A Rogue of Her Own by Grace Burrowes

Author:Grace Burrowes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2018-03-06T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Sherbourne pitched the damp towel onto the hamper and reached for the dressing gown his wife had spread over the fire screen. A new husband needed a few fig leaves when discussing his wedding night.

“I thought you might want to recover from last night’s exertions.” He’d also thought of every undemanding way he could make love with his wife, until his inattention had landed him arse-first in the mud.

Charlotte took a seat at her vanity. “I’m recovered.”

Well, I’m not. “Delighted to hear it.” Also relieved.

She made a lovely picture at the vanity, candle light reflected in the glass, her hair shimmering with garnet highlights. Her dressing gown was…actually, she was wearing one of Sherbourne’s dressing gowns.

He took the place behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Is tonight your preference, Charlotte, or are you being accommodating?”

“I am seldom accommodating, Mr. Sherbourne, but I am married. To you. We could put off the consummation yet again, though I suspect mudslides of one sort or another will be frequent in this marriage. Tomorrow night is a possibility, but then Friday we have company. The house must be put in readiness for guests the following week, even if Brantford stays at Haverford Castle. Other predictable inconveniences will intrude as well.”

Sherbourne studied her coiffure which appeared to affix itself to her head by magic. Tentative exploration revealed a few nacre-tipped hairpins.

He eased them free one by one. “Haverford is a predictable inconvenience. I suppose we’ll have to call upon him and upon Radnor.”

He found more pins, and put each one in the tray on the vanity, twelve in all. Charlotte’s braid came down, a thick skein of russet and gold in the firelight.

“We will pay calls. That is not the predictable inconvenience to which I refer.”

He had her braid half-undone before he realized why the nape of her neck had turned pink. Awkwardness and tenderness assailed him, just as they had when Charlotte had become so upset on the lane.

Sherbourne wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Is it much of a bother? I haven’t any sisters, and one doesn’t ask one’s mother. What the university boys had to say on the subject was ridiculous.”

Charlotte’s cheek against his arm was hot. “Must we discuss this?”

He straightened and went back to undoing her hair. “You could leave me to guess. Does her back pain her? Does her womb trouble her at such a time? Should I sleep elsewhere? Should I order her a pot of some concoction from the herbal? Shall I bide in a tent at the works for the next week? Shall I rub her back?”

He demonstrated, pressing firmly low on Charlotte’s back, and she made a sound much like a tired hound settling to a cozy rug before a blazing hearth.

“I become easily annoyed,” she said. “Just before. Prone to displays of temper and sentiment. That feels good.”

Twenty-four hours ago, Sherbourne had been ready to make love with his new wife as enthusiastically as a considerate husband could. Then a hundred

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