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Reforming the Rake
Sarah Elliott
THIS ISN'T YOUR FIRST SEASON, IS IT, DEAR?"NO. BUT IT SHALL BE MY LAST!Beatrice Sinclair prayed that her bold declaration would prove true. After so many fruitless years on the ton's marriage mart, life on the shelf seemed the more appealing prospect. At least as an avowed spinster, she wouldn't be bound by the silliness women went through to catch even the dullest of husbands!Still, secretly, she yearned for romance–bone-melting, scandalous romance. If truth be told, what she really wanted–even if only for one mad, family-shocking moment–was a rake. And Charles Summerson, Marquis of Pelham, tall, dark and notorious, seemed only too happy to oblige!
“Since we’re not friends, may I ask you a rather rude question?”
Beatrice blinked. “Excuse me?”
Charles’s green eyes sparkled devilishly. “Why aren’t you married?”
“A great many people aren’t married,” she retorted defensively. “I could be asking you the same question.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to be married. The fact that you’re in London for the season implies that you don’t share my sentiments. What’s stopping you? You’re intelligent and amusing, not to mention,” he added quietly, his eyes darkening, “the most beautiful woman in town. Are you sure you’re really looking for a husband?”
Beatrice colored again. “Are you proposing?” She knew that she shouldn’t have asked him this question—there was no telling what sort of outrageous answer he’d give—yet the question had slipped out all the same.
Charles leaned in closer yet again, this time to whisper in her ear. “Not marriage.”
Praise for debut author Sarah Elliott
“Sarah Elliott has a fresh new voice that makes the marriage of convenience into something altogether too sexy and fun to be just convenient!”
—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James
“Sarah Elliott writes with elegance and wit. The book is funny, it’s sexy, it’s romantic. What more could you want?”
—Jessica Benson, author of The Accidental Duchess
Reforming the Rake
Sarah Elliott
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to Laura Langlie for her patience and tenacity and to Elizabeth Sudol for giving much-needed encouragement.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter One
May 12, 1816
C harles Summerson, ninth marquess of Pelham, hadn’t meant to spy. No, he actually felt rather embarrassed for not closing his window right away—after all, he’d merely stuck his head out to check the temperature, and, having decided that he would not require a heavy coat for his ride in the park, had no reason to linger.
Nonetheless, he lingered.
It wasn’t even Charles’s own window, for that matter; that is, it was his former window. He was temporarily staying in his boyhood room at his mother’s Park Lane home while his own town house underwent repairs. Still, he had grown up in that very room, and in all those years he had never appreciated how prime a vantage point his window was for observing the goings-on in his neighbor’s garden. Not that he’d ever been particularly interested in her goings-on before, and frankly, he wasn’t interested in them now. Lady Louisa Sinclair had lived next door to the Summersons for as long as Charles could remember. She was one of those society matrons who was perpetually just shy of sixty years old…preserved, he assumed, by the vinegar that ran through her veins.
Today, however, was different, for today Lady Sinclair was not in her garden. Quite the contrary. Instead, there appeared to be an entirely different variety of female in his neighbor’s garden: definitely younger, and far gentler on the eyes.
Charles quietly observed the unfamiliar girl for several minutes without moving. He hadn’t the faintest idea who she was, and from his position he could make out few details. She was sprawled out in the middle of Lady Sinclair’s pristine lawn, facing away from him. and propped up by her elbows in order to jot something hurriedly into a small book. Charles wished he could see her face. All he could really see was the back of her blond head, bent so avidly over her writing.
He let his gaze travel down her body, or what he could see of it, anyway. She wore a pale yellow dress, the same color as Lady Sinclair’s daffodils, and Charles noted that it was appropriately, albeit disappointingly, modest. He had to rely on his imagination to fill in the details that the dress concealed: a tall, slim frame, gently rounded hips, small waist…ample breasts. He silently willed her to roll over and satisfy his curiosity.
Her legs lay flat behind her, and Charles let his gaze roam down even farther. He noticed that her slippers had abandoned her feet and now lay haphazardly on the ground at her side. He could see nothing of her calves—as was proper—but he could see her feet quite clearly. Periodically, she wiggled her toes in the grass.
He knew he really ought to turn away, and surely would have if it weren’t for those damned feet. But seeing a woman’s stockinged feet only made him all the more curious to see the rest of her, and as she was so focused on…well, whatever it was she was doing, there was really no chance of being discovered, was there?
After a minute, the girl paused in writing to leaf through the pages of her book. Charles would have given just about anything at that moment to read along with her—rather salaciously, he hoped that it was her diary, where she recorded her deepest secrets, hidden desires….
He forgot about the contents of her book entirely, however, when—seeming to forget for the moment that she was a young lady—the girl bent her leg back, letting it sway carelessly back and forth; her skirts slipped down to pool around her knee, and he was treated to a clear view of her trim ankle and shapely calf.
He raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Charles supposed he ought to feel rather depraved for observing her unawares, but niggling morals aside, he just couldn’t avert his eyes. He even contemplated heading down the hall to knock on his sister’s bedroom door to ask if he could borrow her opera glasses.
However, his nefarious thoughts were interrupted before he could make that decision. The sound of a shrill voice rang out from next door—probably that termagant Louisa Sinclair. “Bea! Come inside now! We have to get ready.”
“Coming….” The girl responded slowly, without closing her book or making any sign to rise.
After a minute, the voice came again, more insistent this time. “Bea! We’ll be late as it is.”
With great reluctance, the girl closed her book, but she didn’t get up right away. First, she rolled onto her back, stretching like a cat and crossing her arms behind her head. She looked up at the sky, a faraway expression on her face and the faint trace of a smile about her lips.
Charles really should have looked away then. She could have turned her gaze up toward his window at any moment, and he’d feel like ten times a randy schoolboy, which wouldn’t do at all. But the problems that discovery posed were the furthest thing from his mind. For a moment, in fact, he forgot to breathe.
God, she was beautiful. He’d been admiring her body before, but her face… Perfect, tiny nose and generous lips… Charles swallowed hard. With her lying on her back as she now was, his prior imaginings were confirmed. She was indeed slim, but definitely curved in all the right places. He still couldn’t see all that he would like—the color of her eyes, the slant of her brows—but the general picture of beauty was undeniable.
Charles wondered at her age. She was definitely young, he decided, but not too young…twenty, perhaps? Twenty-one? He tended to avoid innocents, for the simple fact that they were usually looking for husbands, and he definitely did not fit that category.
Holding her book close to her chest, the girl rose and began walking toward the door. She paused, however, just before entering, tilting her radiant face up to the sky to enjoy her last few seconds of sun. Then, with a look of disappointment, she headed indoors and broke the spell.
Charles waited to see if she’d reemerge from the house. After several minutes had passed with nary a sign of her, a more profitable course of action came to his mind.
Charles rose from his position at the window and left his room, heading down the long hall to knock on his sister’s door. He ignored the portrait of his great-great-grandfather, who glared at him disapprovingly from beneath his abundant eyebrows.
“Lucy? You in there?” he called through the panel. At eighteen, Lucy was having her first season. Despite the twelve years age difference, they had always been very close, although Charles was still trying to get used to the fact that she was no longer a child.
Lucy opened her door and grinned at him. She was a pretty, petite girl and shared her brother’s raven-black hair and green eyes. Indeed, except for the fact that Charles stood well over six feet tall, the resemblance between them was uncanny. “Did you miss me, Charles?” she asked cheekily.
He snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lu. Came to see what you were doing tonight.”
She arched a single brow. “Could it be that you’re interested in accompanying me? That would be a first.”
“I went along for your debut two weeks ago,” he protested.
“That doesn’t count, and you know it. You had to come. Besides, you told me that would be the first and last time.”
He had said that—he could remember his words distinctly. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. What are the entertainments for the evening?”
“Just one that I know of—the annual Teasdale ball. That’s where I’m going.”
Charles nodded, as if debating whether to attend, but he’d already made up his mind. There was little he’d rather do less than attend Lady Teasdale’s blasted ball, but he wanted to know more about the girl in the yellow dress. Lady Sinclair had ushered her inside to get ready for something, probably this particular function. “Perhaps I’ll come along.”
“But you can’t stand Lady Teasdale!” Lucy exclaimed.
Charles realized this conversation wouldn’t be as brief as he’d hoped. He entered Lucy’s room and sank into her large armchair, trying to come up with a plausible excuse. “I realize that I’ve been lax in my duties, Lu. I shouldn’t leave you to face the vultures alone.”
“Charles, Mother always comes with me. It’s not as if I’m without a chaperone.”
“Ah, but you forget, Lucy, that Mother doesn’t know the men out there as I do. I should hate to see you wasting your time with the wrong sort.”
She gaped in disbelief. “How can you be so suspicious? You’re the worst of the lot, Charles. And did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t want your blasted company?”
He pretended to look shocked. “Can these be the words of my own dear sister?”
Lucy wasn’t about to give up. She loved her brother dearly, but he could be a tad overprotective at times. She tried to put him off one last time. “Well, whether I want you there doesn’t matter. Besides, you’ll make Mother very happy. Just this morning she was telling me that it was high time you wed.” She batted her eyelashes innocently.
“Mother says as much every day.”
“Well, Charles…” Lucy was really warming up to the subject now. “I haven’t told you this before, but Mother has really been thinking about finding you a match recently. Seems she’s getting worried that you’ll never wed.”
“This is new?” he asked with a yawn.
She ignored his rudeness. “Well, no, not that in particular. But she has taken up an alarming new practice of carrying a notebook containing the names and parentage of every eligible girl she meets. Truly, Charles, she is never without it.”
He just stared for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. “She’s taking notes? What does this notebook look like, Lucy?”
She debated whether to tell him or not—what if he went looking for the book and stole it? Her mother would never forgive her, not to mention that Lucy would no longer be able to hold it over his head. But she knew he’d get the information out of her sooner or later. She tried to describe the book as vaguely as possible. “Well, I can’t say that I’ve seen the outside of the notebook too often…it’s always open when I see her with it. But I do believe it’s leather. Oh, and small, so she can fit it in her pocket.”
Charles had spent several years after university working for the War Office and easily recognized evasion. But his sister was as formidable as any French spy he had ever encountered, and he decided to drop the questioning for the moment. He’d find and destroy the book later.
