Reforming the Rake

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.