Page 14 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

Charlotte exchanged a look with Frampton. “About that. Allow me to speak with Mr. Beckham. Perhaps I can convince him to send for at least a few of the servants to alleviate your burden, Frampton.”

“Very good, my lady.” He sketched an elegant bow. “Unless you need anything else, I shall show Miss Rose to her quarters.”

“Shall I arrive to dress you for supper at six as usual, my lady?”

Charlotte nodded out of habit. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

Rose curtsied again and followed Frampton.

With a glance at the grandfather clock nestled in the far corner, Charlotte sighed. Nearly quarter past five. Not much time to plan a stratagem necessary to convince Mr. Beckham they needed more servants at hand. But if Charlotte was good atanything, she excelled at making a sound argument and winning a debate.

However, persuading Mr. Beckham to recall a few servants was only one item on her list of things to discuss, and to be honest, not the most important one at that.

No. His impetuous statement that he would marry her superseded any discussion of returning servants. The book still clutched in her hand, she paced the floor of the library.

Think. Think.

Marriage to Mr. Beckham would free her from Roland’s scheme to shackle her to The Worm. Icy shivers ran down her spine at the thought of having to endure Felix’s demands as a husband. But would Mr. Beckham have similar demands?

Simply because a mansaidhe wouldn’t force a woman didn’t necessarily mean he was truthful. And Charlotte had many, many doubts about Mr. Beckham’s veracity. Men often said things to get what they wanted, and then as soon as they had it in their grasp, they forgot their promise.

Odd, though, that the thought of his touch didn’t sicken her like the idea of Felix’s hands on her.

However, hedidsnore. If—and that was a decided if—she accepted his proposal, she should request certain things in writing, such as not sharing a bedroom.

She considered her other options. She had no skills other than knowing how to run a household, embroidery, and making shirts.Ha!Roland would have to rely on his wife Hortense’s abominable skill with a needle. The only thing her sister-in-law seemed adept at was producing sons.

Charlotte had no patience to be a governess, even if she could swallow her pride and stoop to such a position. Governesses were ghosts, living in a limbo. Not quite family nor servant—meant to be seen, not heard, and as little of the former as possible. As a realist, Charlotte conceded her vocal opinionswould most likely have her employer turning her out on the streets before a week was out.

If she could raise enough money, she could travel to America and live with her brother Nash and his wife. But as she did when Roland made the threat, she dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. Not only were Nash and Adalyn struggling themselves while Nash waited for his investment to produce fruit, but Adalyn was expecting their first child, and the idea of being around a squalling infant in a tiny house set Charlotte’s teeth on edge almost as much as the thought of Felix’s touch.

Facing the facts, she admitted she’d been reared for one thing: to become a wife. Never one to delude herself that some great love waited for her, she only hoped to find a man attractive enough to not make her want to cast up her accounts when he demanded his husbandly rights—which she prayed would end when she produced a son. A man who would give her at least a semblance of being in charge of her own life, who wouldn’t bore her to tears, and who wouldn’t beat her.

Contrary to her marquess brother’s opinion, she wasn’t captious.

When Lord Felix Davies first began courting her, she held hope that she’d found such a man. Until he quickly showed his true colors when he tried to force himself on her and told her she needed to stop thinking!

Admittedly, she wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. Nothing like Honoria, whom everyone loved, or Miranda, who was cheerful and quick-witted, or even flighty Anne, the consummate flirt.

No. Charlotte fully accepted that her outspoken nature and icy demeanor sent many a man scurrying away in search of a more affable and biddable bride.

And yet, Mr. Beckham had thrown himself on his sword for her. Regarding herrequirements, his attractiveness was unquestionable—perhaps he wastooattractive. He himself said he couldn’t abide a man who would beat his wife. Life with him might be a constant annoyance with his ridiculous buffoonery, but it wouldn’t be boring. He promised he would never force himself on her, but his family situation indicated he would no doubt expect an heir.

She’d never experienced the attraction of motherhood as most women did. The risks of delivering in itself made her nervous, but children required nurturing, and Charlotte was not the nurturing type. Small children made her uneasy. Granted, other than her nephews, she had little exposure to them, but they seemed so—breakable. Hopefully, like Mr. Darcy, Mr. Beckham possessed enough wealth to hire a nanny.

By all accounts, at least as she considered them, he met all conditions. If she could learn to tolerate his flippant manner, his irritating cheerfulness, and his mission to have everyone like him, perhaps marriage to Mr. Simon Beckham could indeed be her salvation.

Or her hell.

Simon slept like the dead.At least he felt dead when he finally stirred awake. His head still pounded like the devil, and his already soaked sheets were even wetter. Lord, he needed a bath—withwarmwater.

He stumbled from his bed and tugged the bell pull.

Frampton took longer than usual to appear. “Sir?”

“Please ask cook to heat some water for a bath.”

Frampton’s wiry brows rose. “There are no footmen to bring in the tub, sir.”

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