Reforming the Rake. Sarah Barnwell Elliott

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ