Sarah Elliott - Reforming the Rake

“Is this her first season?” Beatrice asked politely.

“It is, and I never realized how much work it would be. Other than Lucy I have only my son, Charles, and sons are so much easier.”

Beatrice thought of her brother’s words earlier that evening. “I can imagine.”

“This isn’t your first season, is it?” Lady Summerson asked.

“No. But it shall be my last.”

Lady Summerson burst into laughter. “Well said, Beatrice. Have you already found your match? Or are you giving up so soon?”

They’d reached their destination, and as Beatrice was handed a glass of weak lemonade, she said with reluctance, “I’m sorry to admit it, but it’s not as soon as you might suppose.”

Lady Summerson tilted her head, curious for more details, but Beatrice looked uncomfortably around the room, not wanting to meet her gaze. She would not voluntarily admit to being on her fourth season twice in one evening.

Lady Summerson let her unspoken question drop for the moment. “Well, I think you should meet my daughter. Although she’s only on her first season, she’s as exhausted with the process as you seem to be. Let’s see…” She paused putting her finger against her chin as her gaze roamed over the ballroom. “I’d introduce you to her now, but I believe she’s dancing with Lord Dudley. Perhaps you would do me the honor of coming to my house for dinner? I’ll be having a small gathering before Lady Parberry’s ball, two Saturdays from now. You and my daughter will get on splendidly, and perhaps you can give her some advice, since you are so…experienced in these matters.”

Beatrice laughed. “Thank you…I think. I should love to come, although your daughter can certainly use no advice from me.”

“Nonsense. You can meet my son, as well. He’s been staying with me while his house undergoes some repairs…actually, my house is really his house. He inherited it along with his title. But he has chosen to keep accommodations of his own, at least until he marries.”

Beatrice sighed. “He’s lucky, then. No offense to Louisa, but she doesn’t know the meaning of the word privacy. You must enjoy having him home for a spell, though.”

Lady Summerson shrugged. “True…although I must admit that at times I rather wish Charles would leave. I could use some privacy myself.”

“You sound exactly as my father did when he tossed me out!”

“It’s a universal sentiment among parents, Beatrice. We all want our children to leave and not come back until they have children of their own.” Lady Summerson smiled. “I have to leave you now…I believe I just saw Lord Dudley follow Lucy onto the terrace, and I imagine she’d appreciate being extracted from that situation.”

Beatrice shuddered slightly, thinking of Lord Dudley. She remembered him from her first season, when he’d asked her to marry him—twice. Apparently, he was still up to his old tricks. “I imagine you’re right about that. I’ll see you for dinner, then. Louisa can direct me to your house.”

Lady Summerson looked momentarily surprised, then laughed. “I’m sorry. I assumed you knew that I live right next door to your aunt. That’s how I know her so well—we’ve been neighbors for years. So please, feel free to stop over for a visit even before my party, dear.” And with a wave, she was off.

Beatrice just stood there for a moment, stunned.

Next door? Son?

The room suddenly felt very hot to her. What bloody rotten luck. Her terrible evening had just gotten far worse. How on earth could she get herself out of this predicament?

Beatrice wandered off, worrying her lower lip. Louisa had two different sets of neighbors, didn’t she? One on each side? Perhaps Lady Summerson lived on one side, and the dark stranger—surely no relation—lived on the other. Indeed, Lady Summerson’s son was probably small and fair like his mother. Beatrice clung to that thought as her only salvation.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long before her hopes were completely dashed. She scanned the room, searching out Lady Summerson to confirm that she looked nothing like the stranger. She was just in time to see her step from the terrace, her grateful-looking daughter following in her wake…her grateful-looking, black-haired and green-eyed daughter.

Damn.

Beatrice promptly turned around and headed for the ladies’ retiring room. She needed to find a way to get out of this dilemma, although nothing immediately came to mind. She’d told Lady Summerson she’d go, and it would be rude to break her promise.

Lucky thing Beatrice left the room so quickly. If she hadn’t, she would have viewed the peculiar sight of Lady Summerson ducking behind a potted fern hastily to scribble something into a small, leather book.

As they drove home later on that evening, Lady Summerson turned to her daughter and asked, “Do you know of Miss Sinclair?”

“I know of her, but I don’t know her personally.”

“Louisa only introduced me to her tonight, but I liked her very much and…well, I thought perhaps your brother might like her, too, so I invited her to our upcoming party.”

Lucy snorted. “If Charles gets wind of this, he’s guaranteed not to appear.”

“Well, don’t tell him. But tell me, Lucy, do you know anything of Miss Sinclair’s reputation?”

Lucy thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I know very little, as I said. I believe she’s generally well liked, although Dudley did say something about having proposed to her at one time or another. She apparently refused him—”

“Sensible girl.”

“—yes, but he went on to say that refusing is something of a pattern with her. This is her fourth season.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Fourth season? My goodness.” She clucked, thinking of Beatrice’s evasive answer to her question on that subject.

“Dudley also mentioned that he was not the only one to propose to her. He said that she’s notorious for turning men down.”

“Oh, dear. Perhaps she won’t do at all. You will keep your ears open, won’t you? See if you can’t find anything out.”

Lucy sighed. This wasn’t the first time her mother had set her to such a task. “As if I have any choice.”

“W hat do you think about this color, Bea?” Eleanor asked, holding up a deep green silk gown. She was to return to Hampshire later on in the day, and the two sisters were spending their last morning shopping. They’d been at the shop for only ten minutes, but already it was littered with the results of Eleanor’s indecision. Gowns, hats and slippers were piled on a velvet ottoman, and that pile was steadily growing.

Beatrice sat amongst the pile, slouched with unladylike exhaustion. “Well,” she drawled, turning to her sister, “I think it’s beautiful, but perhaps just a tad dark for you. Where on earth would you wear something like that, anyway?”

Eleanor sighed. “You needn’t rub it in.” She was impatiently awaiting her debut in two years, not so much because she was in a hurry to wed, but rather because she, more than any of the Sinclair children, loved city life—especially the theater.

Beatrice smiled at her. “Just two more years, goose, and you can have all the ball gowns you please.”

“I know…I’m just thankful Father let me come down to visit you at all. And I know that when it’s my time, I’ll appreciate it far more than you.”

Beatrice sighed. She didn’t mean to. It just sort of slipped out.

“Bea? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, Ellie…I’m afraid you might be right. I’d hoped this year would be different, but I’m getting worried that I’m not going to find the right person in time.”

Eleanor hugged her reassuringly. “I know I don’t have any experience in these matters, but I’m sure everything will work out. Truly, Bea, I can’t even understand how you’ve managed to make it this far without being wed.”