Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

S imon felt like bloody hell. How had it only been two hours since Drake and Honoria had left for Somerset? Hopefully, the quinine would start working its magic.

Dr. Somersby snapped his medical bag shut. "Let me know if you need more. The willow bark tea should also relieve the fever. I'll check on you tomorrow."

Simon shook his head. "No need. I'll send word if I need you. I don't want to take you from the clinic more than necessary."

Simon had come to respect both Oliver Somersby and Ashton—or as the duke insisted he be called—Harry.

"Harry would have come himself, but there was an important meeting in Parliament he didn't want to miss, especially with Burwood gone."

His head weary, Simon did his best to nod. "So Drake said. I appreciate it. But that's even more reason not to keep you from the people who really need your care."

Oliver patted his arm. "Dr. Marbry is there, and if any patients complain, his wife will keep them in line. "

Simon had no doubt about that. Word had it that Priscilla Marbry ran the clinic like a general. The more Simon had become acquainted with Honoria's circle of friends, the more he'd come to appreciate them for the oddities they were. Good people among the snobbish aristocracy.

All except the ice queen, Lady Charlotte Talbot, that was. Lord, why did he have to make himself feel worse by thinking of her? Her pugnacious demeanor could sour even his best of days.

"Be a good fellow and give the bell pull a tug. I don't think I have the strength." God, how he hated admitting that to anyone. "Frampton will show you out."

"Formalities aren't necessary with me," Oliver said. "I'm a big lad and am capable of finding the door myself."

Simon summoned the strength to grunt. Then he rolled over, hoping to find some respite in sleep. Thoughts of cool, calming water and the fresh scent of nature helped him slowly drift off to fitful slumber.

Charlotte paused at the entrance to the yellow parlor. Felix faced the window, his hands clasped behind his back as if it were any ordinary day and he was simply admiring the views of the gardens. If outward appearances were all that made up a man, Lord Felix Davies would have been considered an excellent catch. He could be charming when it suited him. She had thought so herself at one time—until he revealed the darkness lurking beneath his handsome exterior. She vowed never to allow any man's quick smile and pretty words cloud her judgment again.

Summoning the glower simmering beneath the surface, she strode forward. "Lord Felix."

He turned, his face breaking into a wide grin. Lord, she hated that about him. "Lady Charlotte. You're looking as agreeable as ever. I trust Edgerton has spoken with you."

"He has. And if you think for one moment I will agree to this atrocity of an arrangement, you're an even bigger imbecile than I took you for."

The grin remained, and he stepped closer. "Now, now, Charlotte. No need to be so testy. Although I admit it's part of your charm. I like a woman with a bit of fight in her." He stretched out a finger and trailed it up her arm.

She shuddered, his touch resurrecting the horrible memory. "Remove your hand, sir ."

The grin vanished, and his eyes grew sinister. "No." He wrapped his hand around her arm—tight, his fingers pressing into her flesh. There would be a bruise. "Get used to that word if you dare try to give me orders."

"It is you who should get used to the word." She struggled to pull away. But as before, he was too strong.

His cold, hollow laugh chilled her. "You can't say no to a husband." He grabbed her around the neck with his other hand and hauled her against his body. Then he forced his mouth on hers.

She bit him on the lip.

"You little . . ." He wiped at his lip, then gawked at the blood on his fingers. With a speed she didn't think him capable of, he reared back and struck her across the face. "You had better learn to mind, or you shall become intimately acquainted with the back of my hand."

Tears stung Charlotte's eyes, but she willed them back. She refused to show any weakness to the worm in front of her. Instead, she delivered a sound slap of her own. "I will...and do...say no to you. And you will never be my husband."

With narrowed eyes, he rubbed his cheek. "Perhaps Edgerton didn't make it clear. If you value your reputation—which knowing you, you do—you'll think long and hard about refusing me."

"Do your worst, sir. If you besmirch my innocence, you do damage to your own reputation as well. No man of honor would admit to taking a woman's virtue without marrying her."

He doubled over, laughing so hard the air around her seemed to vibrate. Tears of mirth formed in his eyes, and he wiped them away. "You fool. Even if I were a man of honor—which you know very well I'm not—both my father and your brother will attest to the fact that I have offered for you, and you turned me down." He tugged on the sleeves of his coat, reminding her of Roland. "And there might be a bit more gossip leaked about how I wasn't the first to experience your carnal pleasures. "

Every muscle in Charlotte's body tensed tighter than a bowstring. Blood pounded in her head. "You are lower than a worm. You are a . . . a . . ." What was a lower lifeform? At the moment, Charlotte would have gladly traded places with Beatrix Townsend. Bluestocking that she was, she would know.

Felix hitched a well-trimmed sandy eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I don't know. But it's an insult to worms to make a comparison to you." She trounced to the door and tugged the bell pull.

When a footman appeared, she said, "Show Lord Felix out. And make certain you slam the door after him, preferably before he's fully exited."

Felix had the audacity to laugh. "You'll change your mind soon enough." The slimy worm slithered forward. He leaned in and Charlotte felt his hot breath. "But bear in mind, I won't be as forgiving."

The footman motioned for Felix to precede him, then gave her a nervous nod.

She had no doubt Roland would be informed she had refused Felix's proposal—had he even proposed?—either by the footman or by Felix himself .

She needed a plan of action—somewhere to go. A haven. A sanctuary.

Honoria!

Simon was drowning in a foul-smelling swamp. Flailing his arms, he startled awake and clutched the sweat-soaked bed linens.

God. What was that stench? He took a tentative sniff of his armpit, discovering it was him.

Cursing the fact he'd had Frampton send all the servants away, he swung his legs off the bed and tried to rise. You can do this .

As he tried to stand, Simon's legs jiggled just about as much as the delicious jellied concoction Drake's cook had prepared for supper a week ago. He grabbed the bedside table, steadying himself.

His gaze drifted to a note lying on top.

Mr. Beckham,

Dr. Somersby said he expected you to sleep for hours. Cook left for the market, and I've taken the liberty of using the time for a personal errand. I will return shortly.

~ Frampton

"Damnation," Simon muttered. A little voice in the back of his fevered mind whispered he should wait for Frampton to return. He brushed the niggling aside. Simon Beckham waits for no one. And he could damn well take care of himself. Slowly releasing his grip on the bedside table, he pulled in a deep breath. You can do this.

Once he assured himself he wouldn't fall over, he pulled the soaked nightshirt off and tossed it aside. He'd only worn the bloody thing for Dr. Somersby's visit because Frampton insisted upon it .

Although he still smelled like a sewer, the cool air on his skin was a welcome relief. He needed to bathe and change the bed linens.

With tentative steps, he shuffled to the washstand, only to find the water remaining in the bowl had grown colder than the room itself. Nevertheless, he splashed some on his face, generating a series of intense shivers.

He stared down at the discarded nightshirt, quickly dismissing the idea of throwing it back on. He wasn't fully recovered yet, but he would feel somewhat human again if he could only get a bath and some clean linens.

The door seemed impossibly far away, and the kitchen on the ground floor where he could boil some water might as well be heaven for him to reach it. Managing both would be a herculean task in his condition.

One step at a time .

Thank goodness Drake had chairs placed strategically along the hallway and at the top and foot of the stairway. As Honoria increased, Drake worried about her walking too far, even though she assured him he was being ridiculous. Simon only recalled seeing her use the chair at the top of the stairs once, but at the moment, he was extremely grateful for Drake's overprotective nature.

Still foregoing the nightshirt, he tugged on a pair of trousers in case Cook was present in the kitchen. Admittedly, he might have missed a button or two as his trembling hands fastened the fall, but he was relatively decent.

You can do this .

You can do this.

You can do this.

He blew out a heavy breath and told himself to quit saying it and just do it! With each step, his legs wobbled like a newborn colt's, and more sweat beaded his brow. Finally out of his room, he made it to the first chair in the hallway in the nick of time .

Plop.

Gauging the distance to the next chair, which mercifully was the one near the top of the staircase, he calculated perhaps thirty steps. Once there, going down the stairs would be easier. Gravity would be on his side.

He refused to think about climbing them on his return—especially carrying a pot of hot water.

You can do this .

Convinced he had regained his strength, he forged forward, pleased he closed the distance with less difficulty. After a brief debate about foregoing another rest, he sat, but only for a few moments before he proceeded on his never-ending trek. The stairs did indeed prove easier, and he managed them quite well.

Perhaps he was improving already. The thought cheered him, which in turn cheered him more. He hated being sullen or dwelling on the negative.

Or stagnating in the damn bed. As difficult as his odyssey to the kitchen was, simply moving about improved his mood.

He'd just passed the front door, deciding to sit for a moment before heading toward the back stairs that led to the ground floor, when several knocks sounded.

If he was lucky, they would go away.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Bloody hell." Unsure why he murmured since he was the only one to hear himself curse, he rose from the chair and prepared to shoo off the impatient visitor.

He plastered on his most charming smile and threw open the door.

His nightmare waited on the other side.