library,” Haverford said. “Shall I ring for a tray?”
“No, thank you,” Charlotte replied.
She stayed within two feet of the parlor door, while Haverford, who’d been raised with a sister, weighed options. He could pretend that a pale, silent Charlotte Sherbourne was a normal occurrence, and convey her regrets to Elizabeth when the duchess returned.
He could insist on observing at least the civilities—a cup of tea would require fifteen minutes of idle chatter from them both. Not too much to ask from family.
Or he could do as he’d done with Glenys, Elizabeth, and any other woman about whom he cared, and drop the ducal posturing.
“Then you can keep me company while I pine for my duchess,” Haverford said. “She’s been gone long enough that her return becomes more likely by the moment.”
Still Charlotte remained by the door. “Elizabeth does love her libraries.”
Haverford gave the bell pull a double tug. “And I love my wife, so I put up with endless effusions about bound volumes, children’s stories, and shelving decisions. Do have a seat. Was Elizabeth always so taken with public book collections?”
Charlotte advanced three steps into the room, then seemed to realize she hadn’t intended to stay. She and Haverford were family and both married, so propriety offered her no excuse to leave.
“Elizabeth has always loved books,” Charlotte said. “They have been her sanity in recent years, hence her desire to support lending libraries. I can’t stay long.”
“Let me guess,” Haverford said. “You’re meeting Sherbourne at the works for lunch. The crews think those midday meals are quite romantic and have taken to inviting their own ladies to bring them their nooning.”
Charlotte winced as if a stray pin had stabbed her in the ribs. “The weather will soon put a stop to that folly.”
She seated herself on the sofa, perching on the edge of the cushion. Haverford took the wing chair, and silently cursed Sherbourne for a fool. Elizabeth had said the new couple had hit a rough patch, but she’d withheld details.
Or Haverford had started kissing her. Something had distracted him. “Charlotte, shall I treat Sherbourne to a bout of fisticuffs?”
She snorted, wan humor, but humor nonetheless. “Do you long to have your nose broken? His classmates at public school did him that honor. They also broke his ankle and his arm.”
That was…not usual. “Was Sherbourne particularly given to outbursts of temper?” Sherbourne seemed, if anything, overly self-restrained, always measuring odds, always considering options.
“He was particularly given to not having a title and not being related to anybody who possessed one. He was given to excelling at his studies. He was given to honesty and hard work, and his father was given to training a boy up in the ways of anger and resentment. Engage in fisticuffs with Mr. Sherbourne if you must, Your Grace. He will get the better of the encounter.”
Charlotte looked like she wanted to engage in a bout of fisticuffs, and Haverford had no doubt he’d get the worst of that encounter as well.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” His offer was partly pragmatic. If Charlotte was miserable, then Elizabeth would be miserable, and if Elizabeth was miserable, Haverford could not be happy.
That cheering Charlotte up might also benefit Sherbourne could not be helped.
She opened a beaded bag and set two large books on the low table. “If you’re sincere, then read those. I have more along the same lines. Our library at Sherbourne Hall is full of such practical tomes and treatises, rather than French novels or Shakespearian plays. Mr. Sherbourne even has two books about libraries, which I suspect are recent acquisitions made that he might better assist with Elizabeth’s charitable schemes.”
Haverford ignored the implied reproach and examined the smaller of the books. “A Thorough Description of the Successful Colliery Dedicated to Development of Mineral Wealth in the Great Coal Field of Southern Wales and Surrounding Environs.”
“Elizabeth likes to read,” Charlotte said. “I like to understand.”
The damned book could have doubled as a doorstop. “You want to understand coal mining?”
“I want to understand my husband. Coal mining is also fascinating.”
He put the book aside. “You’ve read these?”
“Among others. You have set my husband an impossible task, Your Grace. He’s to develop raw ground, meet standards of safety and comfort for the miners and their families beyond any established elsewhere in the industry, show an immediate and substantial profit, use primarily the unskilled labor in this valley, and make it look like a lark. I should be going.”
Haverford wanted her to leave, because annoyance rolled off of her in waves. Sherbourne frequently bore the same impatient air, as if surrounded by ill-informed idlers who’d never done a day’s work in their lives.
“I’m not stupid, Charlotte, and I do not want to see Sherbourne fail.”
She rose and jerked the strings of her bag closed. “But do you want him to succeed? I do, and yet…”
Charlotte Sherbourne at a loss for words was a disquieting prospect.
“Stay for tea,” Haverford said. “Please stay for tea, rather. There’s more I would ask you, and I haven’t known how to ask Sherbourne.”
She shook her head. “Find a way, then. Read the books, make a list of your questions, and be prepared to listen well. I must be going.”
He stopped her at the door when she would have decamped without so much as a curtsy. “Charlotte, is there anything I should tell Elizabeth?” Other than to pay an immediate call on her sister.
“Tell her I love her.”
If Charlotte’s words hadn’t set off alarms in Haverford’s heart, the swift hug she treated him to would have. Then she was gone, leaving the duke alone with two of the most boring tomes ever penned by the hand of man.
And leaving him with a guilty conscience as well. He didn’t want Sherbourne to fail, but as Charlotte had pointed out, that wasn’t the same thing as supporting the mining venture and helping to ensure its success.
Haverford sat and started reading, and was still reading when Elizabeth joined him three hours later.
*
A week went by during which benevolent providence sent Sherbourne neither deluges, mudslides, marital cataclysms, nor workplace riots, and yet he was miserable.
Charlotte slept beside him each night, even ended up in his arms sometimes in the darkest hours, but she never rubbed his feet, never kissed him, never arranged him in her embrace such that all his worries floated away on a cloud of marital contentment.
If she missed his lovemaking, her longing for him had been buried beneath her righteous certainty that Brantford should be ejected from the colliery project on his lordly arse.
“Brantford is biding over in Monmouthshire,” Radnor said, as he escorted his guests to his game room. Sunday dinner this week was at Radnor House, another gathering organized in the churchyard before smiling witnesses, several of whom had loudly remarked on the progress of the steeple repairs.
“Why would his lordship’s whereabouts concern me?” Sherbourne asked.