Читать книгу Reforming the Rake - Sarah Elliott - Страница 9

C harles sorely regretted his decision to attend the ball. In general, he steered clear of that sort of thing, particularly if it were captained by Honoria Teasdale. He had been reminded of why he hated these events from the moment he’d walked through the door, when he’d felt precisely as if he’d been thrown to the sharks. Every woman in the room, be they mother or daughter, young or old, fat or thin, immediately began sizing him up, wondering if perhaps this was the year he’d be caught. Having no interest in marriage himself, he wouldn’t have attended the ball at all if it weren’t for that elusive girl in the yellow dress. And she, ironically, hadn’t appeared. Charles was beginning to think he’d imagined her.

“Charles, dear, you look a little bit forbidding,” his mother, Emma Summerson, chided as she approached. She was fair where Charles was dark, and petite where he was tall and athletic. When they smiled, however, their equally lopsided and charming grins immediately pegged them as being closely related.

Charles wasn’t smiling now. He practically scowled at the glass of lemonade she handed him.

“Take that frown off your face, Charles, or all of these young ladies will be frightened.”

“That is my fondest wish, Mother,” he replied. He’d long ago learned that his dangerous dark looks were what drew women toward him. Nonetheless, he was being sincere. Most of his friends didn’t relish the idea of marriage, but most of them also accepted that fate as inevitable, at least if they had a title to pass on. Charles, on the other hand, had vowed never to marry, his title be damned. Marriage, especially if it involved love, was far too dangerous. Charles had already lost two people he’d loved very much and refused to put himself at risk again.

His mother sighed resignedly. “Oh, I do wish you’d behave. Why’d you come tonight, anyway? You don’t enjoy this sort of affair. You’re not really worried about Lucy, are you?”

“I’m not worried so much, Mother…. I just think it’s a good idea to make my presence known—sporadically, mind you—to keep these young bucks on their toes.”

She sniffed. “Sporadically. I see. Very well thought out of you—after all, you do have a reputation to maintain. Wouldn’t do for you to appear in polite society too frequently, would it?”

“You know, Mother, I rather thought that with Lucy out now you’d concentrate on her love life, rather than dwelling on mine.”

“Although—” she said with a smile “—you could use the help.”

“But,” Charles countered, “I don’t need you keeping a notebook with the fortune, ancestry and physical features of every unmarried girl you meet, in that order.”

“Lucy told you?”

“’Course she did. She’s quite fond of me, you know. Tells me everything.”

His mother looked highly doubtful. “Well, she got it a bit wrong. My criteria are actually in the opposite order, dear. And I’m certain character and intelligence are in there somewhere, as well, although you sometimes seem to view those things as liabilities in a woman.”

Charles began to grow alarmed. “What are you talking about, Mother?”

She put her hand to her chin in thought. “Yes…the order is character, intelligence, attractiveness, family, then fortune. We have enough money to put fortune last.”

Charles raked an agitated hand through his hair, feeling for once that his own mother was one of the sharks he had to look out for. It was definitely time for him to leave. “This can’t be happening, Mother. I have to go. I will walk home—it’s just a few blocks.”

She smiled smoothly, feigning surprise. “So soon? But I see Lady Abermarle heading your way—I imagine her daughter is behind her somewhere, not that you can see anything around that majestic form.”

He shivered. “Then I will run home.”

“One word of advice, Charles, before you go.”

“Yes, Mother?” he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder as the large Abermarle shadow began to loom closer. Now it was imperative that he leave.

She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Always judge a girl by her mother, because in ten years, she will be her mother.”

Charles nodded curtly and walked briskly to the door, hoping to God that none of Lucy’s suitors ever met their mother.

His mother watched him fondly as he beat his retreat. Lucy walked up behind her grinning.

“I see you got rid of him, Mother,” she remarked with definite satisfaction.

“Easily. You should never doubt me,” her mother replied. She began to chuckle. “You should have seen the look on his face, dear, when I informed him about The Book…. He was looking at me as if I’d gone quite mad.”

“As if?”

She ignored her daughter’s sarcasm. “If Charles is going to be so ornery about finding a match for himself, I hardly see why he should come here and ruin your chances by glowering at all your beaus.” She turned toward her youngest child. She’d been blessed with three children, but only Charles and Lucy had survived. Mark, Charles’s junior by two years, had died in a carriage accident when he was thirteen. The memory still hurt, and she cherished her remaining children. They both made her so proud. They infuriated her, too, but for the most part her heart swelled with joy whenever she looked at them.

Her eyes began to mist up.

“Are you all right, Mother?” Lucy asked, resting her hand on her arm in concern.

“I’m fine, Lucy. I was just thinking about how much you and Charles resemble your father…Charles especially, the devil. Your father was quite the handful before we wed.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. “He couldn’t have been as wicked as Charles. I can’t see you putting up with that.”

Her mother smiled and slipped her arm around her. “I never had to put up with it. From the moment we met he became a paragon—with, of course, the occasional reminder.” She turned to look at her daughter. “I hope your marriage, when it comes, is every bit as special. Charles’s, too.”

“I shouldn’t get my hopes up too much about Charles,” Lucy warned. “He’s in no hurry to marry at all. I suppose he will eventually, of course—he has the title to think about. But I wouldn’t expect a love match.”

Her mother merely shrugged. “He might surprise us yet. At any rate, he’s gone now, and you can enjoy yourself. Lord Dudley is by the French doors, and I sense from his penetrating gaze that he’s desperate to attract your attention.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “I noticed him, too, although I was trying to pretend I hadn’t. I suppose I should go dance with him or else seem terribly rude.”

“Yes, dear, I think you’d better.”

As Lucy headed off toward Lord Dudley, her mother smiled benignly, pleased that she’d been able to send off her other child so easily. Children could be such nuisances sometimes, and she needed time alone to think…or rather, to scheme.

Wearing the same harmless smile, she let her gaze wander around the room. There had to be a better reason for Charles to attend the ball that evening than concern for Lucy. She was sure of it. It was only a matter of finding out who that better reason was and whether or not she was eligible.

It was nearly ten by the time Beatrice, Eleanor and Ben returned from the theater, and with every minute, Beatrice grew more alarmed. Louisa would be a veritable volcano by the time she reached the ball.

As their carriage rolled to a stop in front of their aunt’s town house, Eleanor stretched, a contented smile on her face. All of the Sinclair children resembled each other very closely, save Eleanor. Whereas the rest of the clan tended to be tall and blond, Eleanor was petite, brunette and blue-eyed. “Time for bed,” she said over a yawn, opening the door and sliding from the carriage. She looked back at Beatrice. “I suppose you could thank Louisa for letting me come out tonight when you see her. If you must.”

Beatrice just smiled. “’Night, Ellie.” But as Eleanor headed into the house, Beatrice nudged her brother. “Ben?”

“Hmm?” he mumbled, half-asleep.

“Do you think Louisa will be terribly peeved because we’re late? It’ll be eleven by the time we arrive.”

He grunted. “Tell Louisa to go to the devil. I’m not going.”

“Ben! I can’t tell her that!”

“You can. What’s the worst she can do?”

“Kill the messenger.”

He turned to his sister, his head lolled back against the seat, grinning unrepentantly. “It’s a bloody boring affair, Beatrice, and I’ve already done you one favor for the evening. No one should be forced to be in the same room as that Teasdale gorgon. You wouldn’t go yourself, if you weren’t scared of Louisa.” He winked at her.

“I am not scared of her, Ben! You don’t have to stay with her all season—imagine sharing a house with that woman when she’s angry. Besides…” Beatrice paused for a moment, grasping for words. “It’s just that, well…I really should go. I have a certain responsibility.”

He shook his head in disgust. “I’m glad I’m not a girl.”

“Why’s that?” Beatrice snorted. “There’s actually more pressure on you, you know—you’re the one who has to produce an heir.”

Ben shuddered in distaste. “Let’s not discuss this subject now. I have plans for later and have to get going. Mind if John brings me home in the carriage? It’ll be back by the time you’re ready to go.”

Beatrice shrugged. “Have a pleasant evening, Ben.” I won’t, she miserably added to herself as she climbed from the carriage.

Her feet trailed reluctantly for the first few steps, but the prospect of Louisa’s temper prodded her into action. By the time she reached the front door, she had broken into a full-fledged run. Humphries, Louisa’s butler, held the door open, waiting for her with a smile.

“Good evening, Miss Sinclair.”

“Good evening, Humphries!” she called back, racing past him and flying up the stairs. He didn’t blink an eye. He was used to her last-minute mad dashes.

Once in her room, Beatrice rang for her lady’s maid, Meg, but wasted no time in removing her clothes on her own, a feat much easier said than done. By the time Meg arrived, Beatrice’s gown was halfway over her head and she was stuck inside of it; she couldn’t undo the buttons on her own and had decided to see if she could simply wiggle it off over her head.

She could not.

“Do you need help, Miss Beatrice?” Meg asked from the doorway.

“Obviously I need help. Pull!” Beatrice ordered in a muffled voice, one arm pinned behind her back, one held uncomfortably above her head.

Meg took a second to assess the situation. Beatrice was writhing about like a caught fish. “Stand still for a moment, dear. Let’s try this in the conventional fashion.” And with that, Meg yanked the gown back down, smiled at Beatrice’s flushed face and proceeded to unbutton.

“Meg, you’ve saved my life. I don’t know what I would do without you. Louisa will have been expecting me for nearly an hour already, and you know how annoyed she gets whenever she is…”

“Annoyed?” Meg murmured helpfully. Few people would dare to mock Louisa, but Meg had been in the family long enough to dare most things. She’d begun as Beatrice’s governess, but had become her lady’s maid and companion once Beatrice had outgrown the schoolroom.

Beatrice just grinned. “That’s it exactly, Meg, although I suppose I can’t blame her this time. If I’d known I would still have to go to the Teasdales’, I would never have promised Eleanor that I’d go to the theater. I’ll look perfectly exhausted by the time I reach the ball. Is that my new gown on the bed? I do hope it 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.