Page 111 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

Simon barked a laugh, then ran his hand down his face again, restoring his solemn expression. “Sorry. Was that really her name?”

“No. Miss Crabtree. I only called her Crabbypants behind her back.”

Simon squeezed her hand again. “Ah, you developed your wit at an early age.”

Even through the horrendous recounting, her heart warmed at Simon’s compliment. “Anyway, I kicked Nanny in the shins and raced away in search of my father.” She paused, pulling in another fortifying breath. “My father was not a kind man, but he was still my father, and as a child, I naturally sought him out for protection.”

Another squeeze. “As you should.”

She shook her head. “Not in this case. It was a grave error. A servant told me he was in his study and not to disturb him.” She sent him a sheepish glance. “As you can imagine, I didn’t mind very well.”

Simon smiled but didn’t apologize.

“Voices drifted from the room through the cracked door, and I peeped in. Lord Cheswick and Father were discussing something I didn’t understand. Lord Cheswick said somethingabout his daughter and how the Duke of Burwood’s youngest son ruined everything by running off with a commoner.”

“Burwood? As in Drake’s ancestor?”

Charlotte blinked. The horrible memory so buried, she hadn’t put those pieces together. “I suppose so. I could be misremembering that part. But my father’s words are seared in my mind. He said, ‘Females are nothing but a nuisance. Only good for two things: Rutting and making an advantageous marriage. And female offspring are even worse. I plan to marry Charlotte off the moment she comes of age.’ He said he wanted to be rid of the nuisance.”

With his free hand, Simon brushed away a strand of hair from her face. “Well, you showed him, didn’t you? And he was wrong, of course. What happened next?”

Entranced by Simon’s blue eyes, when another flash of lightning and subsequent thunder came, Charlotte barely registered it. “I raced through the door and toward my father. The look he gave me still chills me. Such anger and—loathing. I cried, telling him I wanted my mother. He grabbed me by the arm and said, ‘You want your mother? I’ll give you your mother.’ Upstairs, he opened the door to her bedchamber—where she died.” She paused, catching her breath and willing herself to relieve the awful memory.

Rather than squeezing her hand again, Simon placed his other hand on top and stroked her fingers. “It’s all right, Charlotte. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

How could such a rake be so gentle and considerate? Her stomach knotted that she had misjudged him.

He’d promised he wouldn’t laugh or think her ridiculous, and she took a leap of faith, stepping out into the uncharted territory of trust, giving him ammunition to hurt and control her.

“First, he yanked down all the curtains, leaving nothing to shield me from the flashes of lightning. Then, he locked me inher room, telling me that since I wanted my mother so badly, I should summon her ghost.”

Simon’s face surely mirrored her own on that night long ago. Mouth agape, he gawked. “My God, Charlotte. That’s ghastly. And you were only six?”

“Yes.” The word came out strangled, but she needed to finish it. “The room had been sealed since Mother’s death. With no fire in the grate, the air was frigid. Wind howled, the sound seeping through a tiny crack in the window, sounding eerily like a phantom. And of course, as a child, I believed it was my mother’s ghost. Huddled and shivering in a corner, my hands over my ears, I jumped at every sound, not only the thunder, but footsteps approaching the room. Any moment, I expected to see my mother’s specter take shape before me. And the thought wasn’t . . . comforting.”

“No. Of course it wasn’t.” Simon stared down at their conjoined hands. “Forgive me, but your father was a bastard. If he were here, I would drink enough whisky to cast up my accounts all over him, as I did your brother.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled. “It would be my sincere pleasure.”

She shook her head. “Not for that—well, yes, for that, but for listening and not laughing.”

His blue eyes widened. “Why in the world would I laugh? Your father—I want to spit because he was nofatherto you—tortured you. That is no way to treat a child who is frightened and needs comfort.”

In that moment, Charlotte realized she hadn’t heard any booms of thunder. Her gaze jerked toward the window. “Is the storm passing?”

He stroked her fingers. “I believe so. Shall I stay a while longer, or should I leave? I’ll do whatever you wish.”

Trust. Yes. Perhaps shecouldtrust this man. Her husband. “Stay, if you would, and hold me?”

“My pleasure.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she settled into the warmth of his embrace.

Rumbles of thunder decreased in volume, the intervals between the diminishing bursts of light growing longer. With her head on his shoulder, Simon counted for her, softly whispering in her ear as he stroked her arm.

When his last count reached twenty, she relaxed enough to take in the sensations of him. Notes of sandalwood and spice mixed with the clean scent of shaving soap. Firm muscle met her hands under his banyan, a testament to his need to be active. Although deep, his voice remained soothing and comforting, not raised in anger or condescension. Candlelight rimmed his profile. His square jaw, free of evening whiskers, spoke of the strength under his gentleness.

“You smell nice,” she said.

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