Sarah Elliott - Reforming the Rake

When they reached Lady Markham, she held up her quizzing glass. “Eh? Is that Summerson?”

“Good day to you, Lady Markham,” he said smoothly, bowing.

She ignored him. “Beatrice, what are you doing with that lot?”

Beatrice felt ill. “Lord Summerson was merely helping me find Edward.”

Lady Markham looked at Charles doubtfully. “Is that the case, Summerson?”

His composure didn’t even crack. “Yes, Lady Markham. But afterward I plan to follow her into the bushes and make violent love to her.”

Beatrice kicked him in the shins. Hard.

“Eh? I didn’t hear you, Summerson. Repeat yourself.”

“He said,” Beatrice answered before Charles could make things worse, “that he would follow me to the street and make his goodbyes. That is all, Lady Markham.”

She looked skeptical. “Humph. Not what I heard.”

Beatrice maintained stony silence, vowing to strangle Charles at the first opportunity.

“Well,” Lady Markham continued, “come take your dog, Beatrice, and tell your aunt I plan to visit her soon.”

“I will, Lady Markham. Good day,” Beatrice replied, hoping she sounded more lighthearted than she felt as she reattached Edward’s lead.

The only reason Lady Markham wanted to come for a visit was to relay the news that she had seen Beatrice in the park with Charles. And Bea would be lucky if she were allowed out of the house alone ever again.

“Everything all right?” Charles asked after a few steps.

Without meeting his gaze directly, she said, “Oh, it’s nothing. But I think it’d be a good idea for me to head home now. Lady Markham is such a gossip, and I really shouldn’t be here with you unchaperoned.”

Charles didn’t want her to leave just yet. “It’s not unheard of for a lady to walk in the park with a man, you know.”

“Not with you, you know.”

“You have me there, I suppose. Can I at least accompany you home?”

Beatrice deliberated. Spending more time with Charles would be dangerous to her reputation and her state of mind. Yet he’d be walking in the same direction, and it’d be awkward for her to refuse his offer. “Well, I suppose, if you’re going that direction anyway. Do you mind if we follow the path back?”

He shook his head. There would be less people that way, and he’d be able to be alone with her a little longer. He returned Egremont to the ground, and they set off.

For several minutes, they walked without speaking. Beatrice gave her undivided attention to the trees, the birds, the grass; she paid attention to anything that wasn’t him. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant silence, although it was far from being comfortable.

Charles began to whistle.

She glanced at him sideways. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked so handsome that her stomach turned a somersault.

She quickly looked away, but after another moment of silence, she remarked, “You seem in good spirits.”

He gazed at her. “I am, I suppose.”

She didn’t want to know why—she didn’t want to know more about Charles than was absolutely necessary—but her natural inquisitiveness got the better of her. “Is there any particular reason?”

He pondered her question for a moment. It had been a very long time since he’d strolled in the park with a lady who wasn’t his sister or his mother, and he had been wondering why. He was having a bloody good time. “No reason,” he said. “Just enjoying the day.”

They walked along in silence again. Charles remarked, “My mother mentioned that she’s invited you to her dinner party.” He hoped it sounded like mere small talk, but he was very interested in her answer. He’d spent several more sleepless nights thinking of all the tantalizing possibilities presented by having her in his home: the library…the terrace…the garden. Of course, there’d be even more possibilities if it weren’t also his mother’s home, but he was nothing if not creative.

Beatrice blushed. “Yes…she has.” She was wishing once again that she had a way of getting out of the party, but she liked Lady Summerson too much to go back on her word.

Charles sensed her hesitation and knew what caused it; she didn’t want to go because of him. “I probably won’t attend. My mother holds these parties periodically—she invites all of Lucy’s beaus, thinking that the best way to get one of them to propose is to put them all together and see who survives the longest. It’s quite frightening, really.”

Beatrice grinned, relaxing. “I can see why she and my aunt are friends, then. Louisa is desperate that I marry, although if it’s just your sister’s first season, I can’t see that she has much reason to worry. Is Lucy your only sibling?”

Beatrice noticed a slight tightening around his mouth before he answered. “Yes, she is.” He said nothing for a moment. “How about you? I know your brother vaguely…he was a few years behind me at school.”

“Yes. Ben…he’s five years older than me. Every time I get annoyed at Louisa for worrying over me so much, I’m just thankful that I’m not Ben. She considers him a lost cause.”

Charles grinned. “Nothing wrong with lost causes, you know.”

Beatrice refused to make eye contact. He was much too charming when he grinned like that. “Yes, well, I’m the oldest after Ben, and then comes Eleanor—she’s sixteen. And after Eleanor is Helen. She’s thirteen and, according to my aunt, will be the death of us all.”

“I take it Helen is a troublemaker?”

Beatrice nodded, for the moment forgetting that she had ever felt uncomfortable around him. “Definitely. It comes from being the youngest, I think. Our mother died right after she was born and Helen has been allowed to run a bit wild.” Beatrice blushed when she finished, not having meant to say so much. “Sorry. I don’t mean to go on so.”

“No, it’s all right,” Charles said, thinking that she looked lovely with the sun lighting her face. Her happiness was contagious, and he couldn’t help smiling. “You’re very close to your siblings, I think.”

She smiled back. “I am—I’m close to everyone in my family, for that matter, although we’re all quite different.”

As they reached the end of the path, Charles didn’t know what possessed him to utter his next words. “I used to have a brother.”

She looked up at him in surprise. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

He shrugged. He never talked to anyone about his brother. The subject brought back too many painful memories. “It’s all right,” he said. “He died a long time ago.”

“May I ask what happened?” Beatrice murmured hesitantly.

His expression was guarded. “He was two years younger than me…his name was Mark. He and my father were driving up to visit me at Eton, and they had an accident on the way. I was fifteen.”

Beatrice unconsciously laid a hand on Charles’s arm. “I’m so sorry…I didn’t know. Don’t continue if it’s too painful.”

He looked away. Now that he’d started, he couldn’t just stop. “It’s all right. Mark was killed instantly. My father was brought to Eton—the accident happened quite close to school—and he survived for another week.”

Beatrice didn’t know what to say. She had no experience with loss on quite that scale, but she understood. Her mother had died giving birth to Helen, and Beatrice had never quite gotten over her death. She didn’t think she ever would.

Beatrice felt Charles’s hand on her shoulder and looked up at him, realizing that she had become absorbed in her thoughts. He appeared concerned. “I’m sorry—I’ve made you sad. I really don’t know why I brought that up.”

“I don’t mind…perhaps you just wanted to talk about it?”