Читать книгу Reforming the Rake - Sarah Elliott - Страница 12

A t two o’clock sharp on Tuesday afternoon, Beatrice was in the back room at Larrimor’s Bookshop, surrounded by several teetering piles of books. Mr. Larrimor had set aside these piles especially for her, having become familiar with her wide-ranging tastes.

A single, small window let light into the dusty room, and Beatrice had to bend over and look quite closely at the volumes in order to read their titles. He’d provided her with an assortment of novels, memoirs, even gardening treatises…. She picked up one book for a closer look. It was titled The Life of William Kidd: A Sordid Tale, as Told by His Cabin Boy, Reginald Dawson. She smiled. She didn’t normally read books about pirates—that was a recent habit, one she’d begun only in relation to her writing. Pirates made excellent romantic heroes, and it stood to reason that she ought to know a thing or two about life at sea to write about the subject convincingly.

Beatrice had just begun thumbing through the pages of the dusty tome when she heard muffled voices coming from the front of the store. She stepped closer to the hallway in order to hear better.

She quickly wished she hadn’t.

“Ah, hello, Lord Summerson. Can I help you with anything?” she heard Mr. Larrimor ask. Summerson. Could there be another Lord Summerson?

“I’m just looking around, Mr. Larrimor,” a familiar voice responded. “I heard that you received your new shipments on Tuesdays and wondered if you had that book I ordered.”

“I do. I’ll put it on the counter for you, but please, have a look through the back room to see if anything else catches your eye— I haven’t had time to bring everything out front yet.”

In the back room, meanwhile, Beatrice had stopped breathing and gone into panic mode. She clutched her book tightly to her chest and pressed her spine against the shelf-lined wall. Thoughts of escape began racing through her head, but without any immediate solution. She was pretty much cornered in the book-strewn room, and she hadn’t a chance of getting out undetected.

Unless…

Beatrice looked wistfully at the window. It wasn’t so high up, really, and she was thin enough to fit through it. But she shook her head with regret. If it would have solved her problem, she could have just pulled over a chair, shinned up the wall, popped out the window like a cork and been on her way. Unfortunately, she knew it wouldn’t solve a thing. The window would deposit her directly into the middle of Bond Street. And Mr. Larrimor would surely be most concerned when he discovered she’d vanished. In his worry, he’d probably say something about it to Lord Summerson, who would know exactly where she went and why….

She heard a creak of floorboards, followed by the soft sound of footsteps. There was no escape.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” she responded, turning back to the piles of books and trying to look unaffected by his presence.

Charles disregarded her attempts to ignore him. He ambled forward until he stood next to her, then stopped. “You know,” he began, an apologetic note to his voice, “I think I neglected to introduce myself the other night.”

She bit her lip, but turned to face him. “Perhaps.”

He bowed slightly. “Charles Summerson.”

Beatrice nodded again, not knowing what else to do. Charles said nothing. Just continued to look at her.

She shifted uncomfortably, until she realized the reason he was looking at her was because it was her turn to speak. Still she said nothing.

“I see you’ve gotten to the new shipment first,” he added with a smile designed to melt any obdurate female heart. “Find any good books?” Even as he asked this question he leaned in closer, trying to peer at the book she clutched in her hand.

Beatrice only gripped it tighter to her chest. “No. I haven’t been here long.”

“Oh. Well, then what are you holding?”

“A book.” She wanted to slap herself as she uttered these idiotic words.

He smiled patiently. “May I see it?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, that’s to say, you wouldn’t be very interested in it.”

“I beg to differ. I am extremely interested,” Charles replied. He could have added that the more she declined, the more his interest grew.

Beatrice didn’t know how she could avoid showing him her book. She supposed there was nothing wrong with it….

She tentatively held it out for his perusal.

He raised his eyebrows. “Now I really must beg to differ. That looks very interesting indeed…it actually looks rather improper. Do you like that sort of thing?”

Beatrice blushed and shrugged. “A bit…. I was only looking.” She wouldn’t have told him the truth if her life depended on it.

Charles smiled. He knew she wasn’t being entirely forthcoming. “Fascinating subject, isn’t it?”

Beatrice just nodded weakly.

“Are you sure it’s quite the thing for you to be reading?”

She held the book close to her chest once again. “Oh, no. I think it will be fine. Mr. Larrimor recommended it.”

Charles chuckled. “Never fear. I was only jesting.” He walked around the perimeter of the room, looking at the shelves. “Have you any suggestions, Miss Sinclair?”

She put her book down on a table and bit her lip again. She was a voracious reader and would normally have had dozens of suggestions. For the moment, however, her mind was blank. “Hmm…do you like novels?”

“I do, I must admit. I just finished reading Sense and Sensibility. My sister highly recommended it, and I must say I was rather skeptical, but…” Charles paused. “Have you read it?”

She shook her head, bemused at the thought of this dashing and dangerous man reading romantic novels. “No. I haven’t.”

“Perhaps I will lend it to you. That would be neighborly, wouldn’t it?”

Beatrice gulped. “I suppose. I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble, though.”

“Nonsense. It would be no trouble at all,” he assured her, wondering why he even offered. He didn’t usually bother with such niceties in his seductions. No, when Charles wanted to bed a woman he didn’t typically find himself visiting her at her aunt’s house to loan her a novel first. However, this was different. He didn’t know why, but it was.

“I will drop it by later today, if that is all right.”

She nodded her head slightly. “That would be fine…oh, but wait—I may not be in later. I’m having dinner with my brother this evening and have a few errands to run beforehand—I actually should get going now. I’m late again. But you could leave the book with our butler.” Beatrice hoped there was no way for her to get caught in her lie. She was going out to dinner with Ben, but she certainly wouldn’t be leaving her house for several hours; she simply didn’t think she could handle two encounters with Charles in one day. She started to edge out of the room, hoping to hint at the fact that she had to leave.

He merely followed her. “I’ll walk you to your carriage,” he offered, placing his hand on the small of her back and guiding her down the dark hallway.

Beatrice would have protested if she’d had the words, but all she could do was follow his lead. Every inch of her body was aware of him—his smell, his heat, the light pressure of his hand burning a hole through the thin fabric of her gown.

When they approached the main section of the dimly lit store, Charles stopped, causing her to stop, as well, and look up at him in question.

But looking at him was a mistake. The dimness of the hall did nothing to obscure the heat of his gaze. If anything, the shadows made him seem even more handsome, more wicked. Without taking his eyes from hers, he leaned closer, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Lips parted breathlessly, she waited.

He didn’t kiss her, though. He merely reached out his hand and gently brushed something from her cheek.

“A smudge of dust,” he explained gruffly.

“Oh.” Heat rushed to her face, but she didn’t know whether it was from embarrassment or from his proximity. It didn’t matter…the soft pad of his thumb still rested on her cheekbone, and with what seemed like excruciating slowness, he let his hand trail along the line of her jaw, over her shoulder and down her spine, until it settled again at the small of her back.

With his small nudge, they were moving once more. She found herself waving distractedly to Mr. Larrimor as she passed him on the way out. Charles guided her across the street, stopping in front of her carriage to open the door. As he turned to help her inside, she had the sensation that he was about to kiss her once more. He wanted to. She could see it in his eyes, in the nearly imperceptible way his head tilted toward hers.

But he didn’t. As if he’d just remembered where they were, he drew back slightly, his expression suddenly impassive. He merely nodded goodbye, closed her carriage door, and Beatrice was off, head swimming and heart racing.

Charles watched her carriage wind slowly through the afternoon traffic for a moment before he crossed the street to reenter the store. He knew he looked cool and collected, but inwardly the blood pounded through his veins.

God, he wanted her. It was ridiculous, really, for a man of his experience to be feeling this way. All he’d done was rub a bloody spot of dust from her face, and it had taken every ounce of his control not to throw her on the floor and make love to her…. If he did something like that again, he’d scare her off for good.

Charles was not surprised when, several hours later, Louisa Sinclair’s butler informed him that Beatrice was out. He was almost certain that it was a lie, but no matter. He left the novel for Beatrice and turned to leave.

He was surprised, however, to see Louisa walking up the path just as the door closed behind him. She carried her parasol like a lance, and when her eyes lit on Charles he noticed her lip curl ever so slightly, making her resemble an aggressive terrier.

She looked him dead in the eye. “Good day to you, Pelham.”

“Good day, Lady Sinclair. I hope you are well,” he greeted her mildly.

She sniffed. “As well as can be expected. Have you business at my house?”

He silently cursed her lack of tact before saying, “Of sorts…I encountered your niece at Larrimor’s Bookshop and just came over to lend her a book.”

Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “Humph. That sounds remarkably out of character. Did your mother send you over here?”

Charles hadn’t blushed since he was thirteen, but Louisa had a way of making him feel like he was about thirteen. “My mother?”

She nearly cackled. “Ah, you thought it was only your sister who had to be cautious around your matchmaking mama, didn’t you, boy? Well, I have a pretty good idea why you were sent here.”

Charles finally understood her meaning. If she wanted to make him feel like a callow lad, he could at least have fun with her, as well. “Madam, are you implying what I think you are?”

“Of course, my boy. Open your eyes.”

“But Lady Sinclair—you’re nearly twice my age! Think of the scandal! Of course,” he added with a lecherous grin, “scandal has never stopped me before.”

Louisa just sputtered, opening and closing her mouth several times in rapid succession. It was one of the few times in her life that she had been rendered speechless, and if Charles hadn’t feared what would happen when she finally did regain speech, he would have remained to watch. Instead, he just doffed his hat and sauntered down her steps, wisely retreating before she could recover.

When Louisa did recover—it took all of ten seconds—she marched directly inside her house and up the stairs to her niece’s room, swiping the offending book from the hall table along the way.

“Beatrice Sinclair,” she demanded as she entered without knocking, “what has been going on here in my absence?”

Beatrice looked up from her dressing table in surprise. She was readying herself for dinner, although truth be told she’d been pretty much caught up in thoughts of green eyes and black hair and how to avoid them in the future. She hadn’t the faintest idea what her aunt was talking about. “What do you mean, Louisa?”

Her great-aunt waved the novel under her nose. “I didn’t even know that you two were acquainted. I do not condone it.”

Beatrice blushed. “I simply ran into him in the bookstore—”

“He informed me.”

“Yes, well, he offered to lend me a book, being neighbors.”

Louisa said nothing. She slammed the novel down on Beatrice’s table, her nostrils flaring.

“Oh, Lousia, you’re overreac—”

“Beatrice, I have been Summerson’s neighbor since he was born, and not once has he lent me a book. I just can’t believe he would have the audacity…in front of my very eyes…”

“Louisa! It’s just a book.”

“Don’t be a fool, Beatrice. He is a rake.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Louisa, that hardly means he doesn’t read.”

“That’s not what I meant, Beatrice, and you know it. Summerson’s just trying to lull you into trusting him.”

She sighed in frustration. “I know his reputation, Aunt. I didn’t mean to encounter him, and I’m not about to be ‘lulled’ into trusting anyone. Should I have been rude to him?”

“Perhaps,” Louisa muttered. “That’s preferable to running the risk of anyone seeing you with him. Look, Bea, to be perfectly frank with you, I’m quite fond of the lad—always have been. But he’s notorious where women are concerned. Just stay away from him. He’s too charming by half, and I don’t want to see you make any mistakes.”

Beatrice nodded, miserably wishing she were back home in Hampshire where life was simpler.

Evenly, she vowed, “I haven’t made any mistakes, Louisa. I didn’t ask for him to come here, and rest assured, I don’t plan to seek him out.”