Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

" N o! He didn't?!" Miranda dropped the teacup on the saucer with a clink.

"Oh, he did. Vomited all over Roland's favorite waistcoat with the diamond buttons." Charlotte had been careful not to reveal the nature of Mr. Beckham's illness when she recounted the events that led to her current predicament.

"And he was really completely"—Miranda looked over her shoulder to confirm they were still alone—"nude?"

"As the day he was born." Charlotte restrained her smile. Mr. Beckham looked nothing like a newborn babe.

"And you're really going to marry him?"

Just hearing Miranda say the words made them all too real.

Every muscle in her body felt heavy and numb. "Yes. I suppose I am. What choice do I have, Miranda? Roland won't take me back. Not that I want to return if it means marrying Felix. At least Mr. Beckham has promised . . ."

"Promised what?"

Before she could answer, Simon burst through the door. "It's done. Now, hurry and grab a pelisse, there's much to do." His gaze jerked to Miranda. "Oh, beg pardon, I didn't know you would still be here."

She and Miranda exchanged a look, Miranda's undoubtedly more amused than her own.

Miranda placed her teacup on the table. "I should go."

"Don't go," Charlotte said in unison with Miranda.

Miranda rose and brushed off her skirts. "No. I really must. I promised Bea and Laurence I would stop by and watch the girls. They're concocting some new invention, and the poor darlings will be left to their own devices."

"Their children are inventors?" Simon asked.

Charlotte rolled her eyes, making sure he noticed. "No. Lord and Lady Montgomery, you buffoon." She redirected her attention to the more reasonable person in the room. "Don't they employ a nanny?"

"Yes. But Bea insists on having a family member available at all times."

"No offense, Miranda, but your sister-in-law has the most outrageous beliefs."

"I think it's delightful," Simon said.

Charlotte glared. "No one asked you."

Miranda laughed. "I'll go and allow you to attend to your business. But I expect to resume this conversation at a later time."

She left in a swish of lilac, Simon's head swiveling around to watch her leave.

"If you ever rush my guests off again, I'll . . ."

As he turned back toward her, he grinned like the fool he was. "You'll what?"

Perhaps she hadn't used a harsh enough tone. "I will . . . I will . . . smash your toes each time we dance."

He grew serious—a strange sight, she had to admit—and threw a hand to his heart. "A most grievous punishment, and one I have fond memories of. Then I must simply not ask you to dance. "

Argh!

"Now, find your pelisse. I have my phaeton ready and waiting in front."

"Have you forgotten? I didn't bring a pelisse."

He snapped his fingers. "Right-O. I wasn't at my best when you first arrived. Surely, Her Grace hasn't taken all her pelisses with her?"

Men. "Honoria is several inches shorter than I."

Ignoring her, he rang the bell pull. "Would you rather be warm or fashionable?"

Before she could formulate a suitable setdown—because truly his common sense on the matter stunned her—Frampton appeared.

"Have one of the maids go through Her Grace's clothing and see if she's left a pelisse Lady Charlotte can borrow."

As Frampton turned, Simon called, "And hurry!"

Uncomfortable silence stretched between them as they waited, Charlotte with her arms crossed and glaring, and Simon with the perpetual and ingratiating grin plastered on his face.

She jumped when he severed the stillness. "Come now, Charlotte. We both need a bit of fun outside."

Rose appeared at the doorway, holding out a pelisse of robin's-egg blue and a cream poke bonnet. "I thought this would go best with your bonnet, my lady."

It wasn't the best color on her, favoring more Honoria's fair complexion, but it would have to do. No doubt Honoria left the brightly colored garment behind because it wasn't fitting for a house in mourning. At least the bonnet would shield her face from curious onlookers.

Simon watched as Rose slipped the coat over Charlotte's shoulders.

The hem ended several inches above the bottom of Charlotte's skirts, clashing with the green sprigged muslin. She plucked the bonnet from Rose's fingers and shoved it on her head. Even the open body of the phaeton wouldn't hide the offending mishmash of materials and colors when she sat.

Simon held out his arm. "Shall we?"

Although she strode toward him, she refused to take his arm. Have him interpret that as he will.

Without a word, he followed her, grabbed his hat from Frampton, and escorted her to the carriage.

"Is this thing safe?" she asked as she climbed aboard, this time accepting his offered hand. Heat traveled through the fine kid leather of his gloves to hers.

He climbed in next to her and lifted the ribbons. "It depends on who's driving." He winked and snapped the ribbons. The horses darted forward with such force it jolted her into him.

This was a very bad idea.

Ah, the wind and sun on his face was pure heaven as Simon raced the phaeton up the street. He felt alive again and ready to tackle whatever came next.

Charlotte, on the other hand, latched onto his arm, gripping it until he feared it would grow numb. "Where are we going?"

"First, to our appointment with the vicar to make arrangements at church. I doubt I'll be able to convince him to forego reading the banns, but we can try. I have a weapon." He released the ribbons with one hand and patted his pocket.

Her brown eyes widened, horror written all over her face. "You're going to threaten him with a gun?"

"Worse. A copy of that scandal sheet. A boy on the street by your brother's was handing them out. Charged me three pennies, the rascal."

"Speaking of my brother, if you try to get a special license from the archbishop, Edgerton will surely stop it. Just to punish me more. "

Sharp pain poked his chest at the word punish . He placed his free hand on hers and, much more gently than the vise-like grip she had on his arm, squeezed.

She jerked away as if he'd burned her. "Please use both hands. The horses are getting out of control."

He laughed until he looked at her face. Lord, she was serious! Some of the joy he'd felt moments before seeped out of him at her distress. Why couldn't she relax and simply enjoy the ride? He returned his attention to the road ahead of him, deftly maneuvering the carriage between two vegetable carts and pedestrians crossing in front of them.

"The people!" She grasped at the ribbons. "You almost ran them over!"

"Nonsense," he said, but he pulled back on the ribbons and slowed the horses a bit.

Tension pulsed the muscles in her jaw when he slid a glance toward her, and she visibly relaxed when he brought them to a halt in front of the church. After throwing the ribbons to a boy waiting in front, he flipped him a shilling, then held out his hand and helped Charlotte down.

"You are mad!" she hissed through her teeth. "And I am mad to agree to this marriage."

He held out his hands in supplication. "Yet, here we are."

"Unfortunately."

Clicking his tongue, he shook his head. "Now, now, Lady Charlotte. We must give the appearance of being in love and desiring to marry as soon as possible." He swept one arm in front of him. "After you."

She trounced inside the church, making no attempt to follow his suggestion. "I'm surprised the ceiling didn't fall on us the moment you stepped through the doors," she whispered.

"Me?" He adopted his most innocent expression. "I'm a paragon of virtue"—he winked—"when I need to be. "

"Ha!" Her exclamation drew the attention of a man standing at the transept.

"I say, good man." Simon took off his hat and waved it at the man. "Are you the vicar?"

"I'm the curate, sir. Are you Mr. Beckham and his betrothed?"

After Simon answered him, the curate led them back to a small space next to the sacristy. "The vicar, Mr. Trembly, is at prayer, preparing for your meeting." The curate knocked twice, and they received permission to enter.

As they took their seats, Mr. Trembly studied them. "I'm puzzled and even a little concerned by the request in your letter, Mr. Beckham. Why the great urgency to wed without the customary reading of banns?"

Simon slid a glance toward Charlotte, who raised her brows at him in question. Good, he'd hoped she would allow him to take the lead.

"Good vicar, Mr. Trembly. Our reason is as old as time immemorial. We are so desperately in love, waiting is torturous."

Charlotte snorted, admittedly a rather dainty snort, but it didn't go unnoticed by the vicar.

"Miss? Do you disagree with Mr. Beckham's assessment of your reason?"

"It's Lady Charlotte Talbot, sir. And I just found it rather humorous that my intended used such an unimaginative reason. He's usually quite creative."

Well, well. Was there a compliment hidden in that scathing insult?

"Allow me to be more blunt, Lady Charlotte. Do you wish to marry Mr. Beckham? The Church has no desire to force people into a union they do not want."

Simon held his breath and watched Charlotte's face, mentally pleading with her to lie for once in her life and save her reputation .

Mr. Trembly waited, his face a mask of patience.

Simon could almost hear the cogs clicking as Charlotte's sharp mind worked out the simple question.

"I have agreed to marry Mr. Beckham of my own free will, sir."

Clever girl. Not quite a straightforward answer, but truthful.

Mr. Trembly hesitated but a moment. "Very well. But I see no reason to omit the reading of banns. We shall start this Sunday and plan for the wedding three weeks hence." He pulled out a book and dipped his pen into an inkpot. "Which day of the week would you prefer?"

Simon pulled out his trump card. "Sir, may we speak in private?"

The vicar raised his brows. "We are in private, sir."

"What I mean is, may you and I speak in private—without my beloved?"

"That is most irregular."

"Irregularity is a constant state with my beloved ," Charlotte quipped.

"Well, then. If the lady has no objection."

Both Simon and the vicar stood as Charlotte exited the room.

Simon patted the copy of The Muckraker in his pocket and said, "Mr. Trembly, allow me to tell you about my future wife."

Saints and angels looked down on Charlotte from their lofty places high above in the stained-glass windows of the church. Judging? Advising? Consoling? Pitying? She wasn't certain. She'd never had much faith in help from above.

At least she'd made it to the church alive. For several long moments, she'd had her doubts. Shivers traveled up her spine, expecting the journey back to Pendrake House would be just as harrowing. Although, rather exciting as well. Of course, she would never admit that to Simon. Any encouragement and he'd probably be even more reckless.

The curate had vanished, no doubt leaving once he'd completed his task of showing them to the vicar's study, and she was alone in the large church. She pleaded with the somber faces. "Can you tell him to hurry?"

The door to the vicar's study creaked open, and she looked back up at the window. She could swear one of the saints was smirking.

As was Simon. Mr. Trembly, however, avoided her gaze. He shook Simon's hand. "I can't promise anything, but I'll try to speak with the bishop as soon as I'm able."

With a promise from the vicar to keep them informed, they said their goodbyes.

As they waited for the boy to retrieve Simon's carriage, Charlotte asked, "What did you tell him to change his mind?"

"That you were unable to contain your carnal desires, and I worried that you would wear down my defenses and I would take your innocence before the vows were exchanged. So, to save you from yourself, we should marry as soon as possible."

She gawked at him in disbelief. "Surely, you did not?"

He only smiled, his lips pressed together as if he were containing his laughter.

Oh, she wanted to strangle him! "You cad!"

"Would you feel better if I told him we needed to hurry due to your advanced age? It is a usual condition to obtain a license."

"You are?—"

"Incorrigible? Insufferable?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "Irresistible?"

"Argh!"

The carriage pulled up before she could question him further. Once she'd settled in the seat, which suddenly seemed impossibly small, she inched away from him only to have him move closer. "Do you mind?" she huffed .

"Not at all. I like closeness."

Argh!

He snapped the ribbons. "Where to, my lady? The park? A ride along Rotten Row?"

"Home."

He turned a sour look her way. "Stop being such a stick in the mud. Where's your sense of adventure? You'd think you'd be happy to get out of the house and get some air."

"Very well, then. Take me to the modiste. I need some more gowns. Rose didn't bring many with her."

"I asked your brother to send your clothing."

Oh, but he had so much to learn. "And you expect him to respect your request?"

He arched that devilish dark brow at her again. "To the modiste then. Just don't bankrupt me."

When he guided the carriage to the left at the end of the street, she frowned. "You're going the wrong way. Madame Treadwell's shop is to the right."

"We're taking the scenic route through the park." He snapped the ribbons again, and the horses picked up speed.

Her body was thrust back into the squab of the carriage, and she clutched her bonnet to her head lest it fly off.

The man was mad. Reckless. Irresponsible.

And she had never felt more exhilarated.