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“You’re very helpful, Lu. I can’t thank you enough…and I shall see you later this evening.” And with a roguish grin, he rose from the chair and headed back to his room, deciding that his ride in the park could wait.
Chapter Two
B eatrice Sinclair sat very still, holding a slender pen poised over a blank page in her well-worn journal. She wrote three words, but crossed them out almost immediately. She waited for more words, better words, to spill forth. They didn’t.
Frowning, she laid her notebook on her lap, realizing she was too distracted to give her writing the thought that it deserved. How could she concentrate on fiction when reality—her personal reality—was in such a shambles?
She looked around her bedroom for literary inspiration. The walls of her great-aunt Louisa’s house were papered, variously, with pastoral scenes or with complicated floral motifs. Beatrice’s bedroom was a pastoral room. Shepherds and milkmaids cavorted about the walls, and had the added bonus of having trompe l’oeil clouds painted on the ceiling. Personally, she would have preferred to be outside, but Louisa had just called her back indoors; she disapproved of young ladies getting too much sun. A single freckle could spoil a girl’s chances completely, or so she claimed.
Beatrice turned her attention back to her journal and sighed. She’d kept it since her first season, five years earlier. Initially, it had been a diary in the true sense of the word, a place where she’d related each day’s events—Beatrice had quickly realized that if she didn’t occupy her mind in some useful fashion, she’d risk becoming as empty-headed as the rest of the ton. However, as the season drew to a close and she read over her diary, she’d realized bleakly how dull her life had become: party after dinner after ball, all with the sole purpose of snagging some unsuspecting male. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been even slightly interested in any of the gentlemen she met at these endless social events, but she had a difficult time dredging up the faintest enthusiasm for most of them.
By the end of that first season, Beatrice had resigned herself to one thing: in looking for a husband, reality and fantasy would never agree, and the less imagination one had, the better. Where were broad shoulders in the real world? Razor-sharp wit? Tall, dark and handsome? Clearly, these things didn’t exist, and if one could accept that, one would never be disappointed by reality.
Unfortunately, this revelation came too late. By the end of her first season she’d earned the moniker “Cold Fish Beatrice” for her repeated refusals. By her second and third seasons, the many proposals she’d once received had all but dried up.
So she’d spent two years at home in the country and now—older, wiser and much reformed—she was ready to embark on yet another season. This time, though, she had a plan. Wisdom helped her realize that she needed an outlet for her imagination, so, at the sage age of twenty-three, Beatrice had stopped keeping a diary and had turned to fiction. This way, she hoped, she could invent whatever romantic hero she pleased, and resign herself to the stooped shoulders of reality.
So far, her plan wasn’t working out as she had expected, but the season was only a few weeks old.
“Beatrice, this is not acceptable.”
Louisa was glaring at her with extreme annoyance. Even when pleased, her great-aunt was a sight to behold, with her steel-gray hair, her steel-gray eyes, her long nose and her tall, thin body. When Louisa was irritated, however, intimidating took on a whole new meaning. She could incite fear in the stoutest of hearts with a simple curl of her lip, and all that saved Beatrice from quaking in her seat now was the knowledge that, deep down—very deep, perhaps—her aunt was generous, caring and devoted to her family.
Beatrice was afraid she knew what “this” meant, although she asked all the same, biding for time. “I’m sorry, Louisa—what precisely is not acceptable?”
Louisa snorted indelicately. “Your sister informs me that you don’t plan to attend Lady Teasdale’s ball this evening. Why did you not discuss this with me?”
Beatrice began guiltily, “Well…Eleanor mentioned something about there being a new production of King Lear at Drury Lane, and that she had no one to attend with her—”
“Beatrice, you already promised that you’d go to Lady Teasdale’s. Besides, Eleanor is only sixteen! She hardly needs to be going to the theater. I should never have told your father that she could come visit you, even if it was for only a few weeks. King Lear. Humph,” Louisa sniffed. “There’s a man with three daughters for you…and look what happened to him. It’ll only give Eleanor ideas. I’m just glad Helen isn’t here to see it.”
“I think you’re being a little dramatic, Auntie. You couldn’t find three daughters more devoted to their father than Eleanor, Helen and me, and I can assure you that Eleanor’s motives are innocent. She just loves the theater.”
Louisa rolled her eyes. “Back to the subject at hand, Beatrice. Truth is, Eleanor knows that you don’t want to go to the Teasdales’, and as she’s too young to go herself, she figures there’s no harm in you missing the ball.”
“Is there?” Beatrice asked hopefully.
Louisa assumed mock disbelief. “Have you gone off and gotten married without telling me, Beatrice Sinclair? Of course there’s harm in missing the ball—you’re a desperate case.”
Beatrice was used to these comments and knew that Louisa didn’t really mean them…not entirely, anyway. She put on her most innocent face, which was sure to irritate her aunt. “I can’t believe you would accuse me of avoiding Lady Teasdale’s.”
Louisa snorted again. “Do I look like a fool? You’ve been telling me that you didn’t want to go since arriving here last month. Yes, Lady Teasdale is tiresome, but her balls are always well attended, especially by eligible young men.” She sighed. “You’re not even giving it a chance, Bea. The season has been in full swing for two weeks, and I made your father a promise.”
“I know, Louisa…. I only thought that, as I have already been to Lady Teasdale’s annual ball three times in the past—without, I should remind you, much success—”
“Who needs reminding? Clearly, you are not married.”
Beatrice counted to five, praying she wouldn’t lose her temper. “Clearly.”
“And how old are you?”
She almost didn’t answer. Louisa managed to mention her age at least twice a day, and Beatrice had little doubt that she knew precisely how old she was. “I am twenty-three, Louisa, a fact we have already established. I will inform you when this state of affairs changes.”
Louisa clucked. “Impertinent chit. That’s what you get for being long in the tooth.”
“What?”
“With age comes a sharp tongue.”
That’s what I get from spending the past month with you, Beatrice thought, but said nothing.
“At any rate,” Louisa continued brusquely, “I have discussed matters with your sister. She is determined to go to the theater, and I have decided to allow it—if, mind you, you can get your brother to join you.” Beatrice groaned, and Louisa cackled with glee. “Yes, dear, I know that won’t be easy. Ben’ll be as excited about chaperoning his younger sisters to the theater as I am about the two of you going. I don’t think it’s right for two unmarried girls to be traipsing off to the theater together. I don’t know what the world is coming to.”
Beatrice sank back onto the settee. Louisa was right. Ben would have no desire to escort them to the theater, and he probably already had other plans. Still, if she started begging now, by curtain call he’d be so annoyed he’d take them just to make her be quiet. Beatrice wanted to crow with joy, but wisely schooled her features. “Thank you, Louisa. I know how much this means to Eleanor. I’d hate to disappoint her.”
Louisa smiled smugly. “Yes, well, I checked, and the play begins at seven. You should still be able to make it to Lady Teasdale’s at a decent hour once it’s over. And see if you can’t get your brother to come with you.”
And with that, Beatrice’s hopes sank into the carpet, and Louisa sailed from the room with all the dignity of the royal barge. Beatrice collapsed even deeper into the settee, and closed her eyes. It didn’t help; she could still see the triumphant smirk on her aunt’s face. She opened her eyes and looked at the frolicking milkmaids on the walls. Even they looked smug.
Oh, she was dreading the evening to come. It was true— Beatrice had been to Lady Teasdale’s wretched affair three times already. It was considered de rigueur for unmarried young ladies to attend this annual event, and avoiding the thing in the future was one of her few incentives for marrying. Lady Teasdale had five daughters to still marry off and was a cutthroat competitor who made a point of being rude to any ladies of marriageable age not related to her by blood. Lady Teasdale’s eldest daughter, Sarah, had come out the same year as Beatrice. Lady Teasdale liked to remind Beatrice of the fact that Sarah had been married by the sixth week of the season—and to a viscount, no less. In truth, Beatrice felt sorry for the girl—she couldn’t imagine anything worse than being auctioned off to the highest bidder at the age of seventeen. But that didn’t change the fact that Lady Teasdale considered it her job to rub that detail in everyone else’s face.
Of course, Beatrice had to admit that three seasons without managing to find a husband was rather pathetic. And if one counted her two years of restorative hibernation at her family’s home in Hampshire, well…that did make five years of indisputable failure.
Not that she considered it to be her sole purpose in life to get married. She had no problem with remaining single…as long as she wasn’t trying to wed; it was at that point that spinsterhood became failure. The secret to success, she’d decided, was to pursue spinsterhood the way most women pursued marriage. In fact, she’d become quite comfortable with the idea of remaining a perennial spinster, and hadn’t even planned on going to London for the season at all. No, that was her father’s idea.
“You know I love you, Bea,” he’d said, trying to be delicate, “but for heaven’s sake, do you think someday you’ll get married?”
Beatrice had only grinned, not realizing that this time he meant it. “But however would you survive without me?”
He had sighed resignedly. “I should miss you, Bea, but as for surviving…don’t take this the wrong way, but I dream of the day when all of my children find families and houses of their own, and I, God willing, can enjoy peace and quiet once more.”
Beatrice had begun to get a bit nervous, but attempted to cajole him out of this new mind-set. “You’d take that back, Father dearest, after a week. Who would help you organize your library? Who would help you with your correspondence?”
“Who has ever helped me with these things?” he’d asked in confusion.
Beatrice had ignored that remark. “And what about entertainment? How about my harpsichord playing?”
“That, my dear, I would miss least of all. In fact, I hope you take the instrument with you. No—” he’d held up his hand as Beatrice started to protest “—both you and your brother are of marriageable age. Eventually, I would like some grandchildren.”
“But you just said you wanted peace and quiet.”
“Beatrice,” he’d warned.
She’d sighed. “All right. I understand…but yet, Father, I don’t understand exactly. What are you proposing? It’s not as if I’ve been avoiding marriage.”
“It’s not as if you’ve been actively seeking it, either. You’ve had two years respite, Beatrice. If your mother were alive I hardly think she would have allowed it. I’ve been too indulgent, and it’s time you returned to London to give it another go. I’ve discussed this with Louisa, and she agrees. She’s even offered to sponsor you for the season. You can stay with her in town.”
Beatrice had already started to panic. “Aunt Louisa? Oh, no. Why can’t I stay at our town house?”
“Because I won’t be accompanying you, and your brother is there, indulging in God knows what sort of debauchery.”
“I’ll be a good influence on him.”
He’d smiled. “More likely he’ll be a bad influence on you. Louisa will keep you company—and make sure you at least try. I know you too well, Beazie. Left alone you’d just sit about and read novels. And don’t,” he’d added, looking at her firmly, “turn those sad eyes on me. I won’t go with you. I went to town during your first three seasons, and I’ve already promised Eleanor that I’ll be in town when she has her coming out in two years. And then Helen in just a few more years—”
The clock struck four, drawing Beatrice from her reverie. She’d been in London for nearly a month, and that had been a month of hard campaigning, at least on her aunt’s part. No, her unmarried status was not from lack of trying, nor was it from lack of interest—her reputation as “Cold Fish Beatrice” seemed to have faded, and she’d gained a few brave suitors. Try as she might, she was plagued with the same problem of old. Beatrice knew that it was silly and unreasonable, but she kind of, just a little bit, did believe in love at first sight. There was someone out there for her. She just hadn’t met him yet.
But there was no sense in dwelling on it now. She had to start getting ready for the theater. Her father was right: she did read too many novels, and she’d be better off if she pushed all romantic thoughts from her mind.
Chapter Three
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.”
