Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

C harlotte reeled back at the sight of a half-naked Simon Beckham, his body filling the open doorway. Her gaze locked on the smattering of dark hair on his bare—and annoyingly muscular—chest. "How dare you answer the door in that state of dishabille?! Where is the butler?"

The man flashed that ridiculous grin at her, reminding her of Felix and what she had just escaped. "Good afternoon to you, too, Lady Charlotte. Frampton is out on some errands. To what do I owe the pleasure ?"

She tried to peer around him and not stare at his chest—which admittedly was a difficult feat. "Where is Honoria?" Her grip tightened on the handle of her bulging portmanteau.

"She and Drake are on their way to Somerset. The viscountess died."

At that bit of news, Charlotte's gaze snapped back to Mr. Beckham.

Sweat dotted his forehead, and his skin appeared flushed. She darted a quick—very well, it most likely wasn't quick—glance at his lower half. Two buttons on his fall appeared undone, and one was most definitely in the wrong opening. What is going—oh!

Heat flooded her cheeks—not something that happened to her often. She attributed it to being taken completely off guard. She summoned her most caustic tone. "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to interrupt your liaison. Although, I shouldn't be surprised. While the cat's away and all that. But you should be ashamed, sir, taking advantage of Honoria's time of grief for your own pleasure."

She turned away from him. Where in the world could she go next? Miranda still lived with her parents. Anne was out of the question, regardless of where she lived. Admittedly, Charlotte had few female friends she could trust. In truth, she had few female friends in general. Oh, very well, she had very few friends at all, female or male.

"There's no one here with me," Mr. Beckham said. "I wish there were." His mumbled addition caught her attention.

She spun around to face him again. "What do you mean?" On closer inspection, he looked—ghastly. Odd, it was not a word she would have used in conjunction with the rake, no matter how much she disliked him.

He grabbed the edge of the door as if he needed it for support.

"You're ill," she said as matter-of-fact as if she'd said the grass was green.

"How very astute of you, my lady." He pressed his lips together, the grim expression once again so unlike his usual unwavering and unrealistic optimism that drove her mad. The man lived in a make-believe world of rainbows and puppies. "I hate to ask, but since you're here . . ."

"Where are the servants?"

"What about ‘no one's here' don't you understand? Not simply a paramour, although I hate to admit I'm in no shape to be entertaining with any degree of satisfaction for my partner. "

Her cheeks flamed again. Damnation.

He had the audacity to grin. "But the servants are gone. Except for Cook and Frampton, and Frampton, as I said, is not here at the moment."

His gaze jerked to the overstuffed bag in her hand. Then his eyes returned to her face, his eyes narrowing. "What in the devil happened to your cheek?"

Unbidden, her free hand flew to her face, the area tender from where Felix had backhanded her. "It's nothing."

"The hell it's nothing." He released his grip on the door and hauled her inside the doorway, then proceeded to slam the door. "What happened? Did someone strike you?"

Oh, no. She refused to admit what Felix did. Not to another rake just like him. "It's none of your concern."

"It is most definitely my concern. You have a bag with you and a bruise upon your cheek. Are you seeking shelter from someone, Lady Charlotte?"

She jerked back—his words buffeting her almost like the blow from Felix. He actually sounded sincere—and kind. "I . . . only for a few days. But Honoria isn't here. I should leave." She reached for the doorknob, fully intending to go. Where, she still didn't know.

Until he fell into the chair by the door. He really did look ghastly.

Halting, she recalled his unfinished request. "You were going to ask me something."

Slumped in the chair, he peered up, his striking blue eyes pleading. "Would you see if Cook is in the kitchen?"

For a man of business, Mr. Beckham was clearly dense. "Why didn't you simply ring for her?"

"She may not be there. Frampton left a note saying she went to the market."

"And you didn't check first?" With no need for propriety around the dolt of a man, Charlotte rolled her eyes, then trudged to the nearest room and searched for a bell pull. "Men and their stupid pride," she muttered and pulled the cord.

"It's not pride."

Charlotte spun to find Mr. Beckham leaning against the doorframe. However, his posture indicated he did so to support himself rather than appear rakish. Hmm. "No? You're clearly in no condition to be doing whatever it was you planned to do." She motioned back to the chair in the entrance. "Now, sit before you fall over."

Delivering a scowl, he lumbered back to the entry and plopped back in the chair. "Bossy," he muttered.

"So, let me understand. You were going to the kitchen?"

"Give the woman an award."

Insufferable . The man couldn't be serious if he tried, which irked her to distraction. And the fact that everyone seemed to like him for his buffoonery galled her even more. "I'm trying to help you."

"Ha!" He scowled again.

People often assumed because Charlotte didn't wear her heart on her sleeve, she didn't have one. However, her forthright demeanor served as a suit of armor, encasing the extremely tender heart she held within. One must protect what is most vulnerable, especially from rakes such as Mr. Beckham.

"What were you going to do if your cook wasn't there?"

"Heat some water."

She laughed. "For tea?"

"Yes and no."

"Stop being obtuse." Goodness, why was she still standing there discussing this nonsense with this ridiculous man? Oh, right. She had nowhere else to go.

The cad had the nerve to grin at her. He motioned her forward.

Unsure what he was about, she took one tentative step toward him .

He motioned again. "Closer."

With each step, he motioned to her again until she was standing less than a foot in front of him. "Goodness, what is that stench?"

His grin widened. "Me."

She held her free hand to her nose and mouth. "It's revolting." She grinned back at him. "You're revolting."

"For once, I agree with you. Or maybe that's twice. We did seem to be in agreement about Drake and Honoria. So you see, I need some hot water for a bath as well as some to brew some medicinal tea."

Minutes later, as Charlotte waited, quietly tapping her foot in agitation, neither the cook nor the butler appeared. "It doesn't appear anyone is here."

He quirked a dark eyebrow. "Really? Isn't that what I said in the first place?" He rose, holding onto the chair for support. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be off to the kitchen."

Oh, he truly was insufferable. "Wait. You'll no doubt fall down the stairs and break your neck, and I have no desire to be accused of your murder."

"Ha! It would almost be worth it."

She should leave and let him wait until the butler returned. But with his unfailing optimism, the fool would no doubt attempt to navigate the steps on his own. Exhaling an audible sigh, she placed her bag on the floor. "Very well. I'll help you. First, let's get you in bed."

He chuckled, the sound doing odd things to her stomach.

Argh . She shouldn't have said that.

"I thought you'd never ask. Now, if you could allow me to lean on you a bit." He lifted his arm. "Around your shoulders would work best."

Good grief!

She made no further comments lest he twist them into something inappropriate. Goodness, but he stank. After much struggling, she managed to get him up the stairs, and he directed her toward his bedchamber.

"Now I shall need a bath of my own," she said, dumping him onto his mattress.

"You could join me."

Gah!

Ignoring that ridiculous but oddly enticing comment, she said, "Now, where is the kitchen?"

"Down the hall to the right of the entrance. At the back, there is a flight of stairs to the ground floor. You can't miss it."

At least he didn't pursue his obscene suggestion about them bathing together. She nodded. "I'll be back."

As she walked toward the door, he chuckled. "Do you even know how to boil water?"

"How hard can it be?" With that, she slammed the door behind her.

Simon fell against the foul-smelling sheets. Hopefully, Frampton would arrive to change them before Simon finished his bath. He couldn't imagine Lady Charlotte performing the task. Hell, even Frampton might object.

Lady Charlotte Talbot. He chuckled to himself. Oh, the irony of it all. Seeing her at the front door made him think he was still dreaming—or whatever the appropriate verb form was regarding nightmares. Nightmaring? As irritatingly attractive as she was, Lady Charlotte was no one's dream, but she was certainly his nightmare.

He'd almost considered asking her to pinch him to ensure he was awake but thought better of it. No doubt she would pinch him so hard she'd leave a bruise.

And speaking of bruises. Who had left that mark on her cheek? And why did she need to seek shelter for a few days ?

Granted, he knew little about her other than she lived with her brother, the Marquess of Edgerton—who had declined to attend the house party Drake had given the previous summer. Not that the marquess's subtle cut had surprised Simon. He'd never dealt with the younger marquess, but he knew the callous reputation of his father well.

The smaller estate the marquess held in Chippenham bordered the Beckham's property near Swindon. And people talked. From all accounts, the son followed in his father's cruel footsteps.

Honoria called the man most disagreeable—harsh indeed coming from Honoria, who liked everyone. Drake was less generous, calling the man uncharitable with a malevolent disposition. Simon expected no less of the sister.

When Simon first met Lady Charlotte, her relationship to Edgerton had been enough to set his teeth on edge. However, Honoria liked her, so Simon had made an effort—a half-hearted effort, to be honest. He wanted nothing to do with any of the Talbots.

Which made the powerful pull of attraction he felt whenever Lady Charlotte was near even more irksome than her icy demeanor. Those dark eyes promised mysteries and pleasures he could only imagine—although his imagination was quite vivid.

Lady Charlotte Talbot was not the kind of woman he should be attracted to—regardless of the undeniable spark between them. Cold and opinionated with a tongue as sharp as his valet's razor, she was the embodiment of a termagant. And—as much as he hated to admit it—a challenge. Yet, try as he might, Lady Charlotte resisted his flirtatious advances. Not only resisted but grew even more prickly. It was enough to boil a man's blood.

He paused, reflecting on her bruised cheek. Perhaps the ice queen's sullen nature was defensive rather than offensive.

Hmm. The only times he'd given Lady Charlotte much thought were late at night when? —

The door burst open. "I have water."

She carried in a large bowl of water. How in the world had she heated it so quickly?

"I'll need more than that for a bath."

She looked around the room. "Where is your tub?"

Damn . He hadn't thought about that. "The footmen usually bring it in. I'll just have to have a sponge bath."

"Can you manage?" Was there a nervous tremor in her voice?

Even so, he couldn't resist goading her. "Are you offering to assist me?"

Those rich, dark eyes of hers widened.

Why did she have to be so damn beautiful? And why, oh why, did he have to think about that while he was half-naked? "If you could please pour the water in the washbasin and place some towels on the floor by the dressing table, that will be sufficient."

An audible huff came from her delectable lips—damnation, why did he have to think about her lips—and she stomped to the dressing table.

"Towels are on the shelf below," he said.

Muttered words, which he suspected were curses, drifted his way. When she bent over to lay the towels on the floor, his gaze drifted to her backside.

"Thank you." His gratitude was for more than her help in laying the towels, but he kept that to himself. When he rose from the bed, another wave of heat assaulted him. Stumbling, he grabbed onto the side table. As before, the temporary respite of symptoms was far too brief, and he knew he was in for another round of fever, headache, fatigue—and God help him—vomiting.

Charlotte took a step toward him, but he held up his hand, signaling he was fine. Humiliating enough she witnessed as much as she did. He would not admit how sick he really was—especially to her. "If you would be so kind as to wait out in the hall. As you no doubt noticed, there are chairs stationed there at regular intervals. Leave the door ajar, and I will call if I need you."

She nodded. "Very well."

As she turned to leave, he stopped her. "And Lady Charlotte, I am most sincere when I say, ‘Thank you.'"

His ears may have been deceiving him, but he thought he heard a soft, "You're welcome."

After several deep breaths, he unbuttoned the already lopsided job he'd done on his trousers, slipped out of them, tossed them aside, then shuffled to the dressing table. His stomach roiled. Not now. The chamber pot was on the other side of the room. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

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.