Page 79 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

Charlotte pretended to read her book, sneaking glances over the edge when Simon wasn’t looking. Once or twice, he caught her, and although he grinned, he remained blessedly silent.

As Mr. Brown sharpened the razor, Charlotte addressed Simon, “Would you like me to shave you?”

Mr. Brown’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping as his gaze darted between her and Simon. “Sir?”

“Don’t let her anywhere near that razor. She’d as soon cut my throat as scrape my whiskers.”

“And here I thought you liked adventure,” she muttered and returned to her book.

Once Simon finished, they both went downstairs for breakfast. When an unkempt man made a lewd comment upon seeing her, she knew she’d made the right decision to wait for Simon.

Simon shot the man a glare—a rare expression for him, except when it came to her. “If you wish to keep the remaining two teeth in your ugly head, keep your mouth shut about my wife.”

“Oooh,” the man said, lifting his hands in mock horror. “Like this dandy has it in him to take me down.”

His equally filthy friend threw back his head and laughed as he pounded the table.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” Simon said. “It’s my wife who will gut you like a fish.” He leaned in, scrunching his nose at the stench, and whispered. “She’s already killed three men in the last week just for failing to tip their hats. Slit them from throat to tip with a shaving razor.”

“You lie!”

Simon gave his signature shrug, then eyed the man up and down. “On second thought, she’d probably just cut it off and stuff it down your throat. She’s especially good at emasculation.” With that, he gently tapped Charlotte’s arm, guiding her to a vacant table.

“What on earth were you thinking?” she hissed at her husband.

“Shut him up, didn’t it? Did you see how wary he became when he looked at you? Excellent work sending him your iciest glower. I think it topped the one you reserve for me.”

“I—” Her mouth snapped shut. Had she glowered? “You buffoon. Why did you antagonize him? He could have killed you.”

He lurched back. “Careful, Charlotte. I might think you cared.”

“I . . . you . . . don’t be ridiculous,” she stammered.

“Honestly, I know men like him. All bluster and nothing to back it up. And don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.” He delivered a pointed look. “And you, if the need arises.”

Out of sheer instinct, Charlotte prepared to deliver her setdown, telling Simon she could take care of herself, thank you very much. But the softness in his eyes, the way he caressed the wordyou, halted the words on her tongue. Discomfort from the unexpected and unfamiliar—yet not unwelcome—concern tightened her around her chest, squeezing and rousing her dead and buried heart back to life.

If Simon wasn’t careful, she might thinkhecared.

As they ate their breakfast, she paused, considering her husband. Did he care? Had what she believed to be manipulative tactics to take advantage of her been gestures of genuine concern for her well-being? Care for her as a person?

Preposterous! The idea unnerved her. So much so she pushed it aside, promising to examine it later.

Safely aboard the coach, they continued their journey to Swindon. Mercifully, Simon seemed more content to sit still, only changing his seat and position seven or eight times and only tapping on the carriage roof to stop and perform his ridiculous running ritual once.

Most of the time, Charlotte caught him looking at her intensely. Then he would wink and turn toward the window.

Having slept fitfully, she found her eyelids drooping, the rocking motion of the carriage like a mother’s lullaby.

Next to her, Simon said, “Put your head on my shoulder.”

“And have you toss me to the floor when you decide to jump up and move across to the other seat?” She laughed. “No, thank you.”

“Think of it as punishment for whatever offense I’ve committed. For I promise, I won’t move.”

The thought had a certain appeal. Settled against him, she drifted off to a dreamless slumber.

“Charlotte. Charlotte.”

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