Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

G ah! Charlotte berated herself. Why on earth had she allowed that admission to slip out? Simon's confession must have made her soft.

He blinked. "You're . . . jealous of me?"

"Of course not." She snapped her response much too quickly. "I simply don't trust people whom everyone likes."

His upturned lips indicated he didn't believe a word of her lie. "You like Honoria, don't you?"

"Of course. But that's different."

"How? Everyone adores her." He met her gaze. "As they should. She's a marvel. Drake is one lucky bas—man."

"Because Honoria is a woman and has proven her trustworthiness."

"And Anne Weatherby? She's so much like me it's frightening." He laughed to punctuate his point.

"I tolerate Anne for Honoria's sake. But despite her silliness, she's not a bad person."

His eyes widened, and he snapped the ribbons a little more aggressively. "And I am? "

Blood whooshed in her ears. How could he aggravate her so easily? "Stop putting words in my mouth! What I mean is, men have ulterior motives underlying their charms. " She held onto her bonnet. "And please slow down! My tarts will be nothing but crumbs and jam the way you drive."

"Ulterior motives such as?"

"You're a man, you should know."

"Plenty of women have ulterior motives. Leg-shackling a poor unsuspecting fellow being foremost among them."

She twisted on the seat toward him. "Are you accusing me of trapping you? Because if you are?—"

"Why do you think the only reason I married you was because I had to?"

She huffed. "Because it's true."

"No." He shook his head as if to emphasize it. "I could have sent you back with your brother and Lord Felix, which—if I need to remind you—they wanted. And you could have refused my offer."

Reluctant to admit he had a point, she crossed her arms over her bosom.

He snapped the ribbons again. "I married you because I wanted to. Because, as strange as it sounds, it made sense. And if you would only use that sharp mind of yours, you would agree with me."

He wanted to marry her? Certain her mouth hung open, she asked, "You think I have a sharp mind?"

He darted another glance her way. "Everything I said, and that's what you homed in on?" He rolled his eyes. "Of course you have a sharp mind. Don't fish for compliments. It's not attractive."

"I wasn't fishing." The man was insufferable! "I'm simply surprised you have any good opinion of me."

"I don't know why you think you're unlovable, Charlotte. "

If anything, Charlotte was a realist. Strong-willed, opinionated, harsh, and even abrasive, she failed to meet the submissive standard for women. But traits society saw as flaws had been her protection—her armor, such as it was, keeping people who could harm her at arm's length. Her father, and subsequently her brother Roland, had groused about the fact that she intimidated suitors, sending them scurrying for the safety of the nearest eye-fluttering miss.

They were not wrong. And she had successfully slipped from the jaws of marriage numerous times. Until Simon Beckham.

She gawked at her husband. "And you don't? You detest me."

Simon's expression softened—an odd reaction to her deliberate scowl. "I don't detest you. In fact, I'm growing to like you. If you would only stop getting in your own way."

She'd heard the expression take the wind out of the sails from naval men, but it wasn't until that moment she understood it. Perhaps Simon Beckham was the one man with whom she could not only be herself, but who was strong enough to accept her for it. Who would have imagined?

Anxious to steer the conversation away from herself, she tried to make amends. "Thank you for Trifle."

A slow smile crept across his face. "You're welcome. We'll stop by the main house to get her before we return home."

Perhaps the time had come to heed Honoria's request. Summoning her courage, Charlotte touched Simon's arm. "If you wish, you may come to my bed tonight."

If he wished? If he wished?! Simon had thought of nothing else since they exchanged vows. Hell, truthfully, even before that, as ill-advised as it had been. Attracted to her from the moment he saw her at Drake's house party the previous summer, Simon had been devastated to learn she was the daughter and sister of the former and current Marquess of Edgerton.

Reason dictated he should immediately dislike her, and her prickly demeanor and snide comments had made the task effortless.

He didn't want to feel the pull to her, because like Icarus, if he flew too close, he would no doubt be burned—even consumed. There were so many analogies. Black widow spiders. Praying Mantises. She would entice him in and then quickly stab him in the back.

Lady Charlotte was a dangerous woman.

Or so he had thought. But over the course of the last few weeks, he'd caught tiny glimpses of the vulnerable woman she kept locked away under that harsh exterior.

The joy on her face when he'd taught her how to hold Drake's newborn daughter. Her appreciation of his family's estate. The genuine affection in her eyes as she conversed with Georgie. Softening of her features as she cuddled Trifle. The fierce determination to protect a child being mistreated.

And of course, her understanding of his own failings with Joy. She may not have realized it, but he saw compassion in her eyes, not condemnation or judgment as he expected, when he confessed all to her.

Something—or someone—made her hide that side of herself, only allowing it to slip out when she believed no one was watching, or in time of great emotion.

Lady Charlotte was a complicated woman. One who didn't mirror back his faults as Joy had, but would—perhaps, just perhaps—balance them out. As he might for her.

"Well?" She huffed, the look in her eyes more worry than annoyance belying her exasperated tone. "If you don't wish to?—"

"Oh. I wish to. In fact. Hold on to your tarts." He snapped the ribbons, sending the poor horses into a gallop, and Charlotte fell back against the seat with a squeal.

Fortuitously, they arrived back at the house in record time. Dark clouds loomed overhead as they descended from the carriage, and he scanned the sky. "Looks like we're in for a storm." He instructed the groom to leave the carriage there for their return to the cottage.

After making their apologies to his family, declining his mother's offer to stay for supper, they retrieved Trifle. Worn out, the kitten was curled up in a ball, sleeping next to Nightly.

With care Simon had begun to pay particular notice to, Charlotte scooped the kitten in her hands and was rewarded with an enormous yawn and protesting meow.

When Georgie noticed the package of tarts, she practically drooled.

His mother's gaze darted between him and Charlotte, her brow furrowed with concern. "You stopped at the bakery?"

"Yes. I've told Charlotte everything."

Although relief painted his mother's face, Georgie's brow furrowed. "Everything what?" Only five at the time, Georgie was oblivious to what happened with Joy.

"Never mind," he said, patting his sister on the head.

Charlotte gave him a censorious look. "She's not a dog, Simon, and she's too old to pat on the head."

Georgie crossed her arms over her slight chest, giving a curt nod, then stuck out her tongue, completely negating Charlotte's assessment.

And no doubt to Charlotte's disdain, Simon mimicked back the gesture to his sister. "I don't have time to explain. We need to be off before the storm hits." It was a perfect excuse, even if it was a little cowardly.

Charlotte handed Trifle to Georgie and made haste unwrapping the tarts, leaving eight for Simon's family—one for each except for Georgie, who Charlotte said could have two. "That leaves four for Simon and me."

"Two each?" Simon asked, his mouth already watering.

"No. One for you, three for me." The sparkle in Charlotte's dark eyes told him she might be persuaded to relinquish the third one if given the proper persuasion.

Quickly re-wrapping the package as Charlotte retrieved Trifle, he scooped it up and ushered Charlotte out of the house.

During the short amount of time they'd been inside, the clouds had grown darker, and the air grew thick with the building storm. In the distance, a flash of lightning slashed through the darkening sky. Simon waited for the answering boom of thunder, relieved when it didn't follow immediately.

"We have time. The storm's still miles away."

"How can you tell?" When the answering call of thunder finally arrived, Charlotte jumped in her seat, clutching Trifle to her bosom.

"That's how." He tipped his head toward the approaching storm. "The closer the storm, the sooner the thunder sounds after a lightning flash. But we should still hurry."

By the time they arrived at the cottage, fat raindrops plopped against the ground, slowly at first, then increasing in both rapidity and number.

They dashed into the house, with only their outer garments touched by the downpour. Trifle jumped from Charlotte's arms, eager to explore her new home.

Simon handed his hat to John, then helped Charlotte with her pelisse.

He leaned in, whispering, "You smell fresh like the rain." He allowed his fingers to linger on the soft skin at her neck, then tugged the pelisse from her shoulders.

While he gave instructions for Cook to prepare a light supper, his gaze snagged on Charlotte peering out the front window. The curtain, hooked in her hand, shook as another roar of thunder cut through the silence.

In four long strides, he traversed the floor to be by her side. About to ask if she enjoyed watching the storm, he held his tongue.

Her eyes appeared frantic, jerking back and forth as if searching the sky, her mouth set in a grim line. Lightning flashed again in the distance, and she sucked in an audible breath.

"Count, Charlotte. Slowly."

As her gaze darted toward him, her brow furrowed.

"To mark the distance and see if the storm is moving closer or farther away," he explained.

When the thunder crashed, she jumped.

The urge to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest, wrestled with his need to flee from the pain flashing in her eyes with each crack of thunder.

The least he could do was force himself to remain by her side and count the intervals between flash and crash.

Counts of one, two, three, four, five, and so on slipped softly from Charlotte's lips with each pairing of the storm. When the counts increased to twelve and the thunder's sound grew fainter, her shoulders relaxed, and she met his gaze, her eyes questioning.

"It's moving away. From the look of the clouds, eastward toward London. Now, will you come away from the window? We have time to refresh before supper."

He wanted to ask if her offer to come to her bed still stood, but he remained silent. She would think him a cad, only concerned about his own selfish needs. He admitted his selfishness, but he was grateful for the reprieve from the storm nonetheless.

Conversation during supper was surprisingly pleasant, with Charlotte slipping tiny bites of chicken to Trifle, who meowed at her feet.

Enraptured, Simon observed his wife. His wife. For the first time since they'd exchanged vows, he welcomed the words. The adoration on her face as she first admonished the kitten, then gave in to Trifle's demands, causing his heart to squeeze. If she'd see herself as he did at that moment, she would know she was lovable.

The thought brought him up sharply, and he quickly brushed it away. He c ared about her, certainly. A husband should care about his wife's happiness and well-being. It wasn't the same as love. He would treat her well and give her affection without giving her his heart, or she give hers—surely.

"You're going to spoil her," he said after she gave Trifle the sixth piece of chicken. Purposely keeping his voice light and uncritical, he added, "Either that or make her sick. She's not used to such things."

"Did you hear that, Trifle? Your papa says no more."

The kitten's meow of protest quickly changed as he lowered a shred of chicken toward the floor, waving it to get Trifle's attention.

He chuckled to himself. Papa indeed . Unbidden, an image of Charlotte swollen with his child flashed before him. Warmth spread through him as he pictured Charlotte grousing over her increasing belly and complaining of the inability to see her feet.

And he found he enjoyed it—even looked forward to it. He would pamper and tease her, and she would call him ridiculous when he would insist she rest, a pillow propped under her feet and behind her back.

A grin tugged at his lips.

"What's so amusing?" Charlotte jerked his attention back, her scowl matching the image of his daydream so closely he laughed. She lifted a serviette. "Do I have food somewhere?" Even her annoyed tone made him smile.

"No. I was simply picturing you as a mother."

She arched a dark brow at him. "And you find that . . . humorous? "

He leaned in, propping his chin on his palm. "I find it delightful." And perhaps in an hour or so, they would be well on their way to creating such a child.

When she finished the last of her dessert—trifle with chocolate shavings, of course—he said, "Why don't you go up and have a nice relaxing bath? I'll have Rose let me know when you're ready."

She gave a silent nod, her expression determined, as if readying herself for battle.

And he vowed to make it the best battle she had ever lost.

Upstairs, Charlotte eased back into the tub of warm water. Rose had washed her hair and rinsed it with a solution of water and lemon juice. The lemon scent mixed with the water and coated her skin as well. Between the clean fragrance and the soothing water, Charlotte's muscles slowly relaxed.

She spoke words of encouragement to herself. How hard could it be? She sighed. If only her mother were still alive to counsel her. Everything had happened so quickly after the wedding. She'd meant to ask Honoria, but the unexpected arrival of little Kitty had made that impossible.

Charlotte had heard snippets from widows as they crowded together at balls and soirées. But the different accounts had confused her. Should she lie motionless and think of the king and England—which seemed odd and, honestly, unappealing—or should she participate? The latter seemed the more logical choice. After all, Charlotte was a woman of action. But how? What should she do?

Should she ask Simon? Would he laugh at her ineptitude—or worse, her boldness?

Gah!

No matter how nervous she was, she couldn't dally in the water much longer. The skin of her fingers had developed tiny wrinkles. After Rose dressed her in a fresh nightrail and towel dried her hair, she prepared to braid it.

Remembering Simon's expression when her hair had hung loose, Charlotte stopped her maid. "Leave it down, Rose."

Charlotte's fingers shook as she draped a dark lock of her hair over her shoulder to lie against her bosom. When had she grown interested in garnering Simon's approval? "Wait half an hour before calling Mr. Beckham. I have a letter I wish to write."

Rose curtsied. "Very well, ma'am." The maid sent Charlotte a knowing smile, then closed the door behind her.

The supposed letter was a ruse. Charlotte simply needed to prepare herself. She breathed deeply, smoothing her palms over the soft cotton of her nightrail as she cast glances at the large bed.

A sudden boom jolted her from her worrying, and she raced to the window, pulling back the curtain. She squinted into the pitch-black darkness, unable to make out anything—until lightning arced across the sky, the razor-sharp strands of light outlining monstrous, menacing clouds. She counted. "One, two, three, four, five, six—" Boom .

Strained minutes passed while she waited at the window for another flash of lightning, counting again. She only made it to three.

Close. Much closer than it had been before nightfall, the storm had returned.

Trifle meowed at her feet, and she picked up the kitten. "Shush." Her hand trembled as she stroked the kitten's soft fur, and another flash of lightning, so close silhouettes of the trees in front of the house appeared, the answering call of thunder not even giving her time to open her mouth.

Rain pelted the window in heavy, angry drops, dripping down in streams.

She clutched Trifle so tightly to her bosom, the kitten squirmed from her grasp, then jumped to freedom, scurrying under the bed.

Terror swept over her, the memory of that night, so long ago, clawing its way to the surface.

Alone. Afraid. A child seeking comfort and finding rejection.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating her room, and the crash of thunder reverberated through her bones. Though she tried to hold it in, a heart-wrenching sob climbed up her throat and escaped her lips.