Reforming the Rake. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

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