Reforming the Rake. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

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.”