Читать книгу Reforming the Rake - Sarah Barnwell Elliott - Страница 12

“W hat do you think about this color, Bea?” Eleanor asked, holding up a deep green silk gown. She was to return to Hampshire later on in the day, and the two sisters were spending their last morning shopping. They’d been at the shop for only ten minutes, but already it was littered with the results of Eleanor’s indecision. Gowns, hats and slippers were piled on a velvet ottoman, and that pile was steadily growing.

Beatrice sat amongst the pile, slouched with unladylike exhaustion. “Well,” she drawled, turning to her sister, “I think it’s beautiful, but perhaps just a tad dark for you. Where on earth would you wear something like that, anyway?”

Eleanor sighed. “You needn’t rub it in.” She was impatiently awaiting her debut in two years, not so much because she was in a hurry to wed, but rather because she, more than any of the Sinclair children, loved city life—especially the theater.

Beatrice smiled at her. “Just two more years, goose, and you can have all the ball gowns you please.”

“I know…I’m just thankful Father let me come down to visit you at all. And I know that when it’s my time, I’ll appreciate it far more than you.”

Beatrice sighed. She didn’t mean to. It just sort of slipped out.

“Bea? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, Ellie…I’m afraid you might be right. I’d hoped this year would be different, but I’m getting worried that I’m not going to find the right person in time.”

Eleanor hugged her reassuringly. “I know I don’t have any experience in these matters, but I’m sure everything will work out. Truly, Bea, I can’t even understand how you’ve managed to make it this far without being wed.”

“Am I too picky?”

Eleanor smiled. “Not in most areas of your life.”

“But as far as finding a husband goes—”

Eleanor gave in. “Well, yes, you are particular, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. You shouldn’t marry unless you find love. I’d hate to see you unhappy.”

Beatrice sighed once more. “I know…that’s what everyone says, unless you count Louisa, who thinks happiness should always defer to duty. But wait till you come out, and you’ll see…. I’m not sure I even believe in love anymore.”

Eleanor weighed that thought. “Perhaps. I’m sure that Father loved Mother, though.”

Beatrice nodded slowly. “He did…but I don’t think it’s realistic for me to expect love like that. It might be possible, but it’s definitely not probable.”

Eleanor just shrugged, knowing better than to argue with her sister on this subject. “Do you have anyone in mind yet? I know the season has just begun, but…?”

Beatrice thought for a moment. “Well…I rather like Randolph Asher, although I’m not sure I could ever feel anything but friendly toward him. And Douglas Heathrow has been paying me a lot of attention.”

“That’s a start. In time, perhaps you’ll have a few more names.”

“Perhaps. But truly, Ellie, but I don’t feel too optimistic. I think the ton perceives me as a spinster, and there’s nothing sorrier than that. Louisa disagrees with me, though—she thinks I intimidate people.”

Eleanor scoffed. “Shows how much she knows. You’re quite amiable.”

“I suppose,” Beatrice murmured. “But I suppose she does have a bit of a point…as you may know, I did earn something of a reputation.”

Eleanor smiled. “I’ve heard, but it’s been two years. Can it still be that bad?”

“No…it’s not bad. But if I were a man, I’d hardly flock to me. I mean, if you wanted to get married, would you ask someone who was almost guaranteed to refuse you? I think I’d rather court a girl who was more of a—a sure thing.”

Eleanor looked slightly appalled. “A sure thing? You sound as if you’re talking about betting on a horse at the races.”

“No, truly, Ellie, it’s not that different. Every year I’ve been out, I’ve received fewer and fewer proposals…six my first year, three my second, one my third and none so far this year.”

“Well,” Eleanor said practically, “you didn’t want to marry any of them, anyway.”

Eleanor shopped in silence for a few minutes, and Beatrice’s mind wandered back to the handsome stranger she’d met the night before. Clearly her reputation hadn’t intimidated him. Some devil inside of her made her say, “Actually, Ellie, I have received a proposal of sorts this year.”

Eleanor clapped her hands together and took a seat next to her sister. “Bea! Why didn’t you tell me? Who was it?”

Beatrice’s eyes sparkled. “I said a proposal of sorts, Ellie. It was indecent.”

Eleanor opened her mouth, scandalized. “Oh. That kind of proposal. Well, who was it?” She was leaning forward avidly now, for an indecent proposal was more interesting that a decent one any day.

“I don’t know him, although I am rather curious. He’s not the sort that I’m likely to meet at the social events I attend.”

Eleanor looked worried. “He is of the ton, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Beatrice answered slowly. “He reminds me of Ben, though…a gentleman by birth but not inclination.”

“In other words, a rake?” Eleanor stated bluntly.

Beatrice nodded. “That about sums it up. He’s a marquess… Charles Summerson. He lives next door to Louisa, or at least his family does.”

Eleanor’s mouth dropped open and then closed quickly. “I say, Bea, is he terribly good-looking?”

Beatrice cast an amused look at her sister. “You could say that…. I take it you’ve seen him about?”

Eleanor intently studied a bonnet, not meeting Beatrice’s gaze. “I might have noticed him entering his house once or twice….”

Giggling, Beatrice picked up a pair of gloves from the ottoman and threw them at her sister.

Eleanor ducked nimbly. “Well, he was hard to miss. How did you meet him?”

“I…um, bumped into him on my way to Lady Teasdale’s. I actually rather liked him—he wasn’t stuffy and boring like all the other gentlemen I meet.”

“But?”

“But he’s definitely dangerous to my composure. It’d be best to avoid him completely, but it’ll be difficult since he’s living next door.”

“Well,” Eleanor said, “I wish you showed this much interest in suitable gentlemen. Are you sure that—”

Beatrice cut her off. “Yes, I’m positive. He is definitely not suitable. But my problem gets even worse.”

“Does it?” Truthfully, Eleanor didn’t think that having someone who looked like Charles Summerson interested in you was so terrible, but Beatrice had particular notions about these things.

Beatrice nodded gravely. “Yes—I met his mother at Lady Teasdale’s, only I didn’t know that was who she was. Anyway, she invited me to have dinner at her house in two weeks…so, in her words, she can introduce me to her son and daughter. What do I do?”

“Well, Bea, I hate to say this, but you have to go. It would be terribly impolite to turn down her invitation at this point.”

Beatrice dropped her head into her hands forlornly. “I know. Perhaps he won’t be in…. Lady Summerson mentioned that he has been staying with her only while work was being done on his own house, and I’m sure that by that time—”

“That doesn’t mean that he won’t come by for dinner, especially if he has designs on you.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure he has designs on many women. Perhaps he’ll have forgotten about me by then.”

Eleanor looked at her beautiful sister and silently didn’t think that was possible.

After a moment, Beatrice said suddenly, “It’s not fair.”

“What do you mean by that?” Eleanor inquired.

“He’s obviously a thorough rake and totally unsuitable. That’s what’s unfair.”

“You’re not telling me that you wish he were suitable, are you? Do you fancy him?”

“Well,” Beatrice began rather defensively, “I found him rather exciting. In all my experience being on the marriage market—” she cringed at the very phrase “—I have never found anyone exciting.” She paused to look at her sister forlornly. “Why does he have to be the only one?”

Eleanor began to look worried. “Perhaps you should call off that dinner, after all…you can easily feign a headache, Bea. Lady Summerson will never know.”

“I thought I had to go.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I think you like Lord Summerson too much.” Eleanor lowered her voice as two other women entered the shop. “Perhaps we could continue this conversation over an ice? What do you think?”

Beatrice smiled. “Let’s not continue this conversation, but I do think that an ice sounds delicious.”

They left the shop and headed down the street toward Gunther’s.

On the way, Beatrice couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think I’m being silly, Ellie?”

“Truthfully? Yes and no. If you’re interested in him, I don’t think you should give up altogether. It’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it? Summerson is exceedingly handsome, wealthy and, so you tell me anyway, as charming as the devil. But, as you pointed out, that’s why so many women feel the same way you do.”

Beatrice sighed. “Point taken.” Charles Summerson was exactly what she had been waiting for all along, but she had already determined that her previous aspirations were unrealistic. No, the wisest course of action would be to forget him entirely and settle on some nice, staid gentleman who never set her heart to racing—that sort was abundant during the London season.

Charles slept uncharacteristically late the morning following Lady Teasdale’s ball. Although he tended to keep late-night hours, he usually still managed to rise early enough to exercise his horse in the park before it became too crowded. Last night, sleep had eluded him until the wee hours of the morning, and when he finally did drift off, his dreams had been visited by a golden-haired angel.

He stretched contentedly in bed and sighed, contemplating recent events. He’d been growing bored of late. Beatrice Sinclair was just the entertainment he needed.

Then he frowned slightly and sighed again. He really did have to move back to his own house soon. For one, his mother seemed bent on driving him to distraction with her endless matchmaking. More importantly, however, Charles had decided that he was definitely attracted to Beatrice Sinclair—too attracted to her. Just the thought of her sprawled out in the garden right next door, or even worse, sprawled out in bed, separated from him by little more than a few thin walls and the short space of his yard…it was precisely that image that had kept him up all night, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to sleep soundly again until he moved back to his own residence.

He wasn’t quite sure why he found her so intriguing…whether it was those faint freckles, or her slender feet. Maybe she interested him because she was rather clumsy and talked too much—a relief, when most young ladies pranced about like china dolls and conversed solely on the weather and the latest fashions.

But he did know that he wanted to learn more about her. It was her fourth season, and he found it peculiar that he’d never even heard her name before. Although he had spent some time on the Continent a few years back when he was working for the War Office, he’d quit that business nearly three years ago and had been in London for most of the last two seasons. Where had Beatrice Sinclair been then? She wasn’t exactly the sort of girl one just missed.

And, he had to admit, he still wondered how old she was and why she wasn’t married yet. When he’d first seen her on the street, he’d been struck by how innocent she had appeared—it had sent his blood racing, but it had also urged him to be cautious. Charles certainly wasn’t renowned for his scruples, at least where romantic affairs were concerned, but he didn’t make a practice of seducing innocents. It could lead to a lot more trouble than it was worth.

However, perhaps, Beatrice’s appearances were deceiving. He hoped so. It wasn’t possible to be so beautiful and make it through so many seasons untouched, unless the girl was quite a prude. From what he had observed, she certainly didn’t seem to fit into that category. She didn’t seem to be shy, either. Surely she couldn’t be completely innocent.

Charles eased out of bed and rang for his valet, Smythe.

Several minutes later, he watched the elaborate process of his cravat being tied, while his thoughts drifted back to Beatrice Sinclair. Lucy would probably know something about her. His sister had always possessed an uncanny knack for knowing the affairs of everyone in society.

Charles’s eyes narrowed on Smythe. Servants knew everything, as well. “Have you heard anything about the young lady who’s staying next door, Smythe?”

The man looked up briefly. “I am acquainted with her maid, my lord. A rather forceful woman,” he answered before turning back to his task.

“I see,” Charles said, still looking into the mirror. Smythe was just making the final adjustments on his cravat, tugging here and there, but not before Charles caught a glimpse of the jagged scar that cut across the base of his throat. It was a gruesome reminder of his days with the War Office that he usually chose to ignore.

But then it was covered, and Smythe stepped away, admiring his handiwork.

“Will that be all my lord?”

Charles nodded and waved Smythe off. He hadn’t been at all informative.

Ten minutes later, Charles wandered downstairs to the sunny breakfast room. He was relieved to see that Lucy was there, blessedly alone.

“Where is Mother?” he asked as he piled his plate with eggs at the serving table.

She looked up from the paper she was reading. “Off running errands for her dinner party.”

Smiling knowingly, Charles took a seat across from her at the table. “Ah…will all the suitors be coming over, Lu?”

She smiled back sweetly. If only he knew whose suitors. “You could say as much, Charles.”

“Suppose I’ll have to be there, then.”

Lucy nodded and folded her paper casually in her lap. Still smiling, she replied, “Yes, you’d better. Protection, right?”

Charles ignored her. He was in too good a humor to let her gibes get to him. “Say, Lucy, you seem rather smug this day. Something happen to put you in such spirits? What have you been up to?”

Lucy had spent the morning tending to her mother’s errands, as well. She’d already sent her maid over to Lady Sinclair’s, hoping to get some information about Beatrice from her servants. “I had a few errands of my own…I had to go glean some information for Mother, actually. You know how meddlesome she can get.”

Charles knew. He wasn’t even going to ask Lucy what it was that their mother wanted her to ferret out. But the mention of gleaning information…

“Say, do you know Beatrice Sinclair at all, Lu?” he asked, hoping that he didn’t introduce the subject too abruptly.

Startled, she choked on her tea.

“Lucy? I wasn’t aware that that was a strange question.”

Lucy wiped her chin and tried to appear nonchalant. “I’m sorry—it wasn’t. Do you know Beatrice Sinclair?”

He thought carefully of how to proceed. He’d been hoping that Lucy would answer him with a simple yes or no, but clearly she wanted to pry. He didn’t like to reveal too much of his private life to his sister, but he was also curious. “I don’t really know her…but I should like to know her. I met her last night when I returned from the ball. She’s Lady Sinclair’s niece.”

“Great-niece, actually,” Lucy explained. “She hasn’t been to town for the last few seasons, which would explain why you haven’t met her before. Last time she was here, you would have been on the Continent.”

Charles nodded. Lucy was being a veritable fount of information. “Is that all you know?”

“Her father’s Viscount Carlisle. Her brother you might know from your club—Lord Benjamin Sinclair.”

“We’re acquainted. He was a couple of years behind me in school.” Charles’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You don’t know Sinclair, do you?”

She smiled with forced patience. “I know of him. His reputation is as black as yours. I’m just very observant. That’s how I know so much about everyone.”

Charles snorted. “Well, if you know so much, Lucy, then why isn’t she married?”

She shook her head. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Why on earth would you be trying to figure that out?”

Lucy looked momentarily stricken, but recovered quickly. “I didn’t mean literally, Charles…I’m not actively trying to figure that out. It just makes one wonder, though, when a girl as pretty as she is doesn’t marry early on. She’s also quite wealthy, by the way.”

“I never realized you were this much of a gossip, Lucy,” he said, shaking his head in bemusement.

“I’m not. You’re the one asking all the questions, Charles.”

“I certainly didn’t expect answers as thorough as these. How do you to know all this?”

“I like to keep well informed. And, by the way, since you’re curious, she apparently can be found at Larrimor’s Bookshop on Tuesdays at two, almost without fail.” Lucy paused, her brother’s bewildered expression telling her that such precise information would require further explanation. “One of Lady Sinclair’s servants mentioned it to my maid…apparently this is when Mr. Larrimor gets his new shipments each week. My maid passed this information on to me because I’d told her that I intended to visit the shop myself. She thought, perhaps, that Miss Sinclair and I might make a small party of it.”

Charles mulled this bit of information over slowly, then asked guardedly, “Almost without fail, you say?”

“Yes…” Lucy drawled. He was taking the bait beautifully.

“Perhaps I need a new book myself.”

She grinned. “I thought you might say something like that.”