Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

C harlotte admitted, the man had a point even if she didn't agree that his death would be a winning hand—at least for him. "And what if you survive and live a long life? If you find a woman who captures your heart?"

He shifted in his chair, and his face clouded as if he were in pain. "When and if that happens, you and I will discuss it at that time."

"I want some of this in writing."

His dark brows hitched. "What in particular?"

Heat raced up her neck to her cheeks. She blamed those sapphire eyes of his. They held her captive and pulled her in until she couldn't think straight. Such a color should be illegal.

Or immoral. They made her imagine...things. Like being pulled into his arms and kissed until her head spun.

Gah! Stop! Stop, stop, stop.

"That you won't require me to share a bed."

Surprisingly, he nodded. "Fine. But I'll draw up a second document for your eyes only with that stipulation. It would be best not to present anything like that to your brother. Anything else? Your widow's portion?"

Goodness. He was serious about predeceasing her. How could he be so calm? And why did she care? She returned to the practical—something she could control. "Precisely how much does Burwood pay you?"

"Ha! Afraid you won't get your tenth?" He shook his head. "I promise you will be well provided for. Drake is a very generous employer, but the bulk of my wealth comes from other sources. I only ask that, should I not have an heir, you look after my mother and sisters after my father's death. Help the girls find suitable husbands if they've not already married."

How could she refuse such a request? Wasn't she in a similar position? Her mind reeled back to the word heir. With his family's welfare at stake, would he truly respect her wishes if she refused to allow him into her bed? Or did he have so much confidence in his ability to seduce her he believed it was a moot point?

People could say she was unfeeling, but queasy guilt soured her stomach at the possibility of not upholding her end of their devil's bargain. The least she could do was take care of his family. "You have my word."

"Good." He nodded. "I won't ask for that in writing. I trust you." He rose, somewhat shakily, and she had the urge to reach out and steady him. "I'll draw up the marriage contract in addition to the one with your stipulations when I'm feeling a little better and present the contract to your brother."

"Roland won't release my dowry. And he may not accept the contract at all."

"It's only formality. I won't have him accusing me of not doing things properly. As I said to him earlier today, you're of age. You don't need his permission. And I don't want your dowry. If he does release it, it's yours to keep. Now, if that concludes our business, I'll leave you to the rest of your meal. "

As he lumbered from the room, his voice echoed back. "Frampton, be a good fellow and help me upstairs."

She stared at the roast chicken growing cold on her plate, her appetite vanishing.

How in the world had all of this happened?

Business. Is that how he truly saw their arrangement? A worrisome bit of disappointment skittered across her heart but made a quick exit. Chiding herself for the brief moment of weakness, she accepted that, before long, she would be Lady Charlotte Beckham.

Even if it was in name only.

When Rose arrived to dress her the next morning, Charlotte learned that several footmen and maids had returned per Mr. Beckham's agreement.

Rose chattered in her usual nonsensical way about their faults and failings as she fashioned Charlotte's hair into an intricate design. "I'm afraid I didn't have time to retrieve your jewelry from the safe, my lady. Perhaps you can send for it."

Charlotte internally rolled her eyes. No doubt Roland would find great pleasure withholding her finer pieces as punishment. At the moment, Charlotte was more concerned about the miserable number of gowns Rose brought with her. If Roland was so petty as to refuse to release her clothing, she would need new ones, but she had no money.

She would have to ask her future husband.

Gah! She hated being dependent on anyone, much less a man who could lord it over her every chance he got, but between Mr. Beckham and Roland, her future husband was more approachable.

Mr. Beckham—Simon. She would have to get used to calling him that, she supposed .

Did he really expect she would succumb to his charms and give him an heir? Still, an odd yearning had tightened low in her belly when he spoke of his prowess in the bedroom.

Braggart .

And—yet, she wondered . . .

Gah! Stop thinking of that man!

She needed a distraction. The duke's mansion was one of the finest in London, and Honoria had taken great pride in the gardens of both their country seat in Dorset and their city home. Charlotte rose, resolved that a walk in the garden would rid her mind from thoughts of Mr. Beckham

Male voices drifted from inside Simon's bedchamber, and she hurried past. No doubt either Frampton or a footman attended to him, and she didn't want him to accuse her of eavesdropping should the door open suddenly.

A maid paused her dusting and curtsied as Charlotte passed on her way to the ballroom. Charlotte gave her a curt nod before proceeding on her way to the doors leading to the terrace and gardens.

Cool air brushed her skin, and she shivered as she stepped outside. When she'd arrived at the duke's mansion the day before, the afternoon sun had shone full and bright, warming the normally brisk and damp March air. In such a rush to leave, she had not thought to wear a pelisse or a spencer.

Unlike the day before, gray clouds—thick and heavy with their accumulated contents—gathered in the sky. Dashes of color on the ground shook a fist of protest against the sky's gloomy canopy. Bright shoots of hyacinths lined a footpath leading to the rose beds. Tight buds of peonies waited on green foliage, ready to burst into luscious blooms of pink. Several remaining daffodils fought the good fight, holding onto their sunny, yellow petals and refusing to go the way of their companions who slumbered until the next spring.

Strange, but the trumpet-like flower made her think of Simon with his cheerful disposition and carefree attitude. Of course, it may have been that the flower was also called a narcissus. She chuckled softly at the idea.

"Something funny?"

She spun at the male voice, her hand inadvertently flying to her throat. "Mr. Beckham! Must you sneak up on people?"

He lifted a coat. "I came to bring you this. It's rather chilly out here. One of us ill at a time is sufficient, wouldn't you agree?"

"People don't become ill from being cold."

His lips tilted rakishly on one side. "They don't? Are you a physician?"

She jerked her chin at him. "No. But my sister-in-law is. She says such things are silly superstitions."

Those dark-blue eyes widened. "The marquess's wife is a physician?"

"No. My other sister-in-law. In America."

He snorted a laugh. "Leave it to Americans to blaze the trail. You must tell me about her. But first . . ." He held the coat out, shaking it a little. "It's mine, so it will probably be too big. But it's warm. When I enquired about a pelisse, your maid admitted she didn't bring one."

With her back to him, she slipped her arms through the sleeves.

Heat pressed into her shoulders as he smoothed the material over her. He turned her around, buttoned it, then stood back and assessed her. "There." Fingering the lapels, he ran his large hands down the length, their backs brushing lightly against her breasts as he skimmed the surface of the coat.

Instinctively, she stepped back. "We are not married yet, so I would kindly ask you to keep your hands to yourself."

Those large hands lifted in a defensive stance. "Forgive me. I meant no offense. Now, tell me why you were laughing. I need something to cheer me. "

Unbidden, she chortled again. No doubt her musings would do little to lift his spirits. "The daffodils remind me of you."

His brow furrowed as he jerked back, his head tilting at a rather roguish angle. "And that's . . . funny?"

An unexpected moment of compassion flitted through her. The man had been ill, and quite frankly, he didn't appear much improved. "They're cheerful."

The familiar grin stretched across his lips, and her gaze immediately homed in on them.

Gah!

"Why—thank you. Although I still don't see the humor, it's possibly the first compliment I've ever received from you." He leaned in but didn't touch her. "The first of many, I hope." The rake had the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows and wink.

"It was a moment of weakness. I promise to be stronger in the future." She fought the smile tugging her lips.

She only hoped she could.

Simon recognized the tiniest chink in Charlotte's armor, but he decided to play along and let her think she'd won. It was merely one battle, and he would win the war. "Ah, so it was a derisive laugh at your rare moment of weakness."

"Should you even be out of bed?"

Another chink?

"Are you concerned for my health?"

"Only that I don't want you to expire before you marry me and secure my reputation and financial situation."

"Cold, my lady, cold. It would seem I wasn't quick enough with my coat. But since you asked, the footman had just finished shaving me, and I happened to look out my window and noticed you without a coat."

Her gaze raked over him, assessing .

"You needed a shave. I'm surprised you trust a footman to perform a valet's job."

"I would have done it myself. I know how. Had to do it in the military. But my hands are still a little shaky. And as you said, I don't want to leave you before we've had a chance to really get to know each other."

"You are?—"

"Incorrigible. So you've said. On multiple occasions. Perhaps a new adjective? Dashing? Charming?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "Irresistible?"

"Hmph."

When her lips twitched, he pressed on.

"In truth, after an actual bath and fresh clothing, I feel almost like a new man." He stepped closer, even though it would goad her. "Care to take a sniff? I would love your opinion, since you found me so foul-smelling before."

Arms folded over her enticing bosom answered his question.

"No? Pity. I think the sandalwood is quite nice." He sniffed under his arm. "Ah."

She huffed, the ghost of a smile vanishing. "I'm going back inside since I can't even have a moment's peace by myself out here."

Regret pricked at his conscience that he had pushed her a bit too far. "No. Stay out here and enjoy the daffodils. I'll leave you now that I'm assured you won't catch a chill." He didn't wait for her response, but turned and headed back inside the house, deciding to use the small bit of resumed strength to begin drafting the marriage contract.

In his study adjacent to Drake's, Simon settled at his desk and dipped his pen into the inkpot. He remembered the last marriage contract he'd drawn up. A much happier occasion, for certain. Drake and Honoria's marriage was like a fairy tale, although Drake's deception had nearly cost him the woman of his dreams. But Drake's unwavering love for Honoria made Simon wonder if he could experience such a love himself.

Damnation.

He'd never hoped for love, marriage, and a family before. Oh, he realized he would have to marry someday, if nothing else, to ensure his mother and sisters were provided for, as he told Charlotte.

And although his parents had a happy marriage, personal experience taught him that even a perceived betrayal of one party could destroy the other. Grief was the price of loving someone. And that was too much pain for Simon to contemplate.

Pain—of any kind—was the one thing he wanted to avoid at any cost. It didn't mean he was a coward. He'd charged into the fray of battle as determined as any other soldier. The difference being, he simply refused to think about the possibility of being injured and the subsequent pain.

And then malaria had struck, swift and hard.

Free from attacks since he'd returned home to England, hope dangled before him like a string before a cat. But the moment he reached for it, another attack snatched it away.

With pain being something he didn't dwell on, he couldn't remember if this last attack was better or worse than the ones before. The only clear thing was the cursed illness still had its hooks in him.

And that meant one thing. He needed a wife and a son, and although he hadn't given much thought as to whom the lucky woman would be, the moment Lady Charlotte Talbot appeared on his doorstep seeking refuge from an untenable position, fate had chosen for him.

Tap, tap.

He wrenched his attention from the still blank parchment to the open door of the study.

His coat dangled from Charlotte's fingers. "I'm sorry to intrude. Frampton told me you were in here. I thought you would like this back."

Wonder of wonders.

She seemed . . . apologetic.

Pointing to the chair on the opposite side of the desk, he said, "You can lay it there. I'll take it up with me later."

He watched as she folded it neatly and draped it across the back of the chair. Entranced as her long, elegant fingers caressed the material, lingering a moment longer than necessary.

"You could have given it to Frampton."

She didn't meet his gaze. "I wanted to thank you. It was gallant—and unexpected."

His mouth flew open, and for a moment, no longer than a blink, he considered delivering a snappy retort. But for the first time in his memory, she actually appeared vulnerable. "You're welcome."

Still not meeting his eyes, she nodded. "I should leave you to your work."

In a breath, she was gone.

An uncomfortable thought flashed through his mind. Charlotte Talbot was a woman he could love whether he wanted to or not.

The blob of ink on the tip of his pen dropped like a fat mosquito onto the white paper.