Page 93 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

Alone with Georgie, Charlotte studied the child. So like Simon with her dark hair, clear-blue eyes, and exuberant spirit. Surprisingly, Charlotte found she rather liked children—at least older ones and, of course, Honoria’s adorable daughter Kitty.

Could motherhood be less foreboding than she’d imagined? Contrary to her statement, Mrs. Beckham certainly seemed to enjoy it. Did her own mother enjoy her children? Charlotte always remembered her as gentle but with an aching sadness about her—little wonder considering her tyrant of a husband. When she died so young, Charlotte became like a rudderless ship upon the sea. But perhaps she could learn from Judith.

“Charlotte, may I ask you something?”

“Of course. But depending on your question, I might decline to answer.”

Georgie laughed. “I like you. Why do women have to learn to embroider? I’m no good at it. Mama says the back of the fabricshould appear much like the front.” She turned the hoop over, exposing a tangled mess of thread.

“Embroidery is considered a genteel activity. It keeps a woman’s hands and mind busy and away from other things.” At least that’s what Charlotte’s mother had told her.

“Such as?”

Charlotte blinked. “Well...I’m not quite sure.” However, memories of Simon’s kisses made an appearance. “I suppose it’s one of the things that mothers pass down to daughter and are never quite sure who started the tradition or why.”

“It’s silly. Why should someone be forced to do something they don’t like or aren’t good at?”

The girl had a point. “Given a choice, what would you like to learn?

“Fencing,” the child said without hesitation. “I’ve seen Simon fence, and it looks like such fun. Being able to poke someone with a rapier!” She frowned at her embroidery, stabbing the cloth with gusto.

Charlotte laughed, something she was doing with unexpected regularity, the sensation wonderful. “I have a suspicion you would be quite good at it.”

Georgie beamed, and something in Charlotte’s heart cracked. Not precisely painful, but unnerving nonetheless.

She must remain on guard. Her heart was at risk.

CHAPTER 25

Simon flicked the line in the water, jerking his rod aggressively and hoping to catch at least one fish. He turned as footsteps squelched against the rain-soaked ground behind him. Had Charlotte sought him out? He pushed down the disappointment at his father’s welcoming wave.

“Are you trying to entice the fish with your lure or beat them over the head and knock them out?” His father stepped into the calf-deep water beside him and began expertly flitting his line, the rhythmic snap of his wrist causing the lure to dance across the surface of the river.

Simon had tried to emulate his father’s technique for years, the movement so graceful it appeared effortless. Perhaps hehadbeen a bit too vigorous in his technique. He blamed it on Charlotte.

Staring ahead at the rushing water, his father said, “Surprised to see you here. Thought you and your new wife would be holed up in the cottage for days on end. Is everything well?”

Simon grunted, the sound reminding him of Charlotte’s response earlier that morning.

“Hmph,” his father grunted back. “Your mother thinks I don’t know.”

Warning rang in Simon’s head, and he snapped to attention. “Know what?”

“I saw that scandal sheet she tried to hide from me, detailing the reason you married Lady Charlotte.” Attention still on the river, he added, “Is it true?”

“Partially, although that rag twisted it into something sordid.”

His father shook his head. “Gossip can ruin lives. And regardless of the circumstances, you did the right thing by your wife. I’m proud of you.” His line reeled out, and the rod bowed. “Got one!”

How could the man be there less than five minutes and catch something when Simon had worked his line for nearly an hour without a nibble? “Don’t lose him.”

“Ha!” His father shot him an exasperated look. “Who taught whom? Grab the net.”

“It’s a big one! Reel him in, Pa! Don’t let the line snap!” Excited as he was when he was a boy, Simon watched his father’s expertise, giving the fish enough line to run and exhaust itself, and then gradually reeling it in. Simon scooped him up in the net. “He’s a beauty. But it’s not Gus.”

“No. Close though, maybe his brother.”

“Is the rascal still alive?”

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