Reforming the Rake
Sarah Elliott
THIS ISN'T YOUR FIRST SEASON, IS IT, DEAR?"NO. BUT IT SHALL BE MY LAST!Beatrice Sinclair prayed that her bold declaration would prove true. After so many fruitless years on the ton's marriage mart, life on the shelf seemed the more appealing prospect. At least as an avowed spinster, she wouldn't be bound by the silliness women went through to catch even the dullest of husbands!Still, secretly, she yearned for romance–bone-melting, scandalous romance. If truth be told, what she really wanted–even if only for one mad, family-shocking moment–was a rake. And Charles Summerson, Marquis of Pelham, tall, dark and notorious, seemed only too happy to oblige!
“Since we’re not friends, may I ask you a rather rude question?”
Beatrice blinked. “Excuse me?”
Charles’s green eyes sparkled devilishly. “Why aren’t you married?”
“A great many people aren’t married,” she retorted defensively. “I could be asking you the same question.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to be married. The fact that you’re in London for the season implies that you don’t share my sentiments. What’s stopping you? You’re intelligent and amusing, not to mention,” he added quietly, his eyes darkening, “the most beautiful woman in town. Are you sure you’re really looking for a husband?”
Beatrice colored again. “Are you proposing?” She knew that she shouldn’t have asked him this question—there was no telling what sort of outrageous answer he’d give—yet the question had slipped out all the same.
Charles leaned in closer yet again, this time to whisper in her ear. “Not marriage.”
Praise for debut author Sarah Elliott
“Sarah Elliott has a fresh new voice that makes the marriage of convenience into something altogether too sexy and fun to be just convenient!”
—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James
“Sarah Elliott writes with elegance and wit. The book is funny, it’s sexy, it’s romantic. What more could you want?”
—Jessica Benson, author of The Accidental Duchess
Reforming the Rake
Sarah Elliott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Laura Langlie for her patience and tenacity and to Elizabeth Sudol for giving much-needed encouragement.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter One
May 12, 1816
C harles Summerson, ninth marquess of Pelham, hadn’t meant to spy. No, he actually felt rather embarrassed for not closing his window right away—after all, he’d merely stuck his head out to check the temperature, and, having decided that he would not require a heavy coat for his ride in the park, had no reason to linger.
Nonetheless, he lingered.
It wasn’t even Charles’s own window, for that matter; that is, it was his former window. He was temporarily staying in his boyhood room at his mother’s Park Lane home while his own town house underwent repairs. Still, he had grown up in that very room, and in all those years he had never appreciated how prime a vantage point his window was for observing the goings-on in his neighbor’s garden. Not that he’d ever been particularly interested in her goings-on before, and frankly, he wasn’t interested in them now. Lady Louisa Sinclair had lived next door to the Summersons for as long as Charles could remember. She was one of those society matrons who was perpetually just shy of sixty years old…preserved, he assumed, by the vinegar that ran through her veins.
Today, however, was different, for today Lady Sinclair was not in her garden. Quite the contrary. Instead, there appeared to be an entirely different variety of female in his neighbor’s garden: definitely younger, and far gentler on the eyes.
Charles quietly observed the unfamiliar girl for several minutes without moving. He hadn’t the faintest idea who she was, and from his position he could make out few details. She was sprawled out in the middle of Lady Sinclair’s pristine lawn, facing away from him. and propped up by her elbows in order to jot something hurriedly into a small book. Charles wished he could see her face. All he could really see was the back of her blond head, bent so avidly over her writing.
He let his gaze travel down her body, or what he could see of it, anyway. She wore a pale yellow dress, the same color as Lady Sinclair’s daffodils, and Charles noted that it was appropriately, albeit disappointingly, modest. He had to rely on his imagination to fill in the details that the dress concealed: a tall, slim frame, gently rounded hips, small waist…ample breasts. He silently willed her to roll over and satisfy his curiosity.
Her legs lay flat behind her, and Charles let his gaze roam down even farther. He noticed that her slippers had abandoned her feet and now lay haphazardly on the ground at her side. He could see nothing of her calves—as was proper—but he could see her feet quite clearly. Periodically, she wiggled her toes in the grass.
He knew he really ought to turn away, and surely would have if it weren’t for those damned feet. But seeing a woman’s stockinged feet only made him all the more curious to see the rest of her, and as she was so focused on…well, whatever it was she was doing, there was really no chance of being discovered, was there?
After a minute, the girl paused in writing to leaf through the pages of her book. Charles would have given just about anything at that moment to read along with her—rather salaciously, he hoped that it was her diary, where she recorded her deepest secrets, hidden desires….
He forgot about the contents of her book entirely, however, when—seeming to forget for the moment that she was a young lady—the girl bent her leg back, letting it sway carelessly back and forth; her skirts slipped down to pool around her knee, and he was treated to a clear view of her trim ankle and shapely calf.
He raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Charles supposed he ought to feel rather depraved for observing her unawares, but niggling morals aside, he just couldn’t avert his eyes. He even contemplated heading down the hall to knock on his sister’s bedroom door to ask if he could borrow her opera glasses.
However, his nefarious thoughts were interrupted before he could make that decision. The sound of a shrill voice rang out from next door—probably that termagant Louisa Sinclair. “Bea! Come inside now! We have to get ready.”
“Coming….” The girl responded slowly, without closing her book or making any sign to rise.
After a minute, the voice came again, more insistent this time. “Bea! We’ll be late as it is.”
With great reluctance, the girl closed her book, but she didn’t get up right away. First, she rolled onto her back, stretching like a cat and crossing her arms behind her head. She looked up at the sky, a faraway expression on her face and the faint trace of a smile about her lips.
Charles really should have looked away then. She could have turned her gaze up toward his window at any moment, and he’d feel like ten times a randy schoolboy, which wouldn’t do at all. But the problems that discovery posed were the furthest thing from his mind. For a moment, in fact, he forgot to breathe.
God, she was beautiful. He’d been admiring her body before, but her face… Perfect, tiny nose and generous lips… Charles swallowed hard. With her lying on her back as she now was, his prior imaginings were confirmed. She was indeed slim, but definitely curved in all the right places. He still couldn’t see all that he would like—the color of her eyes, the slant of her brows—but the general picture of beauty was undeniable.
Charles wondered at her age. She was definitely young, he decided, but not too young…twenty, perhaps? Twenty-one? He tended to avoid innocents, for the simple fact that they were usually looking for husbands, and he definitely did not fit that category.
Holding her book close to her chest, the girl rose and began walking toward the door. She paused, however, just before entering, tilting her radiant face up to the sky to enjoy her last few seconds of sun. Then, with a look of disappointment, she headed indoors and broke the spell.
Charles waited to see if she’d reemerge from the house. After several minutes had passed with nary a sign of her, a more profitable course of action came to his mind.
Charles rose from his position at the window and left his room, heading down the long hall to knock on his sister’s door. He ignored the portrait of his great-great-grandfather, who glared at him disapprovingly from beneath his abundant eyebrows.
“Lucy? You in there?” he called through the panel. At eighteen, Lucy was having her first season. Despite the twelve years age difference, they had always been very close, although Charles was still trying to get used to the fact that she was no longer a child.
Lucy opened her door and grinned at him. She was a pretty, petite girl and shared her brother’s raven-black hair and green eyes. Indeed, except for the fact that Charles stood well over six feet tall, the resemblance between them was uncanny. “Did you miss me, Charles?” she asked cheekily.
He snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lu. Came to see what you were doing tonight.”
She arched a single brow. “Could it be that you’re interested in accompanying me? That would be a first.”
“I went along for your debut two weeks ago,” he protested.
“That doesn’t count, and you know it. You had to come. Besides, you told me that would be the first and last time.”
He had said that—he could remember his words distinctly. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. What are the entertainments for the evening?”
“Just one that I know of—the annual Teasdale ball. That’s where I’m going.”
Charles nodded, as if debating whether to attend, but he’d already made up his mind. There was little he’d rather do less than attend Lady Teasdale’s blasted ball, but he wanted to know more about the girl in the yellow dress. Lady Sinclair had ushered her inside to get ready for something, probably this particular function. “Perhaps I’ll come along.”
“But you can’t stand Lady Teasdale!” Lucy exclaimed.
Charles realized this conversation wouldn’t be as brief as he’d hoped. He entered Lucy’s room and sank into her large armchair, trying to come up with a plausible excuse. “I realize that I’ve been lax in my duties, Lu. I shouldn’t leave you to face the vultures alone.”
“Charles, Mother always comes with me. It’s not as if I’m without a chaperone.”
“Ah, but you forget, Lucy, that Mother doesn’t know the men out there as I do. I should hate to see you wasting your time with the wrong sort.”
She gaped in disbelief. “How can you be so suspicious? You’re the worst of the lot, Charles. And did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t want your blasted company?”
He pretended to look shocked. “Can these be the words of my own dear sister?”
Lucy wasn’t about to give up. She loved her brother dearly, but he could be a tad overprotective at times. She tried to put him off one last time. “Well, whether I want you there doesn’t matter. Besides, you’ll make Mother very happy. Just this morning she was telling me that it was high time you wed.” She batted her eyelashes innocently.
“Mother says as much every day.”
“Well, Charles…” Lucy was really warming up to the subject now. “I haven’t told you this before, but Mother has really been thinking about finding you a match recently. Seems she’s getting worried that you’ll never wed.”
“This is new?” he asked with a yawn.
She ignored his rudeness. “Well, no, not that in particular. But she has taken up an alarming new practice of carrying a notebook containing the names and parentage of every eligible girl she meets. Truly, Charles, she is never without it.”
He just stared for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. “She’s taking notes? What does this notebook look like, Lucy?”
She debated whether to tell him or not—what if he went looking for the book and stole it? Her mother would never forgive her, not to mention that Lucy would no longer be able to hold it over his head. But she knew he’d get the information out of her sooner or later. She tried to describe the book as vaguely as possible. “Well, I can’t say that I’ve seen the outside of the notebook too often…it’s always open when I see her with it. But I do believe it’s leather. Oh, and small, so she can fit it in her pocket.”
Charles had spent several years after university working for the War Office and easily recognized evasion. But his sister was as formidable as any French spy he had ever encountered, and he decided to drop the questioning for the moment. He’d find and destroy the book later.
“You’re very helpful, Lu. I can’t thank you enough…and I shall see you later this evening.” And with a roguish grin, he rose from the chair and headed back to his room, deciding that his ride in the park could wait.
Chapter Two
B eatrice Sinclair sat very still, holding a slender pen poised over a blank page in her well-worn journal. She wrote three words, but crossed them out almost immediately. She waited for more words, better words, to spill forth. They didn’t.
Frowning, she laid her notebook on her lap, realizing she was too distracted to give her writing the thought that it deserved. How could she concentrate on fiction when reality—her personal reality—was in such a shambles?
She looked around her bedroom for literary inspiration. The walls of her great-aunt Louisa’s house were papered, variously, with pastoral scenes or with complicated floral motifs. Beatrice’s bedroom was a pastoral room. Shepherds and milkmaids cavorted about the walls, and had the added bonus of having trompe l’oeil clouds painted on the ceiling. Personally, she would have preferred to be outside, but Louisa had just called her back indoors; she disapproved of young ladies getting too much sun. A single freckle could spoil a girl’s chances completely, or so she claimed.
Beatrice turned her attention back to her journal and sighed. She’d kept it since her first season, five years earlier. Initially, it had been a diary in the true sense of the word, a place where she’d related each day’s events—Beatrice had quickly realized that if she didn’t occupy her mind in some useful fashion, she’d risk becoming as empty-headed as the rest of the ton. However, as the season drew to a close and she read over her diary, she’d realized bleakly how dull her life had become: party after dinner after ball, all with the sole purpose of snagging some unsuspecting male. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been even slightly interested in any of the gentlemen she met at these endless social events, but she had a difficult time dredging up the faintest enthusiasm for most of them.
By the end of that first season, Beatrice had resigned herself to one thing: in looking for a husband, reality and fantasy would never agree, and the less imagination one had, the better. Where were broad shoulders in the real world? Razor-sharp wit? Tall, dark and handsome? Clearly, these things didn’t exist, and if one could accept that, one would never be disappointed by reality.
Unfortunately, this revelation came too late. By the end of her first season she’d earned the moniker “Cold Fish Beatrice” for her repeated refusals. By her second and third seasons, the many proposals she’d once received had all but dried up.
So she’d spent two years at home in the country and now—older, wiser and much reformed—she was ready to embark on yet another season. This time, though, she had a plan. Wisdom helped her realize that she needed an outlet for her imagination, so, at the sage age of twenty-three, Beatrice had stopped keeping a diary and had turned to fiction. This way, she hoped, she could invent whatever romantic hero she pleased, and resign herself to the stooped shoulders of reality.
So far, her plan wasn’t working out as she had expected, but the season was only a few weeks old.
“Beatrice, this is not acceptable.”
Louisa was glaring at her with extreme annoyance. Even when pleased, her great-aunt was a sight to behold, with her steel-gray hair, her steel-gray eyes, her long nose and her tall, thin body. When Louisa was irritated, however, intimidating took on a whole new meaning. She could incite fear in the stoutest of hearts with a simple curl of her lip, and all that saved Beatrice from quaking in her seat now was the knowledge that, deep down—very deep, perhaps—her aunt was generous, caring and devoted to her family.
Beatrice was afraid she knew what “this” meant, although she asked all the same, biding for time. “I’m sorry, Louisa—what precisely is not acceptable?”
Louisa snorted indelicately. “Your sister informs me that you don’t plan to attend Lady Teasdale’s ball this evening. Why did you not discuss this with me?”
Beatrice began guiltily, “Well…Eleanor mentioned something about there being a new production of King Lear at Drury Lane, and that she had no one to attend with her—”
“Beatrice, you already promised that you’d go to Lady Teasdale’s. Besides, Eleanor is only sixteen! She hardly needs to be going to the theater. I should never have told your father that she could come visit you, even if it was for only a few weeks. King Lear. Humph,” Louisa sniffed. “There’s a man with three daughters for you…and look what happened to him. It’ll only give Eleanor ideas. I’m just glad Helen isn’t here to see it.”
“I think you’re being a little dramatic, Auntie. You couldn’t find three daughters more devoted to their father than Eleanor, Helen and me, and I can assure you that Eleanor’s motives are innocent. She just loves the theater.”
Louisa rolled her eyes. “Back to the subject at hand, Beatrice. Truth is, Eleanor knows that you don’t want to go to the Teasdales’, and as she’s too young to go herself, she figures there’s no harm in you missing the ball.”
“Is there?” Beatrice asked hopefully.
Louisa assumed mock disbelief. “Have you gone off and gotten married without telling me, Beatrice Sinclair? Of course there’s harm in missing the ball—you’re a desperate case.”
Beatrice was used to these comments and knew that Louisa didn’t really mean them…not entirely, anyway. She put on her most innocent face, which was sure to irritate her aunt. “I can’t believe you would accuse me of avoiding Lady Teasdale’s.”
Louisa snorted again. “Do I look like a fool? You’ve been telling me that you didn’t want to go since arriving here last month. Yes, Lady Teasdale is tiresome, but her balls are always well attended, especially by eligible young men.” She sighed. “You’re not even giving it a chance, Bea. The season has been in full swing for two weeks, and I made your father a promise.”
“I know, Louisa…. I only thought that, as I have already been to Lady Teasdale’s annual ball three times in the past—without, I should remind you, much success—”
“Who needs reminding? Clearly, you are not married.”
Beatrice counted to five, praying she wouldn’t lose her temper. “Clearly.”
“And how old are you?”
She almost didn’t answer. Louisa managed to mention her age at least twice a day, and Beatrice had little doubt that she knew precisely how old she was. “I am twenty-three, Louisa, a fact we have already established. I will inform you when this state of affairs changes.”
Louisa clucked. “Impertinent chit. That’s what you get for being long in the tooth.”
“What?”
“With age comes a sharp tongue.”
That’s what I get from spending the past month with you, Beatrice thought, but said nothing.
“At any rate,” Louisa continued brusquely, “I have discussed matters with your sister. She is determined to go to the theater, and I have decided to allow it—if, mind you, you can get your brother to join you.” Beatrice groaned, and Louisa cackled with glee. “Yes, dear, I know that won’t be easy. Ben’ll be as excited about chaperoning his younger sisters to the theater as I am about the two of you going. I don’t think it’s right for two unmarried girls to be traipsing off to the theater together. I don’t know what the world is coming to.”
Beatrice sank back onto the settee. Louisa was right. Ben would have no desire to escort them to the theater, and he probably already had other plans. Still, if she started begging now, by curtain call he’d be so annoyed he’d take them just to make her be quiet. Beatrice wanted to crow with joy, but wisely schooled her features. “Thank you, Louisa. I know how much this means to Eleanor. I’d hate to disappoint her.”
Louisa smiled smugly. “Yes, well, I checked, and the play begins at seven. You should still be able to make it to Lady Teasdale’s at a decent hour once it’s over. And see if you can’t get your brother to come with you.”
And with that, Beatrice’s hopes sank into the carpet, and Louisa sailed from the room with all the dignity of the royal barge. Beatrice collapsed even deeper into the settee, and closed her eyes. It didn’t help; she could still see the triumphant smirk on her aunt’s face. She opened her eyes and looked at the frolicking milkmaids on the walls. Even they looked smug.
Oh, she was dreading the evening to come. It was true— Beatrice had been to Lady Teasdale’s wretched affair three times already. It was considered de rigueur for unmarried young ladies to attend this annual event, and avoiding the thing in the future was one of her few incentives for marrying. Lady Teasdale had five daughters to still marry off and was a cutthroat competitor who made a point of being rude to any ladies of marriageable age not related to her by blood. Lady Teasdale’s eldest daughter, Sarah, had come out the same year as Beatrice. Lady Teasdale liked to remind Beatrice of the fact that Sarah had been married by the sixth week of the season—and to a viscount, no less. In truth, Beatrice felt sorry for the girl—she couldn’t imagine anything worse than being auctioned off to the highest bidder at the age of seventeen. But that didn’t change the fact that Lady Teasdale considered it her job to rub that detail in everyone else’s face.
Of course, Beatrice had to admit that three seasons without managing to find a husband was rather pathetic. And if one counted her two years of restorative hibernation at her family’s home in Hampshire, well…that did make five years of indisputable failure.
Not that she considered it to be her sole purpose in life to get married. She had no problem with remaining single…as long as she wasn’t trying to wed; it was at that point that spinsterhood became failure. The secret to success, she’d decided, was to pursue spinsterhood the way most women pursued marriage. In fact, she’d become quite comfortable with the idea of remaining a perennial spinster, and hadn’t even planned on going to London for the season at all. No, that was her father’s idea.
“You know I love you, Bea,” he’d said, trying to be delicate, “but for heaven’s sake, do you think someday you’ll get married?”
Beatrice had only grinned, not realizing that this time he meant it. “But however would you survive without me?”
He had sighed resignedly. “I should miss you, Bea, but as for surviving…don’t take this the wrong way, but I dream of the day when all of my children find families and houses of their own, and I, God willing, can enjoy peace and quiet once more.”
Beatrice had begun to get a bit nervous, but attempted to cajole him out of this new mind-set. “You’d take that back, Father dearest, after a week. Who would help you organize your library? Who would help you with your correspondence?”
“Who has ever helped me with these things?” he’d asked in confusion.
Beatrice had ignored that remark. “And what about entertainment? How about my harpsichord playing?”
“That, my dear, I would miss least of all. In fact, I hope you take the instrument with you. No—” he’d held up his hand as Beatrice started to protest “—both you and your brother are of marriageable age. Eventually, I would like some grandchildren.”
“But you just said you wanted peace and quiet.”
“Beatrice,” he’d warned.
She’d sighed. “All right. I understand…but yet, Father, I don’t understand exactly. What are you proposing? It’s not as if I’ve been avoiding marriage.”
“It’s not as if you’ve been actively seeking it, either. You’ve had two years respite, Beatrice. If your mother were alive I hardly think she would have allowed it. I’ve been too indulgent, and it’s time you returned to London to give it another go. I’ve discussed this with Louisa, and she agrees. She’s even offered to sponsor you for the season. You can stay with her in town.”
Beatrice had already started to panic. “Aunt Louisa? Oh, no. Why can’t I stay at our town house?”
“Because I won’t be accompanying you, and your brother is there, indulging in God knows what sort of debauchery.”
“I’ll be a good influence on him.”
He’d smiled. “More likely he’ll be a bad influence on you. Louisa will keep you company—and make sure you at least try. I know you too well, Beazie. Left alone you’d just sit about and read novels. And don’t,” he’d added, looking at her firmly, “turn those sad eyes on me. I won’t go with you. I went to town during your first three seasons, and I’ve already promised Eleanor that I’ll be in town when she has her coming out in two years. And then Helen in just a few more years—”
The clock struck four, drawing Beatrice from her reverie. She’d been in London for nearly a month, and that had been a month of hard campaigning, at least on her aunt’s part. No, her unmarried status was not from lack of trying, nor was it from lack of interest—her reputation as “Cold Fish Beatrice” seemed to have faded, and she’d gained a few brave suitors. Try as she might, she was plagued with the same problem of old. Beatrice knew that it was silly and unreasonable, but she kind of, just a little bit, did believe in love at first sight. There was someone out there for her. She just hadn’t met him yet.
But there was no sense in dwelling on it now. She had to start getting ready for the theater. Her father was right: she did read too many novels, and she’d be better off if she pushed all romantic thoughts from her mind.
Chapter Three
C harles sorely regretted his decision to attend the ball. In general, he steered clear of that sort of thing, particularly if it were captained by Honoria Teasdale. He had been reminded of why he hated these events from the moment he’d walked through the door, when he’d felt precisely as if he’d been thrown to the sharks. Every woman in the room, be they mother or daughter, young or old, fat or thin, immediately began sizing him up, wondering if perhaps this was the year he’d be caught. Having no interest in marriage himself, he wouldn’t have attended the ball at all if it weren’t for that elusive girl in the yellow dress. And she, ironically, hadn’t appeared. Charles was beginning to think he’d imagined her.
“Charles, dear, you look a little bit forbidding,” his mother, Emma Summerson, chided as she approached. She was fair where Charles was dark, and petite where he was tall and athletic. When they smiled, however, their equally lopsided and charming grins immediately pegged them as being closely related.
Charles wasn’t smiling now. He practically scowled at the glass of lemonade she handed him.
“Take that frown off your face, Charles, or all of these young ladies will be frightened.”
“That is my fondest wish, Mother,” he replied. He’d long ago learned that his dangerous dark looks were what drew women toward him. Nonetheless, he was being sincere. Most of his friends didn’t relish the idea of marriage, but most of them also accepted that fate as inevitable, at least if they had a title to pass on. Charles, on the other hand, had vowed never to marry, his title be damned. Marriage, especially if it involved love, was far too dangerous. Charles had already lost two people he’d loved very much and refused to put himself at risk again.
His mother sighed resignedly. “Oh, I do wish you’d behave. Why’d you come tonight, anyway? You don’t enjoy this sort of affair. You’re not really worried about Lucy, are you?”
“I’m not worried so much, Mother…. I just think it’s a good idea to make my presence known—sporadically, mind you—to keep these young bucks on their toes.”
She sniffed. “Sporadically. I see. Very well thought out of you—after all, you do have a reputation to maintain. Wouldn’t do for you to appear in polite society too frequently, would it?”
“You know, Mother, I rather thought that with Lucy out now you’d concentrate on her love life, rather than dwelling on mine.”
“Although—” she said with a smile “—you could use the help.”
“But,” Charles countered, “I don’t need you keeping a notebook with the fortune, ancestry and physical features of every unmarried girl you meet, in that order.”
“Lucy told you?”
“’Course she did. She’s quite fond of me, you know. Tells me everything.”
His mother looked highly doubtful. “Well, she got it a bit wrong. My criteria are actually in the opposite order, dear. And I’m certain character and intelligence are in there somewhere, as well, although you sometimes seem to view those things as liabilities in a woman.”
Charles began to grow alarmed. “What are you talking about, Mother?”
She put her hand to her chin in thought. “Yes…the order is character, intelligence, attractiveness, family, then fortune. We have enough money to put fortune last.”
Charles raked an agitated hand through his hair, feeling for once that his own mother was one of the sharks he had to look out for. It was definitely time for him to leave. “This can’t be happening, Mother. I have to go. I will walk home—it’s just a few blocks.”
She smiled smoothly, feigning surprise. “So soon? But I see Lady Abermarle heading your way—I imagine her daughter is behind her somewhere, not that you can see anything around that majestic form.”
He shivered. “Then I will run home.”
“One word of advice, Charles, before you go.”
“Yes, Mother?” he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder as the large Abermarle shadow began to loom closer. Now it was imperative that he leave.
She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Always judge a girl by her mother, because in ten years, she will be her mother.”
Charles nodded curtly and walked briskly to the door, hoping to God that none of Lucy’s suitors ever met their mother.
His mother watched him fondly as he beat his retreat. Lucy walked up behind her grinning.
“I see you got rid of him, Mother,” she remarked with definite satisfaction.
“Easily. You should never doubt me,” her mother replied. She began to chuckle. “You should have seen the look on his face, dear, when I informed him about The Book…. He was looking at me as if I’d gone quite mad.”
“As if?”
She ignored her daughter’s sarcasm. “If Charles is going to be so ornery about finding a match for himself, I hardly see why he should come here and ruin your chances by glowering at all your beaus.” She turned toward her youngest child. She’d been blessed with three children, but only Charles and Lucy had survived. Mark, Charles’s junior by two years, had died in a carriage accident when he was thirteen. The memory still hurt, and she cherished her remaining children. They both made her so proud. They infuriated her, too, but for the most part her heart swelled with joy whenever she looked at them.
Her eyes began to mist up.
“Are you all right, Mother?” Lucy asked, resting her hand on her arm in concern.
“I’m fine, Lucy. I was just thinking about how much you and Charles resemble your father…Charles especially, the devil. Your father was quite the handful before we wed.”
Lucy raised her eyebrows. “He couldn’t have been as wicked as Charles. I can’t see you putting up with that.”
Her mother smiled and slipped her arm around her. “I never had to put up with it. From the moment we met he became a paragon—with, of course, the occasional reminder.” She turned to look at her daughter. “I hope your marriage, when it comes, is every bit as special. Charles’s, too.”
“I shouldn’t get my hopes up too much about Charles,” Lucy warned. “He’s in no hurry to marry at all. I suppose he will eventually, of course—he has the title to think about. But I wouldn’t expect a love match.”
Her mother merely shrugged. “He might surprise us yet. At any rate, he’s gone now, and you can enjoy yourself. Lord Dudley is by the French doors, and I sense from his penetrating gaze that he’s desperate to attract your attention.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. “I noticed him, too, although I was trying to pretend I hadn’t. I suppose I should go dance with him or else seem terribly rude.”
“Yes, dear, I think you’d better.”
As Lucy headed off toward Lord Dudley, her mother smiled benignly, pleased that she’d been able to send off her other child so easily. Children could be such nuisances sometimes, and she needed time alone to think…or rather, to scheme.
Wearing the same harmless smile, she let her gaze wander around the room. There had to be a better reason for Charles to attend the ball that evening than concern for Lucy. She was sure of it. It was only a matter of finding out who that better reason was and whether or not she was eligible.
It was nearly ten by the time Beatrice, Eleanor and Ben returned from the theater, and with every minute, Beatrice grew more alarmed. Louisa would be a veritable volcano by the time she reached the ball.
As their carriage rolled to a stop in front of their aunt’s town house, Eleanor stretched, a contented smile on her face. All of the Sinclair children resembled each other very closely, save Eleanor. Whereas the rest of the clan tended to be tall and blond, Eleanor was petite, brunette and blue-eyed. “Time for bed,” she said over a yawn, opening the door and sliding from the carriage. She looked back at Beatrice. “I suppose you could thank Louisa for letting me come out tonight when you see her. If you must.”
Beatrice just smiled. “’Night, Ellie.” But as Eleanor headed into the house, Beatrice nudged her brother. “Ben?”
“Hmm?” he mumbled, half-asleep.
“Do you think Louisa will be terribly peeved because we’re late? It’ll be eleven by the time we arrive.”
He grunted. “Tell Louisa to go to the devil. I’m not going.”
“Ben! I can’t tell her that!”
“You can. What’s the worst she can do?”
“Kill the messenger.”
He turned to his sister, his head lolled back against the seat, grinning unrepentantly. “It’s a bloody boring affair, Beatrice, and I’ve already done you one favor for the evening. No one should be forced to be in the same room as that Teasdale gorgon. You wouldn’t go yourself, if you weren’t scared of Louisa.” He winked at her.
“I am not scared of her, Ben! You don’t have to stay with her all season—imagine sharing a house with that woman when she’s angry. Besides…” Beatrice paused for a moment, grasping for words. “It’s just that, well…I really should go. I have a certain responsibility.”
He shook his head in disgust. “I’m glad I’m not a girl.”
“Why’s that?” Beatrice snorted. “There’s actually more pressure on you, you know—you’re the one who has to produce an heir.”
Ben shuddered in distaste. “Let’s not discuss this subject now. I have plans for later and have to get going. Mind if John brings me home in the carriage? It’ll be back by the time you’re ready to go.”
Beatrice shrugged. “Have a pleasant evening, Ben.” I won’t, she miserably added to herself as she climbed from the carriage.
Her feet trailed reluctantly for the first few steps, but the prospect of Louisa’s temper prodded her into action. By the time she reached the front door, she had broken into a full-fledged run. Humphries, Louisa’s butler, held the door open, waiting for her with a smile.
“Good evening, Miss Sinclair.”
“Good evening, Humphries!” she called back, racing past him and flying up the stairs. He didn’t blink an eye. He was used to her last-minute mad dashes.
Once in her room, Beatrice rang for her lady’s maid, Meg, but wasted no time in removing her clothes on her own, a feat much easier said than done. By the time Meg arrived, Beatrice’s gown was halfway over her head and she was stuck inside of it; she couldn’t undo the buttons on her own and had decided to see if she could simply wiggle it off over her head.
She could not.
“Do you need help, Miss Beatrice?” Meg asked from the doorway.
“Obviously I need help. Pull!” Beatrice ordered in a muffled voice, one arm pinned behind her back, one held uncomfortably above her head.
Meg took a second to assess the situation. Beatrice was writhing about like a caught fish. “Stand still for a moment, dear. Let’s try this in the conventional fashion.” And with that, Meg yanked the gown back down, smiled at Beatrice’s flushed face and proceeded to unbutton.
“Meg, you’ve saved my life. I don’t know what I would do without you. Louisa will have been expecting me for nearly an hour already, and you know how annoyed she gets whenever she is…”
“Annoyed?” Meg murmured helpfully. Few people would dare to mock Louisa, but Meg had been in the family long enough to dare most things. She’d begun as Beatrice’s governess, but had become her lady’s maid and companion once Beatrice had outgrown the schoolroom.
Beatrice just grinned. “That’s it exactly, Meg, although I suppose I can’t blame her this time. If I’d known I would still have to go to the Teasdales’, I would never have promised Eleanor that I’d go to the theater. I’ll look perfectly exhausted by the time I reach the ball. Is that my new gown on the bed? I do hope it came out all right. Perhaps I’ll wear it tonight.”
Meg smiled. Beatrice had not yet seen the completed ball gown, as it had been a rush order from her modiste. “It came out beautifully, Miss Beatrice. The fabric matches your eyes perfectly.”
“You mean brown?” Beatrice asked doubtfully.
“Not just brown, goose,” Meg replied, lifting the gown from the bed with a flourish.
Beatrice’s mouth dropped open in surprise. The gown wasn’t brown at all. It was closer to gold, or even amber. The neck was square-cut, and the high Empire waist would accentuate her tall, slender form.
She turned to her maid. “Meg, it’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever owned—do you think it’s all right for me to wear such a dark shade, though?”
Meg snorted. “It doesn’t matter at this point. You wore enough pastels your first three seasons, and besides, light colors wash you out.”
Beatrice looked slightly crestfallen. “Do you suppose that’s why I never managed to get married? Was I not looking my best?”
“You’re being too hard on yourself, Miss Beatrice,” Meg replied. Beatrice was beyond beautiful, but had never managed to realize that fact. “If I recall, it wasn’t that no one asked you to marry them, but rather that you refused all who asked.”
“Only in my first season, Meg. I really did want to get married after that.”
“Of course you did,” she replied, not believing a word of it. She pulled the gown over Beatrice’s head and began buttoning it up the back. “But I can’t remember you ever mentioning being in love.”
“Well…” Beatrice began guiltily, “I tried to be.”
Meg clucked. “You did the right thing, dear. You shouldn’t marry just because it’s what you’re supposed to do. More girls should follow your example.”
“Meg,” Beatrice countered, “that would mean the end of the human race.”
“Pessimist.”
“How do I look?”
Meg frankly assessed her for a moment. “Stunning—just a slight adjustment to the hair…there. You look beautiful. Here are your gloves.”
“Meg, you are a queen.”
“And you, Miss Beatrice, are late as usual. Stop chatting and move.”
Beatrice ran out the door with a wave. She barely missed crashing into Humphries as she dashed down the steps to the door, causing him to spin around in surprise.
“So sorry, Humphries…I’m in a dreadful rush.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Sinclair. Your aunt is not one to be kept waiting. Please, continue rushing. John will be along shortly with the carriage.”
Beatrice peeked out the doorway. “I think I see him coming now. Thank you, Humphries. I’ll just step outside. Good night.” She didn’t even wait for him to close the door for her, but hurried out into the night, slamming it in her wake as the clock began to strike eleven.
Beatrice dashed down the front steps, trying to pull on her gloves as she went. John was just one house away, and he was already beginning to slow the carriage. Unfortunately, Beatrice was paying more attention to reaching the street quickly than descending the stairs carefully. At the final step she tripped. Her gloves went flying and Beatrice herself hurtled straight at an innocent passerby.
Chapter Four
C harles had walked briskly home from the ball, debating how to spend the rest of his evening. Typically, he would have met with friends at his club, perhaps later wandering out to a party—although not the sort hosted by the likes of Lady Teasdale. Tonight, however, he hadn’t quite known what to do with himself. He’d felt too restless simply to end the night at his mother’s house, but at the same time the thought of spending yet another evening at White’s hadn’t satisfied him, either.
Charles had still been pondering his plans for the evening as he approached his home, head down and hands buried in his pockets. That’s why he hadn’t seen her coming.
The girl in the yellow dress—which, by the way, was no longer yellow—had come tearing down his neighbor’s front steps, and with no ceremony other than a startled squeal, had crashed into him full on, sending both of them flying to the pavement.
For a moment Charles just lay there, stunned. He didn’t move. He was flat on his back and the girl was stretched across him, equally still. The wind had been knocked out of him, but that wasn’t why he stayed motionless. No, for just a moment, he appreciated the novelty of the situation and pondered whether his luck had suddenly changed for the better.
The girl began to sit up. “Oh, I am so sorry,” she murmured. “This is entirely my fault. I am terribly clumsy, you see, and if only I weren’t so late…. Here, let me help you up.”
She was quite a bit smaller than Charles, and he wasn’t sure how she proposed to help him. When she tried to rise, she sent her elbow into his chest. Despite himself, he grunted in pain.
She held herself very still once more. “Oh, I am sorry.”
He placed his hands on her arms. “You’ve already said so. Let’s see if we can’t rectify this situation.” With that, he gently rolled her to one side and sat up. He held out a hand and helped her into a sitting position, as well.
For a moment, she stared at him in surprise.
Charles gazed back, and in the silence that ensued, he looked his fill. Up close, he could see the fine details that had been denied him earlier that afternoon: the pale golden streaks in her blond hair, the veins of amber in her velvety brown eyes and the faint hint of freckles running across the bridge of her nose. Other than those freckles, her skin was fair and smooth as cream, and where that skin faded into the rich gold fabric of her gown, just above her breasts… Charles’s mouth went dry.
Young debutantes almost always wore white, and he found himself unconsciously calculating her age and situation once more. She still looked hardly much older than twenty, but she could be married at that age. And yet…she looked so innocent, her slender brows arched in surprise over those gorgeous brown eyes. Charles knew that she was looking at him with an interest to match his own, and his gaze was drawn to her mouth—her beautiful mouth—parted slightly in shock. Her lips were wide, full and delicately pink, and he knew in that instant that he would kiss them.
Not at that very moment, of course, but soon.
“Do you need any assistance, Miss Sinclair?” her coachman called as he stopped in front of the house.
The spell was broken. She looked up at her driver and smiled weakly. “I’m fine, John…just rushing a bit too much yet again.”
“Yes, my lady,” he said, biting his tongue to hold back his laughter.
Beatrice turned around to face Charles, wondering who he was. He’d hardly uttered a word, but the way he was looking at her immediately put her on her guard. Oh, he was clearly a gentleman, dressed impeccably in a snug fitting velvet coat and snowy cravat, but as for being a gentleman…he was far too heart-stoppingly handsome for that. His intense green-eyed gaze wandered over her body without reserve, and every one of his wicked thoughts was written in the appreciative curve of his lips.
Beatrice cleared her throat, trying to regain her composure. “I know I’ve already said as much, but I am terribly sorry. I’m in such a rush to get somewhere that I wasn’t looking where I was going. It’s just that I’m supposed to meet my aunt, and she can be a bit…unpleasant…when peeved.”
His wicked eyes met hers with curiosity. “Who is your aunt, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Lady Louisa Sinclair—”
He began to cough.
Beatrice just grinned and continued. “Truly, she’s not that bad, despite what you may have heard.”
“It’s not a matter of hearsay, Miss…Sinclair, was it?”
“Oh! I beg your pardon—I haven’t introduced myself. I am Beatrice Sinclair.”
Charles smiled and rose, extending his hand to help her rise. He should really introduce himself, as well, but he preferred to keep the upper hand for the moment. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Sinclair—we shouldn’t sit on the pavement for too long, I suppose. And by the way, I grew up next door to your aunt, and I know for certain that she deserves every bit of her reputation. If we lost a ball over her fence when we were little, we never got it back.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I think she ate them.”
Beatrice giggled, relaxing. “She’s not so fond of children, is all. I wish she had some of her own because maybe then she’d give me some peace.” Charles raised a questioning eyebrow, and she went on to explain, “You see, my aunt’s taken me under her wing, of sorts, for the season.”
“This is your first season?”
“Hardly. I hate to admit it, but this is my fourth season.” Beatrice blushed, immediately wishing she hadn’t revealed the exact number of years. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t mean to bore you with the details. I always talk too much—that’s why I’m always late. Anyway, I really should get going. I’m supposed to be at a ball with my aunt—I’m actually the only reason that she went at all, so it goes to show that I really ought to be there, hadn’t I?” She knew she was babbling, but couldn’t stop herself. The way he was looking at her—part curious and part something else—flustered her completely.
“Is it Lady Teasdale’s ball you’re missing?” Charles asked.
“Yes—have you been? Was it dreadful?”
An approving smile spread across his face. “Indeed, and I must say that you’re not missing much.”
She smiled back regretfully. “I didn’t reckon that I was, but I really have no choice.”
He was silent for a moment. His eyes slowly traveled down the length of her body. Every inch of her skin felt hot and tight under his gaze, and her stomach almost dropped to her knees at his next words.
“Perhaps we can think up a better alternative?”
For an instant, Beatrice was completely lost in his green eyes, unable to speak or move or even breathe. She was swimming.
Charles moved closer, his eyes fixing once more on her mouth. “Have you any ideas?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.
She took one step back and mentally shook herself. “Only that I have to go, sir. I am late as it is.”
He smiled. “Pity.”
Beatrice nodded, and then blushed as she realized that nodding was probably the wrong response entirely. “Good evening, then,” she said, forcing a businesslike tone.
“Good evening,” Charles replied, then lightly grasped her hand, raising it to brush a soft kiss across her knuckles. She sucked in her breath, watching his dark head bend over her hand. She hadn’t had a chance to put on her gloves before she’d crashed into him, and they had landed on the pavement along with everything else.
“My gloves,” she said stupidly.
Charles let go of her hand and stooped down to retrieve them. As he handed them to her, his eyes never left her face.
Beatrice grabbed the gloves from his hand without saying thank-you or goodbye, and raced to the safety of her carriage.
Beatrice couldn’t remember ever feeling so thoroughly embarrassed, or having her composure so completely rattled. It didn’t help that her mind kept wandering down the forbidden path of broad shoulders and rakish good looks…broad shoulders and rakish good looks that hadn’t even bothered with a proper introduction, she noted with irritation.
She looked down at her gloves, lying in a mangled heap on her lap. She’d spent the entire ride to Lady Teasdale’s wringing them in worry, and now, as the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the Teasdale mansion, she was a mess of nerves. The small spot where his lips had touched her hand still tingled, and Beatrice felt like a fool. She’d just met the most devastatingly handsome man of her experience, and in the course of five minutes she’d knocked him to the ground, rattled on to him about her great-aunt and then dashed off like a ninny.
As she entered the house and wandered into the ballroom, she silently scoffed, And people wonder why I’ve never wed.
“Beatrice.”
Beatrice turned around. Louisa’s voice swiftly brought her back to reality. “Yes, Auntie?”
“I won’t ask what took you so long, but take heed—I noticed. Where is your brother?”
“He, um, couldn’t make it, Louisa.”
“What excuse did he make?”
Beatrice thought about her brother’s words and in a rash moment decided that she had nothing to lose at this point. “No excuse. He said to tell you to go to the devil. He wasn’t coming.”
Louisa looked hard at Beatrice for a moment, trying to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. She failed; all women, even grouchy old women like Louisa, had a soft spot for Beatrice’s roguish older brother. “He said that, eh? I don’t know where he gets the nerve to say things like that to me, but it must be where you get the nerve to repeat it. Tonight’s the last time I’ll insist on him taking you anywhere. He makes you bold.”
Beatrice didn’t bother to refute her, looking around the room for any acquaintances so she could make a tactful escape. Instead, she noticed a handsome, middle-aged blond woman smiling at them and heading their way.
Louisa noticed, as well. “Oh! There’s Emma Summerson. She’s a good friend of mine. She has a daughter just a few years younger than you, and a most eligible son…if one could get past his reputation and reform him. He’s a marquess.”
“I couldn’t care less about her blasted son,” Beatrice mumbled.
“I heard you, Beatrice Ann Sinclair, and I don’t like your tone.”
Beatrice pasted a smile onto her face as the woman reached their side.
“Hello, Louisa!” she said, smiling broadly before turning her attention to Beatrice. “This must be the niece you were telling me about.”
Beatrice smiled back sweetly. “Great-niece. And how do you do?”
Louisa glared at her, muttering, “Just when you were getting back in my good graces…. Beatrice, this is my good friend, Lady Emma Summerson. Emma, please meet my soon-to-be-disowned niece.”
Lady Summerson smiled sympathetically at Beatrice. “Have you just arrived, dear? I have, unfortunately, been here for several hours and I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
“I went to see King Lear on Drury Lane with my brother and sister.” Mischievously, she turned to Louisa. “I told Eleanor what you said about getting ideas…. She thinks she will write her own version and call it Aunt Lear. She wants to perform it the next time the whole family is together.”
Louisa mumbled something under her breath about ungrateful relations before turning to Lady Summerson with a resigned shake of her head. “Emma, if you don’t mind the imposition, would you please escort my niece to the lemonade table before I really disown her.”
Lady Summerson grinned, and Beatrice could tell that she was trying hard not to laugh. “Certainly, Louisa…she seems quite refreshing, and I could always use someone interesting to speak to.”
Beatrice gave Louisa a hearty peck on the cheek. “I do love you.”
As she and Lady Summerson set off, the older woman turned to her to remark, “Louisa is quite the curmudgeon, but she’s told me so much about you. Much as she protests, I think she really enjoys having young people about.”
Beatrice smiled, feeling guilty for being so impertinent in front of Louisa’s friend. “I adore my aunt…I’m not usually so snappy. I’ve just had a rather trying evening.”
“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place to improve it, my dear.” She patted Beatrice on the arm. “I’ve always appreciated a sense of humor. Don’t feel that you have to guard your tongue around me. And please, call me Emma. May I call you Beatrice?”
“Of course,” Beatrice said, liking her immensely already.
Lady Summerson looped her arm through Beatrice’s. “I can understand Louisa’s sentiments, though. My daughter, Lucy, is just a few years younger than you, and she’s been driving me to distraction all evening.”
“Is this her first season?” Beatrice asked politely.
“It is, and I never realized how much work it would be. Other than Lucy I have only my son, Charles, and sons are so much easier.”
Beatrice thought of her brother’s words earlier that evening. “I can imagine.”
“This isn’t your first season, is it?” Lady Summerson asked.
“No. But it shall be my last.”
Lady Summerson burst into laughter. “Well said, Beatrice. Have you already found your match? Or are you giving up so soon?”
They’d reached their destination, and as Beatrice was handed a glass of weak lemonade, she said with reluctance, “I’m sorry to admit it, but it’s not as soon as you might suppose.”
Lady Summerson tilted her head, curious for more details, but Beatrice looked uncomfortably around the room, not wanting to meet her gaze. She would not voluntarily admit to being on her fourth season twice in one evening.
Lady Summerson let her unspoken question drop for the moment. “Well, I think you should meet my daughter. Although she’s only on her first season, she’s as exhausted with the process as you seem to be. Let’s see…” She paused putting her finger against her chin as her gaze roamed over the ballroom. “I’d introduce you to her now, but I believe she’s dancing with Lord Dudley. Perhaps you would do me the honor of coming to my house for dinner? I’ll be having a small gathering before Lady Parberry’s ball, two Saturdays from now. You and my daughter will get on splendidly, and perhaps you can give her some advice, since you are so…experienced in these matters.”
Beatrice laughed. “Thank you…I think. I should love to come, although your daughter can certainly use no advice from me.”
“Nonsense. You can meet my son, as well. He’s been staying with me while his house undergoes some repairs…actually, my house is really his house. He inherited it along with his title. But he has chosen to keep accommodations of his own, at least until he marries.”
Beatrice sighed. “He’s lucky, then. No offense to Louisa, but she doesn’t know the meaning of the word privacy. You must enjoy having him home for a spell, though.”
Lady Summerson shrugged. “True…although I must admit that at times I rather wish Charles would leave. I could use some privacy myself.”
“You sound exactly as my father did when he tossed me out!”
“It’s a universal sentiment among parents, Beatrice. We all want our children to leave and not come back until they have children of their own.” Lady Summerson smiled. “I have to leave you now…I believe I just saw Lord Dudley follow Lucy onto the terrace, and I imagine she’d appreciate being extracted from that situation.”
Beatrice shuddered slightly, thinking of Lord Dudley. She remembered him from her first season, when he’d asked her to marry him—twice. Apparently, he was still up to his old tricks. “I imagine you’re right about that. I’ll see you for dinner, then. Louisa can direct me to your house.”
Lady Summerson looked momentarily surprised, then laughed. “I’m sorry. I assumed you knew that I live right next door to your aunt. That’s how I know her so well—we’ve been neighbors for years. So please, feel free to stop over for a visit even before my party, dear.” And with a wave, she was off.
Beatrice just stood there for a moment, stunned.
Next door? Son?
The room suddenly felt very hot to her. What bloody rotten luck. Her terrible evening had just gotten far worse. How on earth could she get herself out of this predicament?
Beatrice wandered off, worrying her lower lip. Louisa had two different sets of neighbors, didn’t she? One on each side? Perhaps Lady Summerson lived on one side, and the dark stranger—surely no relation—lived on the other. Indeed, Lady Summerson’s son was probably small and fair like his mother. Beatrice clung to that thought as her only salvation.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long before her hopes were completely dashed. She scanned the room, searching out Lady Summerson to confirm that she looked nothing like the stranger. She was just in time to see her step from the terrace, her grateful-looking daughter following in her wake…her grateful-looking, black-haired and green-eyed daughter.
Damn.
Beatrice promptly turned around and headed for the ladies’ retiring room. She needed to find a way to get out of this dilemma, although nothing immediately came to mind. She’d told Lady Summerson she’d go, and it would be rude to break her promise.
Lucky thing Beatrice left the room so quickly. If she hadn’t, she would have viewed the peculiar sight of Lady Summerson ducking behind a potted fern hastily to scribble something into a small, leather book.
As they drove home later on that evening, Lady Summerson turned to her daughter and asked, “Do you know of Miss Sinclair?”
“I know of her, but I don’t know her personally.”
“Louisa only introduced me to her tonight, but I liked her very much and…well, I thought perhaps your brother might like her, too, so I invited her to our upcoming party.”
Lucy snorted. “If Charles gets wind of this, he’s guaranteed not to appear.”
“Well, don’t tell him. But tell me, Lucy, do you know anything of Miss Sinclair’s reputation?”
Lucy thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I know very little, as I said. I believe she’s generally well liked, although Dudley did say something about having proposed to her at one time or another. She apparently refused him—”
“Sensible girl.”
“—yes, but he went on to say that refusing is something of a pattern with her. This is her fourth season.”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Fourth season? My goodness.” She clucked, thinking of Beatrice’s evasive answer to her question on that subject.
“Dudley also mentioned that he was not the only one to propose to her. He said that she’s notorious for turning men down.”
“Oh, dear. Perhaps she won’t do at all. You will keep your ears open, won’t you? See if you can’t find anything out.”
Lucy sighed. This wasn’t the first time her mother had set her to such a task. “As if I have any choice.”
Chapter Five
“W hat do you think about this color, Bea?” Eleanor asked, holding up a deep green silk gown. She was to return to Hampshire later on in the day, and the two sisters were spending their last morning shopping. They’d been at the shop for only ten minutes, but already it was littered with the results of Eleanor’s indecision. Gowns, hats and slippers were piled on a velvet ottoman, and that pile was steadily growing.
Beatrice sat amongst the pile, slouched with unladylike exhaustion. “Well,” she drawled, turning to her sister, “I think it’s beautiful, but perhaps just a tad dark for you. Where on earth would you wear something like that, anyway?”
Eleanor sighed. “You needn’t rub it in.” She was impatiently awaiting her debut in two years, not so much because she was in a hurry to wed, but rather because she, more than any of the Sinclair children, loved city life—especially the theater.
Beatrice smiled at her. “Just two more years, goose, and you can have all the ball gowns you please.”
“I know…I’m just thankful Father let me come down to visit you at all. And I know that when it’s my time, I’ll appreciate it far more than you.”
Beatrice sighed. She didn’t mean to. It just sort of slipped out.
“Bea? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, Ellie…I’m afraid you might be right. I’d hoped this year would be different, but I’m getting worried that I’m not going to find the right person in time.”
Eleanor hugged her reassuringly. “I know I don’t have any experience in these matters, but I’m sure everything will work out. Truly, Bea, I can’t even understand how you’ve managed to make it this far without being wed.”
“Am I too picky?”
Eleanor smiled. “Not in most areas of your life.”
“But as far as finding a husband goes—”
Eleanor gave in. “Well, yes, you are particular, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. You shouldn’t marry unless you find love. I’d hate to see you unhappy.”
Beatrice sighed once more. “I know…that’s what everyone says, unless you count Louisa, who thinks happiness should always defer to duty. But wait till you come out, and you’ll see…. I’m not sure I even believe in love anymore.”
Eleanor weighed that thought. “Perhaps. I’m sure that Father loved Mother, though.”
Beatrice nodded slowly. “He did…but I don’t think it’s realistic for me to expect love like that. It might be possible, but it’s definitely not probable.”
Eleanor just shrugged, knowing better than to argue with her sister on this subject. “Do you have anyone in mind yet? I know the season has just begun, but…?”
Beatrice thought for a moment. “Well…I rather like Randolph Asher, although I’m not sure I could ever feel anything but friendly toward him. And Douglas Heathrow has been paying me a lot of attention.”
“That’s a start. In time, perhaps you’ll have a few more names.”
“Perhaps. But truly, Ellie, but I don’t feel too optimistic. I think the ton perceives me as a spinster, and there’s nothing sorrier than that. Louisa disagrees with me, though—she thinks I intimidate people.”
Eleanor scoffed. “Shows how much she knows. You’re quite amiable.”
“I suppose,” Beatrice murmured. “But I suppose she does have a bit of a point…as you may know, I did earn something of a reputation.”
Eleanor smiled. “I’ve heard, but it’s been two years. Can it still be that bad?”
“No…it’s not bad. But if I were a man, I’d hardly flock to me. I mean, if you wanted to get married, would you ask someone who was almost guaranteed to refuse you? I think I’d rather court a girl who was more of a—a sure thing.”
Eleanor looked slightly appalled. “A sure thing? You sound as if you’re talking about betting on a horse at the races.”
“No, truly, Ellie, it’s not that different. Every year I’ve been out, I’ve received fewer and fewer proposals…six my first year, three my second, one my third and none so far this year.”
“Well,” Eleanor said practically, “you didn’t want to marry any of them, anyway.”
Eleanor shopped in silence for a few minutes, and Beatrice’s mind wandered back to the handsome stranger she’d met the night before. Clearly her reputation hadn’t intimidated him. Some devil inside of her made her say, “Actually, Ellie, I have received a proposal of sorts this year.”
Eleanor clapped her hands together and took a seat next to her sister. “Bea! Why didn’t you tell me? Who was it?”
Beatrice’s eyes sparkled. “I said a proposal of sorts, Ellie. It was indecent.”
Eleanor opened her mouth, scandalized. “Oh. That kind of proposal. Well, who was it?” She was leaning forward avidly now, for an indecent proposal was more interesting that a decent one any day.
“I don’t know him, although I am rather curious. He’s not the sort that I’m likely to meet at the social events I attend.”
Eleanor looked worried. “He is of the ton, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Beatrice answered slowly. “He reminds me of Ben, though…a gentleman by birth but not inclination.”
“In other words, a rake?” Eleanor stated bluntly.
Beatrice nodded. “That about sums it up. He’s a marquess… Charles Summerson. He lives next door to Louisa, or at least his family does.”
Eleanor’s mouth dropped open and then closed quickly. “I say, Bea, is he terribly good-looking?”
Beatrice cast an amused look at her sister. “You could say that…. I take it you’ve seen him about?”
Eleanor intently studied a bonnet, not meeting Beatrice’s gaze. “I might have noticed him entering his house once or twice….”
Giggling, Beatrice picked up a pair of gloves from the ottoman and threw them at her sister.
Eleanor ducked nimbly. “Well, he was hard to miss. How did you meet him?”
“I…um, bumped into him on my way to Lady Teasdale’s. I actually rather liked him—he wasn’t stuffy and boring like all the other gentlemen I meet.”
“But?”
“But he’s definitely dangerous to my composure. It’d be best to avoid him completely, but it’ll be difficult since he’s living next door.”
“Well,” Eleanor said, “I wish you showed this much interest in suitable gentlemen. Are you sure that—”
Beatrice cut her off. “Yes, I’m positive. He is definitely not suitable. But my problem gets even worse.”
“Does it?” Truthfully, Eleanor didn’t think that having someone who looked like Charles Summerson interested in you was so terrible, but Beatrice had particular notions about these things.
Beatrice nodded gravely. “Yes—I met his mother at Lady Teasdale’s, only I didn’t know that was who she was. Anyway, she invited me to have dinner at her house in two weeks…so, in her words, she can introduce me to her son and daughter. What do I do?”
“Well, Bea, I hate to say this, but you have to go. It would be terribly impolite to turn down her invitation at this point.”
Beatrice dropped her head into her hands forlornly. “I know. Perhaps he won’t be in…. Lady Summerson mentioned that he has been staying with her only while work was being done on his own house, and I’m sure that by that time—”
“That doesn’t mean that he won’t come by for dinner, especially if he has designs on you.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure he has designs on many women. Perhaps he’ll have forgotten about me by then.”
Eleanor looked at her beautiful sister and silently didn’t think that was possible.
After a moment, Beatrice said suddenly, “It’s not fair.”
“What do you mean by that?” Eleanor inquired.
“He’s obviously a thorough rake and totally unsuitable. That’s what’s unfair.”
“You’re not telling me that you wish he were suitable, are you? Do you fancy him?”
“Well,” Beatrice began rather defensively, “I found him rather exciting. In all my experience being on the marriage market—” she cringed at the very phrase “—I have never found anyone exciting.” She paused to look at her sister forlornly. “Why does he have to be the only one?”
Eleanor began to look worried. “Perhaps you should call off that dinner, after all…you can easily feign a headache, Bea. Lady Summerson will never know.”
“I thought I had to go.”
“I’ve changed my mind. I think you like Lord Summerson too much.” Eleanor lowered her voice as two other women entered the shop. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation over an ice? What do you think?”
Beatrice smiled. “Let’s not continue this conversation, but I do think that an ice sounds delicious.”
They left the shop and headed down the street toward Gunther’s.
On the way, Beatrice couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think I’m being silly, Ellie?”
“Truthfully? Yes and no. If you’re interested in him, I don’t think you should give up altogether. It’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? Summerson is exceedingly handsome, wealthy and, so you tell me anyway, as charming as the devil. But, as you pointed out, that’s why so many women feel the same way you do.”
Beatrice sighed. “Point taken.” Charles Summerson was exactly what she had been waiting for all along, but she had already determined that her previous aspirations were unrealistic. No, the wisest course of action would be to forget him entirely and settle on some nice, staid gentleman who never set her heart to racing—that sort was abundant during the London season.
Charles slept uncharacteristically late the morning following Lady Teasdale’s ball. Although he tended to keep late-night hours, he usually still managed to rise early enough to exercise his horse in the park before it became too crowded. Last night, sleep had eluded him until the wee hours of the morning, and when he finally did drift off, his dreams had been visited by a golden-haired angel.
He stretched contentedly in bed and sighed, contemplating recent events. He’d been growing bored of late. Beatrice Sinclair was just the entertainment he needed.
Then he frowned slightly and sighed again. He really did have to move back to his own house soon. For one, his mother seemed bent on driving him to distraction with her endless matchmaking. More importantly, however, Charles had decided that he was definitely attracted to Beatrice Sinclair—too attracted to her. Just the thought of her sprawled out in the garden right next door, or even worse, sprawled out in bed, separated from him by little more than a few thin walls and the short space of his yard…it was precisely that image that had kept him up all night, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to sleep soundly again until he moved back to his own residence.
He wasn’t quite sure why he found her so intriguing…whether it was those faint freckles, or her slender feet. Maybe she interested him because she was rather clumsy and talked too much—a relief, when most young ladies pranced about like china dolls and conversed solely on the weather and the latest fashions.
But he did know that he wanted to learn more about her. It was her fourth season, and he found it peculiar that he’d never even heard her name before. Although he had spent some time on the Continent a few years back when he was working for the War Office, he’d quit that business nearly three years ago and had been in London for most of the last two seasons. Where had Beatrice Sinclair been then? She wasn’t exactly the sort of girl one just missed.
And, he had to admit, he still wondered how old she was and why she wasn’t married yet. When he’d first seen her on the street, he’d been struck by how innocent she had appeared—it had sent his blood racing, but it had also urged him to be cautious. Charles certainly wasn’t renowned for his scruples, at least where romantic affairs were concerned, but he didn’t make a practice of seducing innocents. It could lead to a lot more trouble than it was worth.
However, perhaps, Beatrice’s appearances were deceiving. He hoped so. It wasn’t possible to be so beautiful and make it through so many seasons untouched, unless the girl was quite a prude. From what he had observed, she certainly didn’t seem to fit into that category. She didn’t seem to be shy, either. Surely she couldn’t be completely innocent.
Charles eased out of bed and rang for his valet, Smythe.
Several minutes later, he watched the elaborate process of his cravat being tied, while his thoughts drifted back to Beatrice Sinclair. Lucy would probably know something about her. His sister had always possessed an uncanny knack for knowing the affairs of everyone in society.
Charles’s eyes narrowed on Smythe. Servants knew everything, as well. “Have you heard anything about the young lady who’s staying next door, Smythe?”
The man looked up briefly. “I am acquainted with her maid, my lord. A rather forceful woman,” he answered before turning back to his task.
“I see,” Charles said, still looking into the mirror. Smythe was just making the final adjustments on his cravat, tugging here and there, but not before Charles caught a glimpse of the jagged scar that cut across the base of his throat. It was a gruesome reminder of his days with the War Office that he usually chose to ignore.
But then it was covered, and Smythe stepped away, admiring his handiwork.
“Will that be all my lord?”
Charles nodded and waved Smythe off. He hadn’t been at all informative.
Ten minutes later, Charles wandered downstairs to the sunny breakfast room. He was relieved to see that Lucy was there, blessedly alone.
“Where is Mother?” he asked as he piled his plate with eggs at the serving table.
She looked up from the paper she was reading. “Off running errands for her dinner party.”
Smiling knowingly, Charles took a seat across from her at the table. “Ah…will all the suitors be coming over, Lu?”
She smiled back sweetly. If only he knew whose suitors. “You could say as much, Charles.”
“Suppose I’ll have to be there, then.”
Lucy nodded and folded her paper casually in her lap. Still smiling, she replied, “Yes, you’d better. Protection, right?”
Charles ignored her. He was in too good a humor to let her gibes get to him. “Say, Lucy, you seem rather smug this day. Something happen to put you in such spirits? What have you been up to?”
Lucy had spent the morning tending to her mother’s errands, as well. She’d already sent her maid over to Lady Sinclair’s, hoping to get some information about Beatrice from her servants. “I had a few errands of my own…I had to go glean some information for Mother, actually. You know how meddlesome she can get.”
Charles knew. He wasn’t even going to ask Lucy what it was that their mother wanted her to ferret out. But the mention of gleaning information…
“Say, do you know Beatrice Sinclair at all, Lu?” he asked, hoping that he didn’t introduce the subject too abruptly.
Startled, she choked on her tea.
“Lucy? I wasn’t aware that that was a strange question.”
Lucy wiped her chin and tried to appear nonchalant. “I’m sorry—it wasn’t. Do you know Beatrice Sinclair?”
He thought carefully of how to proceed. He’d been hoping that Lucy would answer him with a simple yes or no, but clearly she wanted to pry. He didn’t like to reveal too much of his private life to his sister, but he was also curious. “I don’t really know her…but I should like to know her. I met her last night when I returned from the ball. She’s Lady Sinclair’s niece.”
“Great-niece, actually,” Lucy explained. “She hasn’t been to town for the last few seasons, which would explain why you haven’t met her before. Last time she was here, you would have been on the Continent.”
Charles nodded. Lucy was being a veritable fount of information. “Is that all you know?”
“Her father’s Viscount Carlisle. Her brother you might know from your club—Lord Benjamin Sinclair.”
“We’re acquainted. He was a couple of years behind me in school.” Charles’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You don’t know Sinclair, do you?”
She smiled with forced patience. “I know of him. His reputation is as black as yours. I’m just very observant. That’s how I know so much about everyone.”
Charles snorted. “Well, if you know so much, Lucy, then why isn’t she married?”
She shook her head. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Why on earth would you be trying to figure that out?”
Lucy looked momentarily stricken, but recovered quickly. “I didn’t mean literally, Charles…I’m not actively trying to figure that out. It just makes one wonder, though, when a girl as pretty as she is doesn’t marry early on. She’s also quite wealthy, by the way.”
“I never realized you were this much of a gossip, Lucy,” he said, shaking his head in bemusement.
“I’m not. You’re the one asking all the questions, Charles.”
“I certainly didn’t expect answers as thorough as these. How do you to know all this?”
“I like to keep well informed. And, by the way, since you’re curious, she apparently can be found at Larrimor’s Bookshop on Tuesdays at two, almost without fail.” Lucy paused, her brother’s bewildered expression telling her that such precise information would require further explanation. “One of Lady Sinclair’s servants mentioned it to my maid…apparently this is when Mr. Larrimor gets his new shipments each week. My maid passed this information on to me because I’d told her that I intended to visit the shop myself. She thought, perhaps, that Miss Sinclair and I might make a small party of it.”
Charles mulled this bit of information over slowly, then asked guardedly, “Almost without fail, you say?”
“Yes…” Lucy drawled. He was taking the bait beautifully.
“Perhaps I need a new book myself.”
She grinned. “I thought you might say something like that.”
Chapter Six
A t two o’clock sharp on Tuesday afternoon, Beatrice was in the back room at Larrimor’s Bookshop, surrounded by several teetering piles of books. Mr. Larrimor had set aside these piles especially for her, having become familiar with her wide-ranging tastes.
A single, small window let light into the dusty room, and Beatrice had to bend over and look quite closely at the volumes in order to read their titles. He’d provided her with an assortment of novels, memoirs, even gardening treatises…. She picked up one book for a closer look. It was titled The Life of William Kidd: A Sordid Tale, as Told by His Cabin Boy, Reginald Dawson. She smiled. She didn’t normally read books about pirates—that was a recent habit, one she’d begun only in relation to her writing. Pirates made excellent romantic heroes, and it stood to reason that she ought to know a thing or two about life at sea to write about the subject convincingly.
Beatrice had just begun thumbing through the pages of the dusty tome when she heard muffled voices coming from the front of the store. She stepped closer to the hallway in order to hear better.
She quickly wished she hadn’t.
“Ah, hello, Lord Summerson. Can I help you with anything?” she heard Mr. Larrimor ask. Summerson. Could there be another Lord Summerson?
“I’m just looking around, Mr. Larrimor,” a familiar voice responded. “I heard that you received your new shipments on Tuesdays and wondered if you had that book I ordered.”
“I do. I’ll put it on the counter for you, but please, have a look through the back room to see if anything else catches your eye— I haven’t had time to bring everything out front yet.”
In the back room, meanwhile, Beatrice had stopped breathing and gone into panic mode. She clutched her book tightly to her chest and pressed her spine against the shelf-lined wall. Thoughts of escape began racing through her head, but without any immediate solution. She was pretty much cornered in the book-strewn room, and she hadn’t a chance of getting out undetected.
Unless…
Beatrice looked wistfully at the window. It wasn’t so high up, really, and she was thin enough to fit through it. But she shook her head with regret. If it would have solved her problem, she could have just pulled over a chair, shinned up the wall, popped out the window like a cork and been on her way. Unfortunately, she knew it wouldn’t solve a thing. The window would deposit her directly into the middle of Bond Street. And Mr. Larrimor would surely be most concerned when he discovered she’d vanished. In his worry, he’d probably say something about it to Lord Summerson, who would know exactly where she went and why….
She heard a creak of floorboards, followed by the soft sound of footsteps. There was no escape.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” she responded, turning back to the piles of books and trying to look unaffected by his presence.
Charles disregarded her attempts to ignore him. He ambled forward until he stood next to her, then stopped. “You know,” he began, an apologetic note to his voice, “I think I neglected to introduce myself the other night.”
She bit her lip, but turned to face him. “Perhaps.”
He bowed slightly. “Charles Summerson.”
Beatrice nodded again, not knowing what else to do. Charles said nothing. Just continued to look at her.
She shifted uncomfortably, until she realized the reason he was looking at her was because it was her turn to speak. Still she said nothing.
“I see you’ve gotten to the new shipment first,” he added with a smile designed to melt any obdurate female heart. “Find any good books?” Even as he asked this question he leaned in closer, trying to peer at the book she clutched in her hand.
Beatrice only gripped it tighter to her chest. “No. I haven’t been here long.”
“Oh. Well, then what are you holding?”
“A book.” She wanted to slap herself as she uttered these idiotic words.
He smiled patiently. “May I see it?”
She shook her head. “No. I mean, that’s to say, you wouldn’t be very interested in it.”
“I beg to differ. I am extremely interested,” Charles replied. He could have added that the more she declined, the more his interest grew.
Beatrice didn’t know how she could avoid showing him her book. She supposed there was nothing wrong with it….
She tentatively held it out for his perusal.
He raised his eyebrows. “Now I really must beg to differ. That looks very interesting indeed…it actually looks rather improper. Do you like that sort of thing?”
Beatrice blushed and shrugged. “A bit…. I was only looking.” She wouldn’t have told him the truth if her life depended on it.
Charles smiled. He knew she wasn’t being entirely forthcoming. “Fascinating subject, isn’t it?”
Beatrice just nodded weakly.
“Are you sure it’s quite the thing for you to be reading?”
She held the book close to her chest once again. “Oh, no. I think it will be fine. Mr. Larrimor recommended it.”
Charles chuckled. “Never fear. I was only jesting.” He walked around the perimeter of the room, looking at the shelves. “Have you any suggestions, Miss Sinclair?”
She put her book down on a table and bit her lip again. She was a voracious reader and would normally have had dozens of suggestions. For the moment, however, her mind was blank. “Hmm…do you like novels?”
“I do, I must admit. I just finished reading Sense and Sensibility. My sister highly recommended it, and I must say I was rather skeptical, but…” Charles paused. “Have you read it?”
She shook her head, bemused at the thought of this dashing and dangerous man reading romantic novels. “No. I haven’t.”
“Perhaps I will lend it to you. That would be neighborly, wouldn’t it?”
Beatrice gulped. “I suppose. I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble, though.”
“Nonsense. It would be no trouble at all,” he assured her, wondering why he even offered. He didn’t usually bother with such niceties in his seductions. No, when Charles wanted to bed a woman he didn’t typically find himself visiting her at her aunt’s house to loan her a novel first. However, this was different. He didn’t know why, but it was.
“I will drop it by later today, if that is all right.”
She nodded her head slightly. “That would be fine…oh, but wait—I may not be in later. I’m having dinner with my brother this evening and have a few errands to run beforehand—I actually should get going now. I’m late again. But you could leave the book with our butler.” Beatrice hoped there was no way for her to get caught in her lie. She was going out to dinner with Ben, but she certainly wouldn’t be leaving her house for several hours; she simply didn’t think she could handle two encounters with Charles in one day. She started to edge out of the room, hoping to hint at the fact that she had to leave.
He merely followed her. “I’ll walk you to your carriage,” he offered, placing his hand on the small of her back and guiding her down the dark hallway.
Beatrice would have protested if she’d had the words, but all she could do was follow his lead. Every inch of her body was aware of him—his smell, his heat, the light pressure of his hand burning a hole through the thin fabric of her gown.
When they approached the main section of the dimly lit store, Charles stopped, causing her to stop, as well, and look up at him in question.
But looking at him was a mistake. The dimness of the hall did nothing to obscure the heat of his gaze. If anything, the shadows made him seem even more handsome, more wicked. Without taking his eyes from hers, he leaned closer, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Lips parted breathlessly, she waited.
He didn’t kiss her, though. He merely reached out his hand and gently brushed something from her cheek.
“A smudge of dust,” he explained gruffly.
“Oh.” Heat rushed to her face, but she didn’t know whether it was from embarrassment or from his proximity. It didn’t matter…the soft pad of his thumb still rested on her cheekbone, and with what seemed like excruciating slowness, he let his hand trail along the line of her jaw, over her shoulder and down her spine, until it settled again at the small of her back.
With his small nudge, they were moving once more. She found herself waving distractedly to Mr. Larrimor as she passed him on the way out. Charles guided her across the street, stopping in front of her carriage to open the door. As he turned to help her inside, she had the sensation that he was about to kiss her once more. He wanted to. She could see it in his eyes, in the nearly imperceptible way his head tilted toward hers.
But he didn’t. As if he’d just remembered where they were, he drew back slightly, his expression suddenly impassive. He merely nodded goodbye, closed her carriage door, and Beatrice was off, head swimming and heart racing.
Charles watched her carriage wind slowly through the afternoon traffic for a moment before he crossed the street to reenter the store. He knew he looked cool and collected, but inwardly the blood pounded through his veins.
God, he wanted her. It was ridiculous, really, for a man of his experience to be feeling this way. All he’d done was rub a bloody spot of dust from her face, and it had taken every ounce of his control not to throw her on the floor and make love to her…. If he did something like that again, he’d scare her off for good.
Charles was not surprised when, several hours later, Louisa Sinclair’s butler informed him that Beatrice was out. He was almost certain that it was a lie, but no matter. He left the novel for Beatrice and turned to leave.
He was surprised, however, to see Louisa walking up the path just as the door closed behind him. She carried her parasol like a lance, and when her eyes lit on Charles he noticed her lip curl ever so slightly, making her resemble an aggressive terrier.
She looked him dead in the eye. “Good day to you, Pelham.”
“Good day, Lady Sinclair. I hope you are well,” he greeted her mildly.
She sniffed. “As well as can be expected. Have you business at my house?”
He silently cursed her lack of tact before saying, “Of sorts…I encountered your niece at Larrimor’s Bookshop and just came over to lend her a book.”
Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “Humph. That sounds remarkably out of character. Did your mother send you over here?”
Charles hadn’t blushed since he was thirteen, but Louisa had a way of making him feel like he was about thirteen. “My mother?”
She nearly cackled. “Ah, you thought it was only your sister who had to be cautious around your matchmaking mama, didn’t you, boy? Well, I have a pretty good idea why you were sent here.”
Charles finally understood her meaning. If she wanted to make him feel like a callow lad, he could at least have fun with her, as well. “Madam, are you implying what I think you are?”
“Of course, my boy. Open your eyes.”
“But Lady Sinclair—you’re nearly twice my age! Think of the scandal! Of course,” he added with a lecherous grin, “scandal has never stopped me before.”
Louisa just sputtered, opening and closing her mouth several times in rapid succession. It was one of the few times in her life that she had been rendered speechless, and if Charles hadn’t feared what would happen when she finally did regain speech, he would have remained to watch. Instead, he just doffed his hat and sauntered down her steps, wisely retreating before she could recover.
When Louisa did recover—it took all of ten seconds—she marched directly inside her house and up the stairs to her niece’s room, swiping the offending book from the hall table along the way.
“Beatrice Sinclair,” she demanded as she entered without knocking, “what has been going on here in my absence?”
Beatrice looked up from her dressing table in surprise. She was readying herself for dinner, although truth be told she’d been pretty much caught up in thoughts of green eyes and black hair and how to avoid them in the future. She hadn’t the faintest idea what her aunt was talking about. “What do you mean, Louisa?”
Her great-aunt waved the novel under her nose. “I didn’t even know that you two were acquainted. I do not condone it.”
Beatrice blushed. “I simply ran into him in the bookstore—”
“He informed me.”
“Yes, well, he offered to lend me a book, being neighbors.”
Louisa said nothing. She slammed the novel down on Beatrice’s table, her nostrils flaring.
“Oh, Lousia, you’re overreac—”
“Beatrice, I have been Summerson’s neighbor since he was born, and not once has he lent me a book. I just can’t believe he would have the audacity…in front of my very eyes…”
“Louisa! It’s just a book.”
“Don’t be a fool, Beatrice. He is a rake.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Louisa, that hardly means he doesn’t read.”
“That’s not what I meant, Beatrice, and you know it. Summerson’s just trying to lull you into trusting him.”
She sighed in frustration. “I know his reputation, Aunt. I didn’t mean to encounter him, and I’m not about to be ‘lulled’ into trusting anyone. Should I have been rude to him?”
“Perhaps,” Louisa muttered. “That’s preferable to running the risk of anyone seeing you with him. Look, Bea, to be perfectly frank with you, I’m quite fond of the lad—always have been. But he’s notorious where women are concerned. Just stay away from him. He’s too charming by half, and I don’t want to see you make any mistakes.”
Beatrice nodded, miserably wishing she were back home in Hampshire where life was simpler.
Evenly, she vowed, “I haven’t made any mistakes, Louisa. I didn’t ask for him to come here, and rest assured, I don’t plan to seek him out.”
Chapter Seven
N early a week had passed without Beatrice seeing Charles. Of course, this wasn’t to say that she hadn’t been thinking about him; no, she’d been doing that to excess. She could even admit to some mutinous feelings of disappointment because he hadn’t sought her out—she’d flattered herself, she supposed, in thinking that he meant to pursue her. If that had ever been his intention, he’d clearly settled his attentions on some other hapless girl. By the time of his mother’s party, he’d have quite forgotten her. She certainly had nothing to worry about.
If it hadn’t been impolite, Beatrice would have whistled. It was a warm and glorious Saturday morning. The ground was still damp from the recent bad weather, but she didn’t care. Louisa wasn’t out of bed yet to tell her to stay indoors, so she put on sturdy boots, clipped a lead onto Louisa’s English setter, Edward, and headed for Hyde Park.
The park was located right across the street and Beatrice set off briskly. These early morning walks were her only opportunity for exercise in the day; they were also one of the only times she had to herself.
As they entered a quiet, canopied path, Edward began pulling on the lead, eager to inspect the bushes.
“What is it, Eddie? Do you see something?” Beatrice gave Edward his head and he buried his nose in the bushes, snorting excitedly till he pulled out a ball. Edward dropped it on the ground watching her expectantly.
“Do you want me to throw it for you?” Beatrice glanced over her shoulder to make sure she was alone, then crouched down to pick up the ball. She unclipped Edward’s lead. “Okay. I’ll throw it, but you must bring it back, all right? Here goes.” She threw the ball with all her might. He promptly retrieved the saliva-coated ball and deposited it at her feet.
Beatrice looked at the object in distaste. Edward looked at it with adoration. She sighed. “All right, then, I suppose I have no choice.”
She stooped down to pick up the ball, pinching it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, then threw it again, this time with more spectacular results. With a splash, the ball landed in a puddle, where it promptly disappeared.
Beatrice sighed. Edward stood at the edge of the puddle, whining and looking confused.
“You’re supposed to go after it, Edward,” she pleaded. He merely looked back at her with a long face. “Fetch, Eddie!”
He didn’t budge, and she walked toward the puddle, contemplating the best way to save the ball without ruining her gown.
Beatrice was crouched down, gauging the depth of the puddle, when she heard the quiet clearing of a masculine throat behind her. She rose quickly and turned around.
“Might I be of assistance?”
She stared for a moment before answering, “Hello.”
Charles walked forward nonchalantly. “Hello yourself.”
Beatrice didn’t know what further to say. She nodded and turned around once more. Then, a suspicious thought flashing into her mind, she asked, “You didn’t follow me, did you?” She immediately blushed.
Charles looked offended. “I’ve walked my dogs along this path since I was a boy—I only even noticed you because of the ghastly way you threw that ball.”
She ignored his comment, only then noticing that he wasn’t alone. Attached to a lead was perhaps the smallest, fluffiest dog she’d ever seen. It was entirely white, and its long hair obscured its eyes. All Beatrice could see of its face was a shiny black nose and the tip of its pink tongue.
“That’s your dog?” she asked doubtfully. It certainly was an odd pairing.
Charles looked down at the dog, as well, somewhat disconcerted. “Er, no. This is actually my sister’s dog, Egremont.”
“Egremont?”
“Yes. It is a family name. Eggy for short.”
Beatrice nodded, not knowing what else to do. She looked around. “Well, Edward and I ought to get going….”
“You’re not going to get that ball for him? After being the one to put it there?”
She looked doubtfully at the puddle. “Well, it seems to be very deep.”
“It does, although Edward looks disappointed. Perhaps I can help you?” Charles was feeling particularly gallant that morning, and was thankful for it. He’d practiced a great deal of patience that week by not seeking her out, and he didn’t want to send her running in the opposite direction.
Beatrice weighed his offer. She didn’t want to risk spending any more time in his company than necessary, but it was a kind offer. She nodded reluctantly. “I suppose…. How do you propose to do it?”
“It’ll be easy,” Charles said, placing Egremont’s lead into her palm. “That’s why gentlemen carry canes, you know. For helping damsels in distress.” He fished around in the puddle for a moment with his cane, and rolled Edward’s ball out.
The dog barked in appreciation, and Beatrice couldn’t help but applaud briefly. “Bravo,” she said, laughing.
He grinned roguishly and bowed with exaggerated chivalry. “May I demonstrate a proper throw, my lady?”
She smiled back and curtsied. “Indeed, my lord.”
“All right, Miss Sinclair. Observe,” Charles said confidently, before sending the ball flying off in a smooth arc. Beatrice watched as Edward galloped after it, swooping low to the ground to retrieve it. They waited in silence a moment for him to come trotting back.
He did not. With ball in mouth, Edward kept on running and disappeared into the park.
After about ten seconds of silence, Beatrice began to grow concerned. “Oh, dear. He’s always come back before.”
Charles smiled reassuringly, although the thought of having lost Louisa’s beloved Edward chilled his heart to the core. “I’m sure he will…. Perhaps we had best follow him a bit, though. Just in case.”
Beatrice nodded. “I think so.”
She, Charles and Egremont started off, the former two keeping apace and the latter one lagging slightly behind on his little legs.
Beatrice looked back at Egremont with a sigh.
Charles noticed. “In Eggy’s defense, my dear Miss Sinclair, he would have retrieved that ball himself.”
She knew when to be quiet. Instead she turned around to pick him up and carry him.
“Here, let me,” Charles offered gruffly, reaching out to take the dog from her arms.
He immediately wished he hadn’t. It brought him too close to her. He could smell her hair, and the way his arm brushed against hers was enough to awaken his less honorable feelings. Charles suppressed them hard. For the moment, he wanted to enjoy the simple pleasure of her company.
She felt it, too. He could tell by the way her lips parted slightly in shock, her eyes widened and she instantly picked up her pace and began calling the dog’s name.
“Edward!”
Charles followed suit.
As they neared Rotten Row, Beatrice began to worry even more. On a brilliant morning like this one, there were always many people about. Being seen with Charles could be disastrous. She halted.
“Problem?” he asked.
She blushed. “No…I just prefer to avoid this part of the park days. I only hope Edward hasn’t gotten into too much trouble.”
Suddenly, she saw him. She should have been relieved, but she was not. He had paused for breath at the foot of a park bench and had laid his head lovingly in the nearest empty lap. That lap belonged to Lady Barbara Markham. Although a luxurious mink pelisse enveloped her from waist to mouth, and a frothy hat obscured everything north of her eyebrows, Beatrice would have recognized her anywhere. Babs Markham was one of her aunt’s best friends; she was also a notorious gossip and as bad-tempered as an adder.
Lady Markham’s beady eyes peered out from between her hat and her fur, glancing disparagingly down her nose at Edward. Sensing new company, however, she aimed her gaze straight at Beatrice and Charles. Her target fixed in her sights, she lifted her hand to shield her narrowed eyes from the sun so she could peruse them better.
“I say,” Charles said, “isn’t that him over there?”
“Yes,” Beatrice answered weakly.
“You don’t sound pleased.”
She began shaking her head. “Don’t you see who Edward is with?”
He looked again and groaned.
Lady Markham, called across the lawn, “I say, Beatrice, isn’t this your aunt’s mongrel?”
Beatrice gulped. “It is, Lady Markham. He escaped from his lead…I do hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”
Lady Markham sniffed loudly in response. “Come closer, girl. I can hardly hear you. Who is that you’re with?”
“Damn.” Beatrice swore under her breath and took a step forward.
Charles raised an amused eyebrow at her language.
“I don’t know what you think is so amusing. You’re coming with me.”
“Must I?”
She stared at him in disbelief. “You heard what she said. Lady Markham didn’t leave you any choice. All she wants, anyway, is to find out who you are so she can gossip about this. She probably can’t see you from this distance, and she wouldn’t be able to stand not knowing your identity. Besides, you’re the one who threw the ball.”
Charles couldn’t argue with that logic, and began walking, as well.
When they reached Lady Markham, she held up her quizzing glass. “Eh? Is that Summerson?”
“Good day to you, Lady Markham,” he said smoothly, bowing.
She ignored him. “Beatrice, what are you doing with that lot?”
Beatrice felt ill. “Lord Summerson was merely helping me find Edward.”
Lady Markham looked at Charles doubtfully. “Is that the case, Summerson?”
His composure didn’t even crack. “Yes, Lady Markham. But afterward I plan to follow her into the bushes and make violent love to her.”
Beatrice kicked him in the shins. Hard.
“Eh? I didn’t hear you, Summerson. Repeat yourself.”
“He said,” Beatrice answered before Charles could make things worse, “that he would follow me to the street and make his goodbyes. That is all, Lady Markham.”
She looked skeptical. “Humph. Not what I heard.”
Beatrice maintained stony silence, vowing to strangle Charles at the first opportunity.
“Well,” Lady Markham continued, “come take your dog, Beatrice, and tell your aunt I plan to visit her soon.”
“I will, Lady Markham. Good day,” Beatrice replied, hoping she sounded more lighthearted than she felt as she reattached Edward’s lead.
The only reason Lady Markham wanted to come for a visit was to relay the news that she had seen Beatrice in the park with Charles. And Bea would be lucky if she were allowed out of the house alone ever again.
“Everything all right?” Charles asked after a few steps.
Without meeting his gaze directly, she said, “Oh, it’s nothing. But I think it’d be a good idea for me to head home now. Lady Markham is such a gossip, and I really shouldn’t be here with you unchaperoned.”
Charles didn’t want her to leave just yet. “It’s not unheard of for a lady to walk in the park with a man, you know.”
“Not with you, you know.”
“You have me there, I suppose. Can I at least accompany you home?”
Beatrice deliberated. Spending more time with Charles would be dangerous to her reputation and her state of mind. Yet he’d be walking in the same direction, and it’d be awkward for her to refuse his offer. “Well, I suppose, if you’re going that direction anyway. Do you mind if we follow the path back?”
He shook his head. There would be less people that way, and he’d be able to be alone with her a little longer. He returned Egremont to the ground, and they set off.
For several minutes, they walked without speaking. Beatrice gave her undivided attention to the trees, the birds, the grass; she paid attention to anything that wasn’t him. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant silence, although it was far from being comfortable.
Charles began to whistle.
She glanced at him sideways. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked so handsome that her stomach turned a somersault.
She quickly looked away, but after another moment of silence, she remarked, “You seem in good spirits.”
He gazed at her. “I am, I suppose.”
She didn’t want to know why—she didn’t want to know more about Charles than was absolutely necessary—but her natural inquisitiveness got the better of her. “Is there any particular reason?”
He pondered her question for a moment. It had been a very long time since he’d strolled in the park with a lady who wasn’t his sister or his mother, and he had been wondering why. He was having a bloody good time. “No reason,” he said. “Just enjoying the day.”
They walked along in silence again. Charles remarked, “My mother mentioned that she’s invited you to her dinner party.” He hoped it sounded like mere small talk, but he was very interested in her answer. He’d spent several more sleepless nights thinking of all the tantalizing possibilities presented by having her in his home: the library…the terrace…the garden. Of course, there’d be even more possibilities if it weren’t also his mother’s home, but he was nothing if not creative.
Beatrice blushed. “Yes…she has.” She was wishing once again that she had a way of getting out of the party, but she liked Lady Summerson too much to go back on her word.
Charles sensed her hesitation and knew what caused it; she didn’t want to go because of him. “I probably won’t attend. My mother holds these parties periodically—she invites all of Lucy’s beaus, thinking that the best way to get one of them to propose is to put them all together and see who survives the longest. It’s quite frightening, really.”
Beatrice grinned, relaxing. “I can see why she and my aunt are friends, then. Louisa is desperate that I marry, although if it’s just your sister’s first season, I can’t see that she has much reason to worry. Is Lucy your only sibling?”
Beatrice noticed a slight tightening around his mouth before he answered. “Yes, she is.” He said nothing for a moment. “How about you? I know your brother vaguely…he was a few years behind me at school.”
“Yes. Ben…he’s five years older than me. Every time I get annoyed at Louisa for worrying over me so much, I’m just thankful that I’m not Ben. She considers him a lost cause.”
Charles grinned. “Nothing wrong with lost causes, you know.”
Beatrice refused to make eye contact. He was much too charming when he grinned like that. “Yes, well, I’m the oldest after Ben, and then comes Eleanor—she’s sixteen. And after Eleanor is Helen. She’s thirteen and, according to my aunt, will be the death of us all.”
“I take it Helen is a troublemaker?”
Beatrice nodded, for the moment forgetting that she had ever felt uncomfortable around him. “Definitely. It comes from being the youngest, I think. Our mother died right after she was born and Helen has been allowed to run a bit wild.” Beatrice blushed when she finished, not having meant to say so much. “Sorry. I don’t mean to go on so.”
“No, it’s all right,” Charles said, thinking that she looked lovely with the sun lighting her face. Her happiness was contagious, and he couldn’t help smiling. “You’re very close to your siblings, I think.”
She smiled back. “I am—I’m close to everyone in my family, for that matter, although we’re all quite different.”
As they reached the end of the path, Charles didn’t know what possessed him to utter his next words. “I used to have a brother.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”
He shrugged. He never talked to anyone about his brother. The subject brought back too many painful memories. “It’s all right,” he said. “He died a long time ago.”
“May I ask what happened?” Beatrice murmured hesitantly.
His expression was guarded. “He was two years younger than me…his name was Mark. He and my father were driving up to visit me at Eton, and they had an accident on the way. I was fifteen.”
Beatrice unconsciously laid a hand on Charles’s arm. “I’m so sorry…I didn’t know. Don’t continue if it’s too painful.”
He looked away. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t just stop. “It’s all right. Mark was killed instantly. My father was brought to Eton—the accident happened quite close to school—and he survived for another week.”
Beatrice didn’t know what to say. She had no experience with loss on quite that scale, but she understood. Her mother had died giving birth to Helen, and Beatrice had never quite gotten over her death. She didn’t think she ever would.
Beatrice felt Charles’s hand on her shoulder and looked up at him, realizing that she had become absorbed in her thoughts. He appeared concerned. “I’m sorry—I’ve made you sad. I really don’t know why I brought that up.”
“I don’t mind…perhaps you just wanted to talk about it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it, actually.”
Beatrice looked uncomfortably at the gate to the street. “Well…I suppose I should go. Louisa will wonder where I’ve been.”
Charles nodded. “Don’t want to make her angry.”
They passed through the gate and crossed the street, the dogs behind them.
“Perhaps I’ll see you later on this evening,” he said as they reached the other side.
She turned around. They were in front of Louisa’s house and Beatrice didn’t want to linger. Hoping her voice didn’t reveal her nervousness, she asked, “This evening?”
“I assume you’re going to the Dalrymples’ dinner party. Am I wrong?” Charles had been invited to the event weeks ago, but hadn’t actually planned on attending until now.
“Oh. Yes. I mean, no, you’re not wrong.”
“Well, then, I shall see you there.”
Chapter Eight
S everal hours later, Beatrice was almost ready to sigh in relief. Dinner had come and gone, and Charles had not appeared. She had been all but wringing her hands, during supper, expecting him to materialize at any moment. Louisa had shot her several dirty looks for her inattentiveness, but now, at this late hour…perhaps Beatrice could stop worrying. Charles had probably changed his mind about coming. She hoped so, or at least tried to convince herself that she did. She knew, however, that if she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she was bored without him and that her anxiety that he wouldn’t show surpassed her anxiety that he would.
Luckily, she wasn’t in the mood to be honest.
It was about ten o’clock, supper had just ended. The men remained in the dining room to drink their port and the ladies had retired to the sitting room where, for the most part, they were discussing the men.
“—well, I would have said yes, Bea, but I simply cannot be a pauper. I mean, a title is fine, but a girl must draw the line somewhere, mustn’t she?”
Beatrice nodded weakly in response to Georgina Emerson’s incessant chatter. Beatrice let her gaze wander around the room as her mind began to wander, as well. She wished the men would finish up. That was the only thing that would drag Georgina away from her…that or a second round of dessert.
Lady Summerson caught her eye from across the way and waved. She began making a beeline toward her.
“Hello, Beatrice! Georgina.” A smile for the former and a rather curt nod for the latter accompanied her greeting before she turned toward Beatrice. “I’m sorry to interrupt, dear, but I was hoping to see you this evening. I promised to introduce you to Lucy, remember? Would you please excuse us, Georgina?”
Miss Emerson nodded meekly, cowed by the woman’s commanding presence. Lady Summerson quickly whisked Beatrice away to the other end of the room.
“I hope you don’t think me presumptuous, but you seemed to be in need of rescuing.”
Beatrice smiled. “Well, a bit.”
“You’ll have to pardon me for having a less than favorable opinion of Miss Emerson. It’s just that she was courting my son last year—yes, she was courting him—and I found her rather grasping. Ah, here is Lucy. Lucy, I’d like you to meet Miss Beatrice Sinclair. She is currently staying with our neighbor, Lady Louisa Sinclair.”
“How do you do, Miss Summerson?” Beatrice inquired, curtsying. Up close, Lucy looked even more alarmingly like her brother.
“Call me Lucy, please, and I have been better. Do you know Lord Dudley?”
“Has he declared his undying love for you yet?”
Lucy rolled her eyes comically. “I’m wounded! You mean I’m not the only one?”
Beatrice giggled, truly enjoying herself for the first time this evening.
Lady Summerson smiled. “Ah…the life of the unmarried girl. It’s hard, isn’t it? I had several persistent suitors myself.”
Lucy rolled her eyes once more.
Her mother just patted her hand and continued. “Although my daughter finds that hard to believe. You know, Beatrice, I was hoping to introduce you to my wayward son, as well, although he hasn’t appeared yet.”
“Perhaps he is not coming then?” Beatrice hoped that her voice didn’t betray her anxiety.
Lady Summerson sighed. “Perhaps he’ll stop by later. He and Lord Dalrymple have been friends forever. They’re beyond politeness.”
Beatrice nodded, trying to seem disinterested. She supposed she should inform Lady Summerson that she’d already met her son, but wasn’t sure, at this point, how to work that tidbit into the conversation. She was saved from her deliberations, however, by Lady Dalrymple, who announced that the men had finished their port and that there would be music in the drawing room.
Lady Summerson scurried off to visit with another friend, and Lucy took her place, linking arms with Beatrice.
“Shall we?”
Beatrice nodded, asking as they made their way to the drawing room, “So have you been meeting with much success this season?”
Lucy sighed forlornly. “Frankly, it’s not at all what one is led to believe as a girl. I cannot imagine how you did it so many times.”
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