Page 8 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

Simon fellagainst the foul-smelling sheets. Hopefully, Frampton would arrive to change them before Simon finished his bath. He couldn’t imagine Lady Charlotte performing the task. Hell, even Frampton might object.

Lady Charlotte Talbot. He chuckled to himself. Oh, the irony of it all. Seeing her at the front door made him think he was still dreaming—or whatever the appropriate verb form was regarding nightmares. Nightmaring? As irritatingly attractive as she was, Lady Charlotte was no one’s dream, but she was certainly his nightmare.

He’d almost considered asking her to pinch him to ensure he was awake but thought better of it. No doubt she would pinch him so hard she’d leave a bruise.

And speaking of bruises. Who had left that mark on her cheek? And why did she need to seek shelter for a few days?

Granted, he knew little about her other than she lived with her brother, the Marquess of Edgerton—who had declined to attend the house party Drake had given the previous summer. Not that the marquess’s subtle cut had surprised Simon. He’d never dealt with the younger marquess, but he knew the callous reputation of his father well.

The smaller estate the marquess held in Chippenham bordered the Beckham’s property near Swindon. And people talked. From all accounts, the son followed in his father’s cruel footsteps.

Honoria called the man most disagreeable—harsh indeed coming from Honoria, who liked everyone. Drake was less generous, calling the man uncharitable with a malevolent disposition. Simon expected no less of the sister.

When Simon first met Lady Charlotte, her relationship to Edgerton had been enough to set his teeth on edge. However, Honoria liked her, so Simon had made an effort—a half-hearted effort, to be honest. He wanted nothing to do with any of the Talbots.

Which made the powerful pull of attraction he felt whenever Lady Charlotte was near even more irksome than her icy demeanor. Those dark eyes promised mysteries and pleasures he could only imagine—although his imagination was quite vivid.

Lady Charlotte Talbot was not the kind of woman he should be attracted to—regardless of the undeniable spark between them. Cold and opinionated with a tongue as sharp as his valet’s razor, she was the embodiment of a termagant. And—as much as he hated to admit it—a challenge. Yet, try as he might, Lady Charlotte resisted his flirtatious advances. Not only resisted but grew even more prickly. It was enough to boil a man’s blood.

He paused, reflecting on her bruised cheek. Perhaps the ice queen’s sullen nature was defensive rather than offensive.

Hmm.The only times he’d given Lady Charlotte much thought were late at night when?—

The door burst open. “I have water.”

She carried in a large bowl of water. How in the world had she heated it so quickly?

“I’ll need more than that for a bath.”

She looked around the room. “Where is your tub?”

Damn. He hadn’t thought about that. “The footmen usually bring it in. I’ll just have to have a sponge bath.”

“Can you manage?” Was there a nervous tremor in her voice?

Even so, he couldn’t resist goading her. “Are you offering to assist me?”

Those rich, dark eyes of hers widened.

Why did she have to be so damn beautiful? And why, oh why, did he have to think about that while he was half-naked? “If you could please pour the water in the washbasin and place some towels on the floor by the dressing table, that will be sufficient.”

An audiblehuffcame from her delectable lips—damnation, why did he have to think about her lips—and she stomped to the dressing table.

“Towels are on the shelf below,” he said.

Muttered words, which he suspected were curses, drifted his way. When she bent over to lay the towels on the floor, his gaze drifted to her backside.

“Thank you.” His gratitude was for more than her help in laying the towels, but he kept that to himself. When he rose from the bed, another wave of heat assaulted him. Stumbling, he grabbed onto the side table. As before, the temporary respite of symptoms was far too brief, and he knew he was in for another round of fever, headache, fatigue—and God help him—vomiting.

Charlotte took a step toward him, but he held up his hand, signaling he was fine. Humiliating enough she witnessed as much as she did. He would not admit how sick he really was—especially to her. “If you would be so kind as to wait out in thehall. As you no doubt noticed, there are chairs stationed there at regular intervals. Leave the door ajar, and I will call if I need you.”

She nodded. “Very well.”

As she turned to leave, he stopped her. “And Lady Charlotte, I am most sincere when I say, ‘Thank you.’”

His ears may have been deceiving him, but he thought he heard a soft, “You’re welcome.”

After several deep breaths, he unbuttoned the already lopsided job he’d done on his trousers, slipped out of them, tossed them aside, then shuffled to the dressing table. His stomach roiled.Not now.The chamber pot was on the other side of the room.Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

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