Page 18 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

People could say she was unfeeling, but queasy guilt soured her stomach at the possibility of not upholding her end of their devil’s bargain. The least she could do was take care of his family. “You have my word.”

“Good.” He nodded. “I won’t ask for that in writing. I trust you.” He rose, somewhat shakily, and she had the urge to reach out and steady him. “I’ll draw up the marriage contract in addition to the one with your stipulations when I’m feeling a little better and present the contract to your brother.”

“Roland won’t release my dowry. And he may not accept the contract at all.”

“It’s only formality. I won’t have him accusing me of not doing things properly. As I said to him earlier today, you’re of age. You don’t need his permission. And I don’t want your dowry. If he does release it, it’s yours to keep. Now, if that concludes our business, I’ll leave you to the rest of your meal.”

As he lumbered from the room, his voice echoed back. “Frampton, be a good fellow and help me upstairs.”

She stared at the roast chicken growing cold on her plate, her appetite vanishing.

How in the world had all of this happened?

Business. Is that how he truly saw their arrangement? A worrisome bit of disappointment skittered across her heart but made a quick exit. Chiding herself for the brief moment of weakness, she accepted that, before long, she would be Lady Charlotte Beckham.

Even if it was in name only.

When Rose arrivedto dress her the next morning, Charlotte learned that several footmen and maids had returned per Mr. Beckham’s agreement.

Rose chattered in her usual nonsensical way about their faults and failings as she fashioned Charlotte’s hair into an intricate design. “I’m afraid I didn’t have time to retrieve your jewelry from the safe, my lady. Perhaps you can send for it.”

Charlotte internally rolled her eyes. No doubt Roland would find great pleasure withholding her finer pieces as punishment. At the moment, Charlotte was more concerned about the miserable number of gowns Rose brought with her. If Roland was so petty as to refuse to release her clothing, she would need new ones, but she had no money.

She would have to ask her future husband.

Gah!She hated being dependent on anyone, much less a man who could lord it over her every chance he got, but between Mr. Beckham and Roland, her future husband was more approachable.

Mr. Beckham—Simon. She would have to get used to calling him that, she supposed.

Did he really expect she would succumb to hischarmsand give him an heir? Still, an odd yearning had tightened low in her belly when he spoke of his prowess in the bedroom.

Braggart.

And—yet, she wondered . . .

Gah! Stop thinking of that man!

She needed a distraction. The duke’s mansion was one of the finest in London, and Honoria had taken great pride in the gardens of both their country seat in Dorset and their city home. Charlotte rose, resolved that a walk in the garden would rid her mind from thoughts of Mr. Beckham

Male voices drifted from inside Simon’s bedchamber, and she hurried past. No doubt either Frampton or a footman attended to him, and she didn’t want him to accuse her of eavesdropping should the door open suddenly.

A maid paused her dusting and curtsied as Charlotte passed on her way to the ballroom. Charlotte gave her a curt nod before proceeding on her way to the doors leading to the terrace and gardens.

Cool air brushed her skin, and she shivered as she stepped outside. When she’d arrived at the duke’s mansion the day before, the afternoon sun had shone full and bright, warming the normally brisk and damp March air. In such a rush to leave, she had not thought to wear a pelisse or a spencer.

Unlike the day before, gray clouds—thick and heavy with their accumulated contents—gathered in the sky. Dashes of color on the ground shook a fist of protest against the sky’s gloomy canopy. Bright shoots of hyacinths lined a footpath leading to the rose beds. Tight buds of peonies waited on green foliage, ready to burst into luscious blooms of pink. Several remaining daffodils fought the good fight, holding onto their sunny, yellow petals and refusing to go the way of their companions who slumbered until the next spring.

Strange, but the trumpet-like flower made her think of Simonwith his cheerful disposition and carefree attitude. Of course, it may have been that the flower was also called a narcissus. She chuckled softly at the idea.

“Something funny?”

She spun at the male voice, her hand inadvertently flying to her throat. “Mr. Beckham! Must you sneak up on people?”

He lifted a coat. “I came to bring you this. It’s rather chilly out here. One of us ill at a time is sufficient, wouldn’t you agree?”

“People don’t become ill from being cold.”

His lips tilted rakishly on one side. “They don’t? Are you a physician?”

---