Page 6 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

She turned away from him. Where in the world could she go next? Miranda still lived with her parents. Anne was out of the question, regardless of where she lived. Admittedly, Charlotte had few female friends she could trust. In truth, she had few female friends in general. Oh, very well, she had very few friends at all, female or male.

“There’s no one here with me,” Mr. Beckham said. “I wish there were.” His mumbled addition caught her attention.

She spun around to face him again. “What do you mean?” On closer inspection, he looked—ghastly. Odd, it was not a word she would have used in conjunction with the rake, no matter how much she disliked him.

He grabbed the edge of the door as if he needed it for support.

“You’re ill,” she said as matter-of-fact as if she’d said the grass was green.

“How very astute of you, my lady.” He pressed his lips together, the grim expression once again so unlike his usual unwavering and unrealistic optimism that drove her mad. The man lived in a make-believe world of rainbows and puppies. “I hate to ask, but since you’re here . . .”

“Where are the servants?”

“What about ‘no one’s here’ don’t you understand? Not simply a paramour, although I hate to admit I’m in no shape to be entertaining with any degree of satisfaction for my partner.”

Her cheeks flamed again.Damnation.

He had the audacity to grin. “But the servants are gone. Except for Cook and Frampton, and Frampton, as I said, is not here at the moment.”

His gaze jerked to the overstuffed bag in her hand. Then his eyes returned to her face, his eyes narrowing. “What in the devil happened to your cheek?”

Unbidden, her free hand flew to her face, the area tender from where Felix had backhanded her. “It’s nothing.”

“The hell it’s nothing.” He released his grip on the door and hauled her inside the doorway, then proceeded to slam the door. “What happened? Did someone strike you?”

Oh, no. She refused to admit what Felix did. Not to another rake just like him. “It’s none of your concern.”

“It is most definitely my concern. You have a bag with you and a bruise upon your cheek. Are you seeking shelter from someone, Lady Charlotte?”

She jerked back—his words buffeting her almost like the blow from Felix. He actually sounded sincere—and kind. “I . . . only for a few days. But Honoria isn’t here. I should leave.” She reached for the doorknob, fully intending to go. Where, she still didn’t know.

Until he fell into the chair by the door. He really did look ghastly.

Halting, she recalled his unfinished request. “You were going to ask me something.”

Slumped in the chair, he peered up, his striking blue eyes pleading. “Would you see if Cook is in the kitchen?”

For a man of business, Mr. Beckham was clearly dense. “Why didn’t you simply ring for her?”

“She may not be there. Frampton left a note saying she went to the market.”

“And you didn’t check first?” With no need for propriety around the dolt of a man, Charlotte rolled her eyes, then trudgedto the nearest room and searched for a bell pull. “Men and their stupid pride,” she muttered and pulled the cord.

“It’s not pride.”

Charlotte spun to find Mr. Beckham leaning against the doorframe. However, his posture indicated he did so to support himself rather than appear rakish.Hmm.“No? You’re clearly in no condition to be doing whatever it was you planned to do.” She motioned back to the chair in the entrance. “Now, sit before you fall over.”

Delivering a scowl, he lumbered back to the entry and plopped back in the chair. “Bossy,” he muttered.

“So, let me understand. You were going to the kitchen?”

“Give the woman an award.”

Insufferable. The man couldn’t be serious if he tried, which irked her to distraction. And the fact that everyone seemed to like him for his buffoonery galled her even more. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Ha!” He scowled again.

People often assumed because Charlotte didn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, she didn’t have one. However, her forthright demeanor served as a suit of armor, encasing the extremely tender heart she held within. One must protect what is most vulnerable, especially from rakes such as Mr. Beckham.

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