Reforming the Rake. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

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.”