Which did not include torrid kisses during an initial call.
“Shall we sit?” Charlotte said. “Not that my knees are weak, of course, but the tea will grow cold.”
Sherbourne’s knees were weak.
He sat, taking the enormous, torrid liberty of positioning himself a mere fifteen inches from his possible future wife.
*
“Have I been at the modiste’s long enough?” Esther, Her Grace of Moreland, asked her spouse.
Percival, Duke of Moreland, consulted his pocket watch. “By my calculations, you’ve only just arrived there, and I’ve barely opened the newspaper at my club. Do we approve of Sherbourne or not, my love?”
The Welsh upstart had come striding along the walk, handsome as love’s young dream, but sadly lacking in flowers, French chocolates, or proper taste in waistcoats. Percival and his duchess had seen Mr. Sherbourne on their doorstep—the ducal suite afforded an optimal spying perspective—and modified their plans accordingly.
Her Grace took a sip of chocolate. She was a surpassingly lovely blonde of mature years, her proportions those of a goddess, her social power greater than the sovereign’s. At present, she was barefoot and tucked next to Percival on their cuddling couch.
“We give Sherbourne a chance, Moreland. I thought Elizabeth and Charlotte would have each other for company, but then Haverford stole a march on us, and there’s Charlotte.”
“The last of the regiment,” Percival said. “Most soldiers would rather perish defending the colors than be taken prisoner.”
Her Grace kissed his cheek, a half-amused, half-exasperated sort of kiss. After more than thirty years of marriage, Percival was a proficient interpreter of his wife’s kisses.
“Marriage is not a military campaign, sir. What flag is Charlotte defending? She’s a dependent female approaching spinsterhood. Her future might include a modest household of her own, if her papa can be talked into it. For the most part, she’ll be a traveling auntie if she remains unmarried. Her sisters and cousins will think they’re being kind, inviting her all over the realm, but Charlotte will be confronted over and over with Windhams in love.”
Percival delighted in the state of his family, when they weren’t driving him daft. “But Sherbourne? His dearest aspiration is to pile up coin to flaunt at his betters.”
Percival approved of a man improving his station through hard work, ambition, and good fortune, but Sherbourne was…
Running around in public wearing waistcoats that should have blinded the tailors who’d created them.
“What does it say about me, Esther, that I’ve begun to think exactly like my father?”
“Your father was a wonderful man who knew a love match when he saw one. We give Sherbourne a chance—Haverford spoke well of him—but twenty minutes with Charlotte is as much chance as any proper gentleman should need to leave a good impression.”
Charlotte could leave a bad impression in less than thirty seconds, unfortunately.
Percival rose and offered his hand to his duchess. “Twenty-three minutes, to be exact. I was once a bachelor, you know. Twenty-three minutes in the hands of an enterprising young fellow is a very great chance indeed.”
Esther toed on her slippers, a pair of gold house mules lavishly adorned with silk flowers.
She patted his lapel. “You simply want to intimidate poor Sherbourne, but you forget, he’s been neighbor to Haverford for years. A duke will not overawe him, not even the Duke of Moreland.”
“You have it all backward, Esther. I feel it my duty as a gentleman to rescue the poor sod if Charlotte has taken him into disfavor.”
“Gracious. I hadn’t thought of that.”
The duchess invariably moved with perfect dignity, and yet, she beat Percival to the door.
Chapter Three
Had Charlotte been asked, she would have said that kissing could be a pleasant undertaking, albeit unsanitary in its more intimate incarnations. Noses tended to get in the way, and if one wore spectacles as some gentlemen did, those created even more awkwardness.
But kissing Sherbourne…
Such a large, unsubtle man had no business trading in tenderness. He’d teased his way past Charlotte’s expectations and tickled awake dreams more suited to a woman ten years her junior. Sweet, silly, naughty dreams…
Then he’d gone and ruined everything—except her—by proposing marriage.
“Explain yourself,” Charlotte said. “As I foresee the life of a spinster, I’ll have independent means, freedom to occupy myself however I choose, and…” And the freedom to discreetly aid those most in need of assistance.
Charlotte couldn’t say that of course. She didn’t admit of those activities to even her family.
Sherbourne poured a cup of tea. “Freedom and independence. Do go on.”
“I’ll also have a lively and interesting circle of friends.” Aunt Arabella had had that, though she’d been a widow rather than a spinster before joining the herd of Windhams thundering up the church aisle this year.
Sherbourne added milk and sugar, stirred the tea, and passed it to her.
“Your independent means,” he said, “will likely be a charitable trust arranged by your papa, brothers-in-law, or your uncle. Those funds will be controlled by the trustees of their choice, not yours, and once your male relatives are gone, you will be completely at the mercy of the trustees.”
Was that how it worked? Charlotte was not much interested in legal matters, but she would ask a cousin who had read law, for controlling her own money mattered.
“Having a husband oversee my expenditures is preferable?”
“Your settlements will spell out which funds remain under your exclusive control as pin money, and will provide that should you be widowed, you and you alone will manage your finances. One item I have in adequate supply is coin.”
“One item you lack is delicacy, Mr. Sherbourne.” This cup of tea was not as hot as Charlotte preferred, but it was fortifying and perfectly sweet.
“Precisely. I lack delicacy, which is why you should marry me.”
His command of a tea service was excellent, his shoulders were broad, his logic eluded her. “I’m to subject myself to a husband’s supervision rather than be pitied for failing to secure any spouse at all?”
Sherbourne set the teapot down rather too hard on the tray. “Nobody would dare pity you.”
Charlotte wanted to believe him, but too many tittering, gossiping, spiteful conversations prevented her. He did not pity her, and that meant more than it should.
“All spinsters are pitied, Mr. Sherbourne. We’re supposed to pine away for lack of children to wait upon or a husband to serve, when in fact, our greater sorrow is that we could become a burden on the parish.”
“Many married women have no children and see little of their spouses, but I hope our union would be fruitful. I like children, and think you’d make a marvelous mother.”
How casually he flung compliments at her. “Why?”
“Because you are fierce. Your children would be fierce, and if they’re to help shape the future of a realm threatened by a profligate imbecile on the throne, they’ll need to be fierce.”
The destruction of the entire nation didn’t concern Charlotte. She was focused instead on lives left in tatters thanks to heedless young men. She liked that Britain’s fate concerned Sherbourne, though, even if his politics were the nearest thing to blaspheming under Uncle Percival’s roof.
“You see us married and filling the nursery, Mr. Sherbourne, when I have yet to consent to even a courtship.”
He held up the plate of teacakes for her. “Would you like to be courted?”
Charlotte chose a cake draped in orange glaze and tried to focus on the question rather than on the lazy heat in Sherbourne’s blue eyes. He’d kissed her passionately, with the door open and the house full of servants. How would he kiss late at night, tucked beneath the covers with his wife?
Charlotte took a small bite of her sweet.