Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

O h, that man! Charlotte's cheeks burned. And speaking of fire, had she jumped from one impossible situation to another? Had she lost her mind? How could a man who only saw the sunny side ever understand her? He probably never faced a hardship in his life. She had no desire to marry and be controlled by any man, especially an insufferable buffoon like Simon Beckham.

Why, he would probably gallivant off to a bawdy house before their signatures on the register had even dried.

Argh!

Once in her room—which was indeed some distance from that rake—she wrote a letter and gave it to Frampton to deliver. "Make certain it goes into my maid's hands directly, Frampton."

"I shall deliver it myself, my lady."

Of course he would. He was the only servant, save for possibly the cook, in the house. "Frampton." She stopped him before he left. "Why are the other servants gone?"

"Mr. Beckham requested it."

"To keep his illness secret?" Was his situation really so dire? If she married him, might she truly become a widow in short order? As heartless as he believed she was, the thought didn't comfort her.

Frampton hesitated. "I'm not at liberty to say, my lady. Will there be anything else?"

She shook her head and waved the butler off, admiring his loyalty and ability to be discreet, something she sorely required.

Two hours later, she grew restless and decided to go to the library and retrieve a book. Knowing both Honoria and Drake as she did, there would be an abundance of reading material available. As she walked toward the staircase and past Mr. Beckham's door, loud snores sounded from within.

She sighed. Of course, he would snore—loudly. She brightened, remembering she wouldn't have to share a bedroom with him, and proceeded downstairs.

Although not as grand as the library at Hartridge House, Burwood's seat in Dorset, the selection of books was extensive. She browsed the shelves, looking for something more entertaining than cerebral. Honoria always praised Jane Austen, although Charlotte found romances to be overly sentimental and unrealistic. However, she supposed that was the point of them. She plucked Pride and Prejudice from the shelf.

Opening the book, she read the first line.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."

She barely resisted the chuckle. Perhaps Miss Austen did have her thumb on the pulse of society after all. Before long, she had settled into a comfortable chair and fully immersed herself in the story. Although, truth be told, she understood the austere Mr. Darcy much more than the gregarious and sometimes impertinent Elizabeth. One could hardly blame a refined gentleman such as Mr. Darcy to take affront to her family's lack of decorum. However, Charlotte did admire Miss Bennet's wit .

Elizabeth Bennet, in Charlotte's estimation, had much in common with the insufferable Mr. Beckham.

Argh! When would she stop thinking about that man?!

"My lady," a male voice called from the doorway.

Charlotte peered up from the book, pleased to see Frampton had retrieved her maid. "Rose." Charlotte made note of the page number, then closed the book. "Thank heavens you've arrived." She turned toward Frampton. "Did my brother ask any questions?"

"No, my lady. His valet said his lordship would be at Parliament for some time."

Rose shook her head. "He was not pleased with your decision to leave his household."

"Well, he will continue to be disappointed, because I'm not returning. Now, were you able to retrieve any of my belongings?"

"Yes, my lady. A few."

Frampton said, "Miss Rose and I carried the trunk up to your room."

A hand on her back, Rose frowned. "It was heavy. Why are there no footmen here?"

Charlotte exchanged a look with Frampton. "About that. Allow me to speak with Mr. Beckham. Perhaps I can convince him to send for at least a few of the servants to alleviate your burden, Frampton."

"Very good, my lady." He sketched an elegant bow. "Unless you need anything else, I shall show Miss Rose to her quarters."

"Shall I arrive to dress you for supper at six as usual, my lady?"

Charlotte nodded out of habit. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

Rose curtsied again and followed Frampton.

With a glance at the grandfather clock nestled in the far corner, Charlotte sighed. Nearly quarter past five. Not much time to plan a stratagem necessary to convince Mr. Beckham they needed more servants at hand. But if Charlotte was good at anything, she excelled at making a sound argument and winning a debate.

However, persuading Mr. Beckham to recall a few servants was only one item on her list of things to discuss, and to be honest, not the most important one at that.

No. His impetuous statement that he would marry her superseded any discussion of returning servants. The book still clutched in her hand, she paced the floor of the library.

Think. Think.

Marriage to Mr. Beckham would free her from Roland's scheme to shackle her to The Worm. Icy shivers ran down her spine at the thought of having to endure Felix's demands as a husband. But would Mr. Beckham have similar demands?

Simply because a man said he wouldn't force a woman didn't necessarily mean he was truthful. And Charlotte had many, many doubts about Mr. Beckham's veracity. Men often said things to get what they wanted, and then as soon as they had it in their grasp, they forgot their promise.

Odd, though, that the thought of his touch didn't sicken her like the idea of Felix's hands on her.

However, he did snore. If—and that was a decided if—she accepted his proposal, she should request certain things in writing, such as not sharing a bedroom.

She considered her other options. She had no skills other than knowing how to run a household, embroidery, and making shirts. Ha! Roland would have to rely on his wife Hortense's abominable skill with a needle. The only thing her sister-in-law seemed adept at was producing sons.

Charlotte had no patience to be a governess, even if she could swallow her pride and stoop to such a position. Governesses were ghosts, living in a limbo. Not quite family nor servant—meant to be seen, not heard, and as little of the former as possible. As a realist, Charlotte conceded her vocal opinions would most likely have her employer turning her out on the streets before a week was out.

If she could raise enough money, she could travel to America and live with her brother Nash and his wife. But as she did when Roland made the threat, she dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. Not only were Nash and Adalyn struggling themselves while Nash waited for his investment to produce fruit, but Adalyn was expecting their first child, and the idea of being around a squalling infant in a tiny house set Charlotte's teeth on edge almost as much as the thought of Felix's touch.

Facing the facts, she admitted she'd been reared for one thing: to become a wife. Never one to delude herself that some great love waited for her, she only hoped to find a man attractive enough to not make her want to cast up her accounts when he demanded his husbandly rights—which she prayed would end when she produced a son. A man who would give her at least a semblance of being in charge of her own life, who wouldn't bore her to tears, and who wouldn't beat her.

Contrary to her marquess brother's opinion, she wasn't captious.

When Lord Felix Davies first began courting her, she held hope that she'd found such a man. Until he quickly showed his true colors when he tried to force himself on her and told her she needed to stop thinking!

Admittedly, she wasn't the easiest person to get along with. Nothing like Honoria, whom everyone loved, or Miranda, who was cheerful and quick-witted, or even flighty Anne, the consummate flirt.

No. Charlotte fully accepted that her outspoken nature and icy demeanor sent many a man scurrying away in search of a more affable and biddable bride.

And yet, Mr. Beckham had thrown himself on his sword for her. Regarding her requirements , his attractiveness was unquestionable— perhaps he was too attractive. He himself said he couldn't abide a man who would beat his wife. Life with him might be a constant annoyance with his ridiculous buffoonery, but it wouldn't be boring. He promised he would never force himself on her, but his family situation indicated he would no doubt expect an heir.

She'd never experienced the attraction of motherhood as most women did. The risks of delivering in itself made her nervous, but children required nurturing, and Charlotte was not the nurturing type. Small children made her uneasy. Granted, other than her nephews, she had little exposure to them, but they seemed so—breakable. Hopefully, like Mr. Darcy, Mr. Beckham possessed enough wealth to hire a nanny.

By all accounts, at least as she considered them, he met all conditions. If she could learn to tolerate his flippant manner, his irritating cheerfulness, and his mission to have everyone like him, perhaps marriage to Mr. Simon Beckham could indeed be her salvation.

Or her hell.

Simon slept like the dead. At least he felt dead when he finally stirred awake. His head still pounded like the devil, and his already soaked sheets were even wetter. Lord, he needed a bath—with warm water.

He stumbled from his bed and tugged the bell pull.

Frampton took longer than usual to appear. "Sir?"

"Please ask cook to heat some water for a bath."

Frampton's wiry brows rose. "There are no footmen to bring in the tub, sir."

Right . But he promised Lady Charlotte they would discuss their possible marriage at supper, and even if he didn't want to impress her—or so he told himself—he had to smell himself. A sponge bath would have to suffice. "Could you at least bring several bowls of water, then?"

Frampton gave an abbreviated bow. "Very good, sir."

"Make sure it's warm," he shouted at Frampton's retreating back.

By the time Simon had finished washing and dressing, the clock struck quarter past seven. He didn't bother with a neckcloth, waistcoat, or coat, which would only exacerbate the heat flowing through him. The ice queen would just have to excuse his state of dishabille.

Thankfully, some of his strength had returned, and he managed the distance from his room to the dining hall with little difficulty, pausing to rest once along the way. However, by the time he entered the room, the chair beckoned him in the most welcoming way.

Lady Charlotte peered up from her consommé, disapproval clearly written on her face. She arched a haughty brow. "Is this your idea of dressing for supper, Mr. Beckham?"

He sketched a deep bow before collapsing into the chair. "Forgive me for offending your delicate sensibilities , my lady. I'd hoped to forgo the formalities."

Even from his distance at the opposite end of the table, he heard her huff. He waited until her spoon was a breath from her lips before saying, "Especially considering you've seen me with decidedly fewer garments earlier today."

Liquid sputtered from her mouth. But drat it all, she made even that look elegant as if she'd intended it. She wiped her lips with the serviette.

The fever raging in him all day either had decreased or had turned his brain to a crisp because all he could think about was that—as her husband—he would be allowed to kiss those lips.

If she let him.

Frampton approached, placing a bowl of the consommé before him .

He studied it. "I'm not sure my stomach can handle eating anything."

Lady Charlotte's rich alto traveled down the table and skimmed along his skin like a siren. "You need to eat to regain your strength, and broth will be the easiest to keep down. I asked your cook to prepare it especially for you."

Well, that was a surprise. "Yes, Mother." He spooned some up, finding the temperature perfect, swallowed, and waited. His stomach did not revolt. The broth was surprisingly delicious, considering he had little appetite earlier. "How do you know so much about what foods are easy on the digestion?"

"I have three young nephews who eat the most horrendous things that upset their stomachs. Consommé is the one thing they manage to keep down when they're indisposed."

He finished every drop, but when Frampton removed the bowl, he held up a hand. "That's all for me. Just serve Lady Charlotte."

As she waited for Frampton to place the next course before her, her long, graceful fingers toyed with the rim of her wine glass.

Fascinating.

That answered it. His brain was surely crisped.

She cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to those lips.

Dammit .

"I understand your desire for privacy, sir. But I implore you to call at least several footmen and maids back into service."

Simon swore Frampton's lips twitched as he laid the entrée before the demanding woman.

"Oh, you do, do you?"

Those delicate shoulders straightened. Had they always been so white and creamy?

"Yes. I do. It's unfair of you to lay the burden of everything on Frampton's shoulders. "

Shoulders . Had she read his mind?

Perhaps not, as she continued speaking. "Surely there are a few in Burwood's service who are trustworthy?"

"Very well." He turned toward Frampton. "Two footmen and two maids. I trust your judgment whom to choose."

A tight-lipped smile stretched Charlotte's lips.

"You don't have to look so smug, my lady." He grinned at her. "It's simply that I need a proper bath and some fresh bed linens."

"I won't argue with the first item. You reek, sir."

Oh, that did it. He pulled himself from the chair, walked down the length of the long table, sat down next to her, and placed a hand to his ear. "What's that? I couldn't hear you from way down there."

She refused to meet his gaze, but her muttered words were as crystal clear as the fine goblet holding her wine. "You are incorrigible."

"So you've told me. On multiple occasions. Now, I believe we have something serious to discuss. So, if you could refrain from your pointed barbs—at least for a few moments—I would appreciate it. I want to get back to my bed."

He waited, gauging her reaction. Unfortunately, she remained stone-faced. "Have you considered my proposal?"

"I've thought of little else. But before I answer, I have a few questions." Her gaze flicked toward Frampton, then back to him. "May we speak in private?"

Simon waved a hand at Frampton. "It's fine. The lady's reputation is already in tatters. Hence the need for this discussion. Besides, I'm in no condition for ravishing at the moment."

Once Frampton had left them alone, she said, "Ribald comments such as that are precisely why I must know what your expectations are. You said you wouldn't force me."

He sucked in a breath. "And I meant that. Forcing a woman is beyond the pale. However . . . "

Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched. "What?"

"As I said, my father's estate is entailed, and I'm his only son. It would bring my mother comfort knowing she had a grandson to inherit when I die."

"So you do expect to bed me?"

"I hope to, which is different from expecting. You can refuse me until my dying day. There are couples who—for whatever reason—can't have children. My mother need never be the wiser. She would simply chalk it up to bad luck. However . . ."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's necessary." He leaned in, hoping to make his point. "I promise I would make it pleasant for you. I'm told I'm quite skilled in bedsport."

She snorted a derisive laugh. "Perhaps in your estimation."

He shook his head. "In my partners' estimations. I've never had complaints."

Pink bloomed on her cheeks, giving him satisfaction.

"And would such . . . associations continue after we're married?"

Ah, there was the rub. "No. As difficult as it would be—and make no mistake, it would be difficult for me—I would be faithful to you. You have my word."

"Ha! The word of a self-proclaimed rake!"

"I've never claimed to be perfect—unlike you. Believe what you will. But I hope with time, you will at least tolerate me enough to share my bed enough to produce a child"—he grinned—"or two."

"So I'm only a brood mare."

Lord, the woman was exasperating. She was sucking all the joy out of him. "No. You are in a sticky situation. And the more I thought about it, the more a marriage between us made sense. I was planning on marrying anyway—someday. If this infernal illness would ever leave me for good. I can't bear the thought of leaving my mother and sisters homeless should both my father and I die without someone directly in line to inherit."

"You have sisters?" She appeared surprised, as if having grown up with other women didn't suit him.

"Five. All younger than I."

"And the next in line?"

"A cousin thrice removed. An oily sort of man, quite like your Lord Felix." His stomach turned at the thought of Cousin Horace, and he worried the consommé, which had tasted so delicious minutes before, would make a reappearance.

She bristled at that. "He's not mine. Nor do I intend to make him such."

He nodded. "Be that as it may, my cousin is not the sort to welcome my mother and sisters with open arms. He's more the sort to show them the door with only the clothes on their backs."

"Surely Burwood would help."

"I would expect no less. Drake is like the brother I never had, and I suspect he feels the same about me." He managed a grin. "It's one area where his typically perfect judgment is lacking."

She scoffed.

"But my mother is a proud woman. Perhaps in my weakened state earlier, I was mistaken, and it is a second flaw."

"In addition to the love of scandal sheets?"

Ah, but she had an excellent memory. "Yes. I don't want my mother to have to beg for a roof over her head or bread for her belly. She deserves better than that." He studied her, probing the depth of those dark, seductive eyes, fully aware her own situation was quite similar.

She shifted in her chair, the movement so slight and natural, had he not been watching for her reaction, he would have missed it.

"Why would you wait until you were certain the malaria wouldn't return before marrying, then? Why not take a wife, produce an heir, and secure your family's legacy? "

Her question brought him into painful territory, and he had no desire to subject himself to it.

"I have my reasons."

"Hmph. Such as wishing to cavort as long as possible."

Oh, she pushed him right in the middle of it—as if she literally placed her hands on his back. It might have been his weakened condition. It might have been because he knew she wouldn't let it go. But he knew she would see through a lie. So he risked telling her a partial truth, even if it exposed his soft underbelly. "If you must know, it's because I hate the idea of a woman falling in love with me. Perhaps it was all those years listening to Drake moan about losing Honoria. And I couldn't bear the thought of leaving a grieving widow behind if this wretched malaria takes me to my grave before my time."

Her jaw dropped.

He prepared himself for a scathing insult about his gigantic ego.

When she remained silent, he continued, "I suppose that's why this arrangement, should we wish to pursue it, is so perfect. For I have no fear you would grieve my death, and you could easily find yourself a young widow with a substantial living. I would say that's a winning hand for both of us, wouldn't you?"