Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

W aiting in the hall, Charlotte paced nervously, careful to avoid walking in front of the partially opened door to Mr. Beckham's bed chamber—although her treacherous gaze flitted toward it more than once.

The amber bottle on the bedside table had captured her attention, but not as much as the word on the label. Quinine. She searched her memory, which she was proud to say was excellent. Where had she heard that term?

Before she could puzzle out the answer, footsteps sounded from below, and she peeped over the balustrade. A head of salt-and-pepper hair—attached to the body of Burwood's butler—appeared. When he approached the staircase and his gaze caught hers, his eyes widened.

Charlotte would never be certain of the exact order in the subsequent chain of events—the only certainty being the outcome. But if she had to guess, her logical mind would have explained the sequence thusly.

A thunderous knock sounded at the front door, and the butler jerked his attention away and headed toward the door. Whoever the impatient caller was, must not see her unchaperoned in a house with Mr. Beckham—who, at the very same moment, uttered an exceedingly raucous string of curses, some of which she had to admit she'd never heard before—even from her brother Nash—but were in fact, most creative.

Had he fallen? After a moment's hesitation, she dashed toward Mr. Beckham's door.

She skidded to an abrupt halt at the sight of Mr. Beckham, completely nude and dripping wet. A little eeek escaped unbidden .

He turned and faced her, which, in retrospect, had not been the wisest choice.

Voices shouting from below grew louder as did the pounding of footsteps.

Roland and Felix burst into the room with Burwood's butler close on their heels.

"Sirs, I beg of you," the poor butler said, darting a glance between her and Mr. Beckham. To his credit, the man looked more apologetic than shocked.

Roland's face purpled. "What is the meaning of this?" he roared. Roared!

Felix's gaze bounced from Charlotte to Mr. Beckham's...

Oh, dear.

"If you're choosing that"—he pointed to Mr. Beckham's...well, a genteel woman didn't discuss a man's private parts—"over me. You'll be sorely disappointed." The man smirked.

Charlotte wanted to slap his smug face.

Mr. Beckham took a step forward. "The water was cold ." He snapped the word, his glare just as glacial.

"Sir." The butler, Frampton, she believed was his name, rushed over, grabbed a towel from the dressing table, and held it in front of Mr. Beckham.

Mr. Beckham snapped the towel out of Frampton's hands, then wrapped it around his torso. He still appeared ghastly, with his hair plastered to his head. Water dripped down his chest—his very muscular chest, Charlotte was loath to note—but his strength seemed to have returned.

Nose-to-nose with Felix, he grabbed Felix by the cravat. "What do you mean ‘over me?' Are you the blackguard who did this to her face?" Not looking back, he pointed in her direction.

When he turned toward her brother, Charlotte took a breath.

"Who the bloody hell are you people? And what are you doing here?"

Roland ignored Mr. Beckham, pushing him out of the way. "Lady Charlotte, return home at once."

Anger helped Charlotte find her voice amid her mortification. "How did you find me?"

"When I discovered you had left—unchaperoned, no less—I made enquiries. The coachman was most forthcoming."

Charlotte should have known the precious five shillings she gave the driver wouldn't maintain his silence. Not when Roland most likely threatened his position.

"However, I had no idea this"—Roland pointed at Mr. Beckham—"is how I would find you. You have no choice now but to marry Lord Felix."

Mr. Beckham's head snapped around toward her. "Is this why you came here? To escape from marrying this?—"

Charlotte squared her shoulders. "Worm. Yes, I did. And yes, he struck me."

The worm—err, Felix—studied his well-manicured nails, then lifted his icy gaze to hers. "Unless you would like to see the details of this"—he waved a hand between her and Mr. Beckham—"discussed in The Muckraker , I suggest you change your mind."

"She's not going to marry you," Mr. Beckham said. He swayed a little on his feet. Goodness, but he looked almost green.

Something in her memory snapped into place. Quinine treated malaria. Mr. Beckham had been in the military in India. Mr. Beckham had malaria !

"Because she's going to marry me."

Then he promptly cast up his accounts on the front of Roland's brocade waistcoat.

If Charlotte hadn't been in shock over Mr. Beckham's declaration, she would have cheered.

Simon's bit of lunch covered the one chap's gold waistcoat. He should have aimed for the blackguard, Felix.

Giving a shout of disgust, both men jumped back out of range of any further projectiles.

Frampton ran over with a towel and, like the exceptional butler he was, tried to dab Simon's stomach contents off the man.

"Get your hands off me!" The churlish lout snatched the towel, pushed Frampton out of the way, then proceeded to brush off his waistcoat.

Served him right for bursting into his room unannounced. However, at the moment, vomiting on the man wasn't Simon's greatest concern.

This infernal illness is affecting my brain. Simon shook himself. There could be no other explanation for his rash, and admittedly stupid, declaration. Marry the ice queen? Really. What was he thinking?

Mad. The illness was driving him mad.

And yet . . .

He stared at the bruise darkening Charlotte's cheek. The situation— her situation, in all honesty—was untenable. Personally, he'd survived worse. But here she was, caught alone in a room with a naked man.

"She will not marry you," the vomit-covered dandy said. "My sister is a well-bred, aristocratic lady, and I won't even utter the word sir in relation to you. "

Ah, her brother. The infamous Marquess of Edgerton. The insult bounced off Simon like a pesky mosquito.

Considering his current condition, perhaps that was a poor analogy. However, he pressed forward. "Isn't that up to the lady? She's well past the age of majority." He slid a glance toward Lady Charlotte.

She winced.

He should apologize for the slight, but he felt like bloody hell and only wanted everyone out of his bedchamber so he could climb back into his foul-smelling bed and let sleep ease his pain.

Before he could open his mouth, Charlotte stepped forward. Fierce determination shone in her dark eyes—like a warrior ready to charge into battle.

He braced himself for a slap across his face and an exhortation to take his insincere offer and go to the devil.

She squared her shoulders and met her brother's contemptuous glare. "I will marry Mr. Beckham, and there isn't anything you can do to stop me."

If it were possible, his whole body blinked. Well, that was a surprise.

"We'll see about that." Edgerton flung the towel on the floor. "You'll both be sorry for this. Come, Davies."

Simon couldn't resist goading the man further. "Frampton, when you see the gentlemen out, please bring Lady Charlotte's bag upstairs. Settle her in the room next to mine. I would like easy access so we can continue cavorting."

"Barbarians!" Edgerton stomped from the room.

Lord Felix gaped like the nodcock he was, then scurried away on Edgerton's heels.

Charlotte's dark brows formed a pronounced V over her seductive eyes. "Did you mean it?"

"What? The cavorting?" He snorted a laugh. "Setting your brother's teeth on edge was too good to resist. I hate to admit this— to you especially—but I'm in no condition for cavorting." He managed a wink. "As tempting as you are."

"No, you buffoon." She rolled those dark eyes. "That you would marry me."

"Ah. That." He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck, the heat from his skin scorching. His gaze flicked to the quinine on his bedside table. "Well, the situation seemed to demand a proposal. At least to appease your brother and make your refusal clear to Davies."

"You're not answering my question. Was your offer genuine?"

The cold-water bath had done nothing to ease his elevated temperature but everything to place both him and Charlotte in this horrible situation. He needed to sit down—he needed his quinine.

With a brief wave of his hand, he motioned Charlotte to the chair by the window, then sat on the bed.

Her back ramrod straight, Charlotte perched herself on the edge of the chair. She flitted her gaze toward him, her cheeks blooming with color, then turned her attention toward the door.

Simon followed her line of sight and saw—nothing. "What are you looking at?"

"It's not what I'm looking at, but what I'm trying not to look at. Please, close your legs."

Oh. He chuckled softly and moved his legs and the gaping towel closer together. "I'm decent now."

She kept her attention on the door. "I doubt that's possible for you."

Even though she didn't look at him, he shrugged. "Very well. You asked if my offer to marry you was genuine. Do you want it to be?"

"You are insufferable!"

Great satisfaction filled him when she jerked her attention from the door and dropped her gaze to his towel-covered groin. A smile tugged at his lips .

"Stop smirking! This is not in any way humorous. For once, would you be a gentleman and answer my question directly?"

It was so easy to bait her, but she was right. They needed to clear up this mess. "Yes. My offer was sincere. You are in a rather sticky pickle. I'm offering you a way out."

"I hardly think being bound to you for life is a preferable solution."

Interesting choice of words, and one reason why this mad idea might work. But he would have to confide in her. "That may not be as long as you imagine."

Her head swiveled to the quinine bottle. "You're sick."

"Yes."

"Is it . . ." Movement, subtle and barely noticeable, in the long column of her neck caught his eye. "Malaria?"

"Yes." All the joy of teasing her seeped out of him. She actually appeared concerned.

"And fatal?"

"I don't know. It's the most truthful answer I can give you."

After what seemed like a few hours of staring at each other, that in truth were probably only a few seconds, he said, "Since it's only the two of us, let's be honest. You want to be married to me about as much as I want to be married to you. But your reputation is at risk. You may not think much of me, but my mother raised me to be a gentleman. And I'll be damned if I'll stand by and allow you to get leg-shackled to Lord Worm, who would beat his wife."

A tiny smile ghosted her lips but disappeared so quickly, he might have imagined it. "What would this . . . arrangement entail?"

He hitched a brow at her. "What would you like it to entail?"

"Please spare us these games. Would you expect a marriage in the truest sense?"

She asked for direct, so he delivered. "Do you mean, would I expect sex? "

"If you wish to phrase it so crudely."

He laughed. "If you think that's crude . . . I have never forced a woman, nor do I intend to start now. I won't ask for anything you're not willing to give."

"So, a business arrangement? You will be expecting a dowry, I presume?"

"Again. To be clear. I don't expect anything from you, other than your promise to keep my illness from the scandal sheets."

"Why? It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"No. But my mother doesn't know, and I want to spare her the worry. Reading those rags is her one weakness."

"And who precisely is your mother? Some tenant farmer's wife?"

Another type of heat rushed through his body, not one caused by the fever ravaging him. He rose from the bed. "Now see here. You can insult me all you wish. But never—I mean never— disparage my mother! A kinder soul does not exist. The only women I've met who even come close are both duchesses."

Charlotte's chin jerked back, and she paled.

Good. She should be sorry.

"However, since you asked. My mother and father live in Wiltshire, where my father owns a prosperous estate."

"Although my brother's seat is in Shropshire, he also owns property in Wiltshire." Several moments later, her eyes widened. "Not Mr. Theodore Beckham of Swindon?"

"The very one. The property is entailed, and I'm the only son. So you see, if my mother learns of my illness, she will hound me even more to marry and produce an heir."

"Why on earth are you working as a man of business?"

Growing tired of the interrogation, he yawned. "Can we discuss this later? I promise I will give you all the details your heart desires. But right now, I need more quinine and sleep."

Frampton knocked on the open door. "Sir, I've placed Lady Charlotte's bag in the next room. "

"I was bamming you, Frampton. Please show Lady Charlotte to the last room down the hall where she'll have privacy."

"Very good, sir. Might I suggest recalling one of the maids to attend to Lady Charlotte?"

"Could you send for my maid, Frampton?" Charlotte turned toward Simon. "Is that agreeable with you as my future husband?"

"If she can be discreet."

Charlotte nodded and addressed Frampton. "Tell her we'll double her wages."

Simon took a step forward, swayed on his feet, and stopped. "Now, wait just a moment. You're free with my money."

"I would presume Burwood would pay her wages for the time being, and he is not a stingy man."

Ouch. The barb stung just enough.

"And if you wish to pay for her silence . . ."

"Very well." Simon waved a hand. He needed to lie down.

Frampton bowed and exited.

"Cook should return for supper, if she hasn't already. We can speak more then about the details of our arrangement." The towel slipped from his waist, and his initial reaction was to grasp it. Instead, he allowed it to drop to the floor.

Warm satisfaction filled him—or was that still the fever?—when Charlotte's jaw dropped.

"Just in case you want to see what you would be missing without the effects of cold water."

"Your mother would be ashamed," she said, then hurried from the room to follow Frampton.

Simon laughed and fell on the bed. "True," he said to himself. But Lady Charlotte Talbot brought out the worst in him.