Page 9 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

When he dipped the sponge into the water and squeezed it out, it felt—cold. No wonder Charlotte had returned so quickly. He sighed. Stupid of him to expect more from the ice queen. An inadvertent chuckle rumbled in his chest. Ice queen. Cold water. Fever was making him delirious.

At times in the military, they’d been forced to bathe using cold water. The best approach was to do so as quickly as possible to get it over with. Convincing himself a sudden deluge of cold water would also reduce the inferno growing inside him, he put down the sponge, picked up the basin, and dumped the contents over his head.

A series of colorful—and loud—curses flew from his lips.

CHAPTER 4

Waiting in the hall, Charlotte paced nervously, careful to avoid walking in front of the partially opened door to Mr. Beckham’s bed chamber—although her treacherous gaze flitted toward it more than once.

The amber bottle on the bedside table had captured her attention, but not as much as the word on the label. Quinine. She searched her memory, which she was proud to say was excellent. Where had she heard that term?

Before she could puzzle out the answer, footsteps sounded from below, and she peeped over the balustrade. A head of salt-and-pepper hair—attached to the body of Burwood’s butler—appeared. When he approached the staircase and his gaze caught hers, his eyes widened.

Charlotte would never be certain of the exact order in the subsequent chain of events—the only certainty being the outcome. But if she had to guess, her logical mind would have explained the sequence thusly.

A thunderous knock sounded at the front door, and the butler jerked his attention away and headed toward the door. Whoeverthe impatient caller was, must not see her unchaperoned in a house with Mr. Beckham—who, at the very same moment, uttered an exceedingly raucous string of curses, some of which she had to admit she’d never heard before—even from her brother Nash—but were in fact, most creative.

Had he fallen? After a moment’s hesitation, she dashed toward Mr. Beckham’s door.

She skidded to an abrupt halt at the sight of Mr. Beckham, completely nude and dripping wet. A littleeeekescaped unbidden.

He turned and faced her, which, in retrospect, had not been the wisest choice.

Voices shouting from below grew louder as did the pounding of footsteps.

Roland and Felix burst into the room with Burwood’s butler close on their heels.

“Sirs, I beg of you,” the poor butler said, darting a glance between her and Mr. Beckham. To his credit, the man looked more apologetic than shocked.

Roland’s face purpled. “What is the meaning of this?” he roared. Roared!

Felix’s gaze bounced from Charlotte to Mr. Beckham’s...

Oh, dear.

“If you’re choosing that”—he pointed to Mr. Beckham’s...well, a genteel woman didn’t discuss a man’s private parts—“over me. You’ll be sorely disappointed.” The man smirked.

Charlotte wanted to slap his smug face.

Mr. Beckham took a step forward. “The water wascold.” He snapped the word, his glare just as glacial.

“Sir.” The butler, Frampton, she believed was his name, rushed over, grabbed a towel from the dressing table, and held it in front of Mr. Beckham.

Mr. Beckham snapped the towel out of Frampton’s hands, then wrapped it around his torso. He still appeared ghastly, withhis hair plastered to his head. Water dripped down his chest—his very muscular chest, Charlotte was loath to note—but his strength seemed to have returned.

Nose-to-nose with Felix, he grabbed Felix by the cravat. “What do you mean ‘over me?’ Are you the blackguard who did this to her face?” Not looking back, he pointed in her direction.

When he turned toward her brother, Charlotte took a breath.

“Who the bloody hell are you people? And what are you doing here?”

Roland ignored Mr. Beckham, pushing him out of the way. “Lady Charlotte, return home at once.”

Anger helped Charlotte find her voice amid her mortification. “How did you find me?”

“When I discovered you had left—unchaperoned, no less—I made enquiries. The coachman was most forthcoming.”

Charlotte should have known the precious five shillings she gave the driver wouldn’t maintain his silence. Not when Roland most likely threatened his position.

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