Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

N ot long after Simon finished bathing, thunder crashed again in the distance.

"Hurry up."

Brown's brow quirked in an irritating fashion as he held the razor at Simon's throat to scrape off the last of his night whiskers. "Do you prefer I hurry, or do you prefer to go to your bride unmarked?"

"Well. Hurry but be careful."

With a scrape against Simon's skin that—truthfully—stung a mite more than necessary, Brown lifted the razor away with a flourish. "Finished." He swished the blade off in the bowl of soapy water as Simon dabbed at his face with a warm towel. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

Simon shook his head, grateful the towel remained free of blood when he stole a peek. "And don't worry about waking me tomorrow." With luck, Simon hoped to still be naked with his similarly unclothed wife in his arms.

Stoic, Brown exited, closing the door behind him.

Another boom of thunder sounded, louder than the first .

Blast.

Simon pulled on the banyan over his trousers and paced impatiently, waiting for Rose to tell him Charlotte was ready.

Brief flashes of light flickered in the windows, the answering call of thunder following.

What was keeping Rose?

Simon had given Charlotte time, enjoying a small glass of brandy after supper before having a bath. He checked the time—one hour had passed since they'd finished supper.

At the window, he watched the approaching storm. Unease settled in his chest, twisting around his lungs and squeezing.

Not tonight!

He paced some more, glancing at the clock every few minutes.

Had Charlotte changed her mind? And if so, why hadn't she sent word?

Well, he would bloody well find out.

He threw open the door to his room and strode to Charlotte's room next to his. Poised inches from the heavy oak, his hand halted mid-knock at the sounds coming from within.

Unsure what he heard, he leaned in, placing his ear against the wood. Another boom of thunder echoed through the house. A cry followed, a hollow-aching sob. He was certain of it.

Slowly, he twisted the knob and eased the door open a crack. A ball of cream and brown fur flew past him, claws skittering against the wood floor as Trifle raced down the hall.

"Charlotte?" Another crash of thunder drowned out his whispered word, the preceding burst of lightning silhouetting her like a nimbus. Curled up on the floor, Charlotte hugged her knees to her chest, her whimpers prickling like a warning against his skin.

Every instinct in him made him itch to turn and flee. To remove himself from a situation where he would only find pain. It would pull him under, suffocating him. Yet the sight of Charlotte so vulnerable kept him rooted in place.

Although he'd never paid much attention during Sunday sermons, one about a man facing a den of lions popped into his mind. Was it David?

No, David was the boy with the slingshot who faced a giant. Equally disturbing and frightening, but Simon also remembered the story with David and the woman he saw bathing on the roof. That story had captured his attention, and he would have surely associated David with lions if the man had faced them.

What was the chap's name?

Oh—Daniel. That was it. Simon felt very much like Daniel stepping into the lion's den.

But at the moment, he also knew he had something in common with his friend David. Because as much as he wanted to run from the sight of a weeping woman, he also wanted to comfort her. Hold her in his arms and soothe away her tears because . . . because?

Oh!

It hit him as surely as if one of Daniel's lions had pounced and hovered above him with bared teeth.

Because he cared about Charlotte.

Not just cared.

Because he loved her.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft snick . Barefoot, he padded soundlessly across the carpet toward her. "Charlotte."

Although he kept his voice gentle with the whisper of her name, her head shot up toward him, her eyes wide, her cheeks wet with tears.

Turn! Run! the cowardly voice in his head shouted.

"No." He hadn't meant to say the word aloud, only to override the overwhelming desire to protect himself when he needed to protect Charlotte .

Charlotte swiped at her tear-stained face, her brows drawn in a typical scowl. "How dare you have the audacity to tell me not to cry?"

He should have run when he had the chance. "I wasn't. I was talking to myself."

She straightened, wiping her face again, then turned away. "A likely story. Although you're daft enough to do it. I suppose you're here to claim your husbandly rights."

He crouched down next to her. "I grew worried when Rose didn't come for me. When I heard the storm, my concern grew tenfold."

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine."

"You're not fine. If there is one thing I can count on about you, it's your brutal honesty, so don't lie to me now. Not about something that matters." He softened his voice again. "Tell me why the storms upset you."

Dark curls, draping alluringly down her shoulders, brushed against her nightrail as she shook her head. "You'll laugh and think I'm ridiculous."

Seated fully on the floor beside her, he stretched out his legs. "Remember to whom you're speaking. Of all people, I'm the last to think someone is ridiculous."

A strangled burble of a laugh escaped her. "True enough." When her eyes locked with his, affection shone in their dark depths.

Taking a chance, he lifted her hand and entwined it with his. "Tell me. I promise I will remain serious. It will be a chore, I admit, but I shall prevail." He grinned at her, hoping to coax her into continuing.

"Then why are you smiling like a fool?" Her lips tipped up a fraction. Not enough to display her dimple, but enough to put forth a brave front.

He wanted to kiss her tear-stained cheeks, but that would come later. First, he needed to listen while she unburdened herself. And to do that, he needed to be serious.

For Charlotte.

With his free hand, he wiped down his face, erasing the silly grin, replacing it with a more solemn expression. "Better?"

Charlotte marveled at Simon's fingers laced together. Larger, his hand practically engulfed hers. Warm and comforting, his touch secured her to the present.

To her own amazement, for once in her life, she felt safe. She took a deep breath. "I was always afraid of thunderstorms; the noise, the jagged flashes of lightning like daggers in the air. I turned to my mother. She would hold me, whispering soothing words, allowing me to sleep with her."

As if to taunt her, another burst of light illuminated Simon's face. She braced herself for the crack of thunder, still jumping when it arrived.

Squeezing her hand, Simon urged her on. "But something changed."

"Yes. My mother died the winter of my sixth year." She didn't have the heart to tell Simon her mother had died from complications of a difficult pregnancy—not considering how he stormed from Pendrake House in a fright during Honoria's delivery. "One night the next spring, during a particularly severe storm, Nanny chastised me, telling me to cease my foolish crying. I wanted my mother, but of course, she was gone. Roland was on a grand tour of Europe and Nash was away at school."

"Did your brothers give you comfort?" The doubt in Simon's eyes was unmistakable.

"Not Roland, of course. But if Mother wasn't available, Nash would hold my hand"—her attention drifted down to Simon's hand joined with hers—"much as you are. He'd tell me the noise was simply the angels arranging furniture."

"He sounds like a good man."

She smiled at Simon's serious expression. "Nash would laugh at that, then deny it flatly. He hides it well, but yes, he is. I miss him."

"What did you do when Nanny criticized you? And from my viewpoint, she sounds like a horrible nanny."

Another burble of strangled laughter escaped her throat. "Oh, she was. Father dismissed my previous nanny when Mother died and hired Miss Crabbypants."

Simon barked a laugh, then ran his hand down his face again, restoring his solemn expression. "Sorry. Was that really her name?"

"No. Miss Crabtree. I only called her Crabbypants behind her back."

Simon squeezed her hand again. "Ah, you developed your wit at an early age."

Even through the horrendous recounting, her heart warmed at Simon's compliment. "Anyway, I kicked Nanny in the shins and raced away in search of my father." She paused, pulling in another fortifying breath. "My father was not a kind man, but he was still my father, and as a child, I naturally sought him out for protection."

Another squeeze. "As you should."

She shook her head. "Not in this case. It was a grave error. A servant told me he was in his study and not to disturb him." She sent him a sheepish glance. "As you can imagine, I didn't mind very well."

Simon smiled but didn't apologize.

"Voices drifted from the room through the cracked door, and I peeped in. Lord Cheswick and Father were discussing something I didn't understand. Lord Cheswick said something about his daughter and how the Duke of Burwood's youngest son ruined everything by running off with a commoner."

"Burwood? As in Drake's ancestor?"

Charlotte blinked. The horrible memory so buried, she hadn't put those pieces together. "I suppose so. I could be misremembering that part. But my father's words are seared in my mind. He said, ‘Females are nothing but a nuisance. Only good for two things: Rutting and making an advantageous marriage. And female offspring are even worse. I plan to marry Charlotte off the moment she comes of age.' He said he wanted to be rid of the nuisance."

With his free hand, Simon brushed away a strand of hair from her face. "Well, you showed him, didn't you? And he was wrong, of course. What happened next?"

Entranced by Simon's blue eyes, when another flash of lightning and subsequent thunder came, Charlotte barely registered it. "I raced through the door and toward my father. The look he gave me still chills me. Such anger and—loathing. I cried, telling him I wanted my mother. He grabbed me by the arm and said, ‘You want your mother? I'll give you your mother.' Upstairs, he opened the door to her bedchamber—where she died." She paused, catching her breath and willing herself to relieve the awful memory.

Rather than squeezing her hand again, Simon placed his other hand on top and stroked her fingers. "It's all right, Charlotte. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

How could such a rake be so gentle and considerate? Her stomach knotted that she had misjudged him.

He'd promised he wouldn't laugh or think her ridiculous, and she took a leap of faith, stepping out into the uncharted territory of trust, giving him ammunition to hurt and control her.

"First, he yanked down all the curtains, leaving nothing to shield me from the flashes of lightning. Then, he locked me in her room, telling me that since I wanted my mother so badly, I should summon her ghost."

Simon's face surely mirrored her own on that night long ago. Mouth agape, he gawked. "My God, Charlotte. That's ghastly. And you were only six?"

"Yes." The word came out strangled, but she needed to finish it. "The room had been sealed since Mother's death. With no fire in the grate, the air was frigid. Wind howled, the sound seeping through a tiny crack in the window, sounding eerily like a phantom. And of course, as a child, I believed it was my mother's ghost. Huddled and shivering in a corner, my hands over my ears, I jumped at every sound, not only the thunder, but footsteps approaching the room. Any moment, I expected to see my mother's specter take shape before me. And the thought wasn't . . . comforting."

"No. Of course it wasn't." Simon stared down at their conjoined hands. "Forgive me, but your father was a bastard. If he were here, I would drink enough whisky to cast up my accounts all over him, as I did your brother."

"Thank you."

He smiled. "It would be my sincere pleasure."

She shook her head. "Not for that—well, yes, for that, but for listening and not laughing."

His blue eyes widened. "Why in the world would I laugh? Your father—I want to spit because he was no father to you—tortured you. That is no way to treat a child who is frightened and needs comfort."

In that moment, Charlotte realized she hadn't heard any booms of thunder. Her gaze jerked toward the window. "Is the storm passing?"

He stroked her fingers. "I believe so. Shall I stay a while longer, or should I leave? I'll do whatever you wish."

Trust. Yes. Perhaps she could trust this man. Her husband. "Stay, if you would, and hold me? "

"My pleasure." He wrapped his arms around her, and she settled into the warmth of his embrace.

Rumbles of thunder decreased in volume, the intervals between the diminishing bursts of light growing longer. With her head on his shoulder, Simon counted for her, softly whispering in her ear as he stroked her arm.

When his last count reached twenty, she relaxed enough to take in the sensations of him. Notes of sandalwood and spice mixed with the clean scent of shaving soap. Firm muscle met her hands under his banyan, a testament to his need to be active. Although deep, his voice remained soothing and comforting, not raised in anger or condescension. Candlelight rimmed his profile. His square jaw, free of evening whiskers, spoke of the strength under his gentleness.

"You smell nice," she said.

"I bathed. Just for you." When he grinned, she no longer found it ridiculous.

However, his comment reminded her of his reason for coming to her room. She toyed with the lapel of his banyan, keeping her gaze focused on his bare chest beneath. "Simon. About tonight."

"Charlotte, I won't hold you to that."

She licked her lips, and his gaze followed the movement. "I want you to. Will you kiss me?"