Page 25 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

“And he was really completely”—Miranda looked over her shoulder to confirm they were still alone—“nude?”

“As the day he was born.” Charlotte restrained her smile. Mr. Beckham looked nothing like a newborn babe.

“And you’re really going to marry him?”

Just hearing Miranda say the words made them all too real.

Every muscle in her body felt heavy and numb. “Yes. I suppose I am. What choice do I have, Miranda? Roland won’t take me back. Not that I want to return if it means marrying Felix. At least Mr. Beckham has promised . . .”

“Promised what?”

Before she could answer, Simon burst through the door. “It’s done. Now, hurry and grab a pelisse, there’s much to do.” Hisgaze jerked to Miranda. “Oh, beg pardon, I didn’t know you would still be here.”

She and Miranda exchanged a look, Miranda’s undoubtedly more amused than her own.

Miranda placed her teacup on the table. “I should go.”

“Don’t go,” Charlotte said in unison with Miranda.

Miranda rose and brushed off her skirts. “No. I really must. I promised Bea and Laurence I would stop by and watch the girls. They’re concocting some new invention, and the poor darlings will be left to their own devices.”

“Their children are inventors?” Simon asked.

Charlotte rolled her eyes, making sure he noticed. “No. Lord and Lady Montgomery, you buffoon.” She redirected her attention to the more reasonable person in the room. “Don’t they employ a nanny?”

“Yes. But Bea insists on having a family member available at all times.”

“No offense, Miranda, but your sister-in-law has the most outrageous beliefs.”

“I think it’s delightful,” Simon said.

Charlotte glared. “No one asked you.”

Miranda laughed. “I’ll go and allow you to attend to your business. But I expect to resume this conversation at a later time.”

She left in a swish of lilac, Simon’s head swiveling around to watch her leave.

“If you ever rush my guests off again, I’ll . . .”

As he turned back toward her, he grinned like the fool he was. “You’ll what?”

Perhaps she hadn’t used a harsh enough tone. “I will . . . I will . . . smash your toes each time we dance.”

He grew serious—a strange sight, she had to admit—and threw a hand to his heart. “A most grievous punishment, and one I have fond memories of. Then I must simply not ask you to dance.”

Argh!

“Now, find your pelisse. I have my phaeton ready and waiting in front.”

“Have you forgotten? I didn’t bring a pelisse.”

He snapped his fingers. “Right-O. I wasn’t at my best when you first arrived. Surely, Her Grace hasn’t taken all her pelisses with her?”

Men.“Honoria is several inches shorter than I.”

Ignoring her, he rang the bell pull. “Would you rather be warm or fashionable?”

Before she could formulate a suitable setdown—because truly his common sense on the matter stunned her—Frampton appeared.

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