Page 109 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

Brown’s brow quirked in an irritating fashion as he held the razor at Simon’s throat to scrape off the last of his night whiskers. “Do you prefer I hurry, or do you prefer to go to your bride unmarked?”

“Well. Hurry but be careful.”

With a scrape against Simon’s skin that—truthfully—stung a mite more than necessary, Brown lifted the razor away with a flourish. “Finished.” He swished the blade off in the bowl of soapy water as Simon dabbed at his face with a warm towel. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Simon shook his head, grateful the towel remained free of blood when he stole a peek. “And don’t worry about waking me tomorrow.” With luck, Simon hoped to still be naked with his similarly unclothed wife in his arms.

Stoic, Brown exited, closing the door behind him.

Anotherboomof thunder sounded, louder than the first.

Blast.

Simon pulled on the banyan over his trousers and paced impatiently, waiting for Rose to tell him Charlotte was ready.

Brief flashes of light flickered in the windows, the answering call of thunder following.

What was keeping Rose?

Simon had given Charlotte time, enjoying a small glass of brandy after supper before having a bath. He checked the time—one hour had passed since they’d finished supper.

At the window, he watched the approaching storm. Unease settled in his chest, twisting around his lungs and squeezing.

Not tonight!

He paced some more, glancing at the clock every few minutes.

Had Charlotte changed her mind? And if so, why hadn’t she sent word?

Well, he would bloody well find out.

He threw open the door to his room and strode to Charlotte’s room next to his. Poised inches from the heavy oak, his hand halted mid-knock at the sounds coming from within.

Unsure what he heard, he leaned in, placing his ear against the wood. Anotherboomof thunder echoed through the house. A cry followed, a hollow-aching sob. He was certain of it.

Slowly, he twisted the knob and eased the door open a crack. A ball of cream and brown fur flew past him, claws skittering against the wood floor as Trifle raced down the hall.

“Charlotte?” Another crash of thunder drowned out his whispered word, the preceding burst of lightning silhouetting her like a nimbus. Curled up on the floor, Charlotte hugged her knees to her chest, her whimpers prickling like a warning against his skin.

Every instinct in him made him itch to turn and flee. To remove himself from a situation where he would only find pain.It would pull him under, suffocating him. Yet the sight of Charlotte so vulnerable kept him rooted in place.

Although he’d never paid much attention during Sunday sermons, one about a man facing a den of lions popped into his mind. Was it David?

No, David was the boy with the slingshot who faced a giant. Equally disturbing and frightening, but Simon also remembered the story with David and the woman he saw bathing on the roof. That story had captured his attention, and he would have surely associated David with lions if the man had faced them.

What was the chap’s name?

Oh—Daniel. That was it. Simon felt very much like Daniel stepping into the lion’s den.

But at the moment, he also knew he had something in common with his friend David. Because as much as he wanted to run from the sight of a weeping woman, he also wanted to comfort her. Hold her in his arms and soothe away her tears because . . . because?

Oh!

It hit him as surely as if one of Daniel’s lions had pounced and hovered above him with bared teeth.

Because he cared about Charlotte.

Not just cared.

---