Reforming the Rake. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

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.