Sarah Elliott - The Wayward Debutante

‘Sarah Elliott writes with elegance and wit.’—bestselling author Jessica Benson

REFORMING THE RAKE

‘A fun, frothy story! Charming!’— New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James

‘A deliciously sexy romance, [Elliott’s] deftly written debut will delight readers with its wonderfully endearing characters and wickedly sharp wit.’— Booklist

THE RAKE’S PROPOSAL

‘Elliott pulls in her readers from the first page and keeps them interested until the final mystery is solved. Her attention to detail and cast of characters keep the reader well entertained and eager for more.’— RT Book Reviews

‘A very well-written book with engaging characters—a joy to read.’— The Romance Readers Connection

‘Where did you learn to kiss?’

‘I…Well…’

‘It occurs to me that somehow, in between your French lessons, you neglected kissing entirely,’ he said. ‘It would be cruel of me to let you go without a lesson.’ He began walking towards her. She should have run, but instead she raised her chin, too proud to let him intimidate her.

‘Thank you, but I do not need a lesson, Mr Bentley.’

‘Oh, but I think you do.’

He reached for her at this point, but still she held her ground. His dark gaze roamed boldly over her face.

‘First we’ll have to take that ridiculous thing off your head.’

She stayed very still as he gently lifted the wig, desperately trying to ramp down the feelings churning inside her.

‘Now, that’s much better. Do you know how long I’ve wanted to kiss you?’

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SARAH ELLIOTTgrew up in Pennsylvania and studied English at Smith College. She moved to London in 2003 and lives there still. In addition to writing, Sarah enjoys cooking, art, antiques, and classic films. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at sarah@sarahelliott.net

Previous novels by this author:

REFORMING THE RAKE

THE RAKE’S PROPOSAL

THE EARL AND THE GOVERNESS

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To Meg and Stan: congratulations!

1 July, 1818

“You’ve always been so good, Eleanor,” Beatrice Summerson said appreciatively as her eighteen-year-old sister entered the sunny drawing room bearing a silver tea tray. “Between Ben and Helen and me it’s a mystery how you ended up so well behaved. Father thinks of you as an absolute miracle.”

“Oh, I don’t know…I’m not so good,” Eleanor replied as she laid the tray on a side table. She began organizing its contents without looking at her sister.

Beatrice cocked her head, her eyes slightly worried. “Now, now, you mustn’t protest. You’re perfect, and you couldn’t be a more agreeable guest. Charles and I are grateful to have you.”

“I hope so,” Eleanor said uncertainly. “Would you like a slice of cake, Beazie?”

Beatrice smiled, her concerns momentarily allayed by the prospect. “Well…I am eating for two at the moment.”

Eleanor cut a very large slice, and brought it to her sister, who patted the spot next to her on the yellow damask sofa. “Do have a seat, Eleanor. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

Slowly, Eleanor sat. “Oh?”

“Well…I’ve been feeling rather guilty. I know it might seem that Charles and I are terribly busy and distracted with Mark, and with the new baby on the way, but I hope you don’t feel too neglected.”

Eleanor looked down at her lap. “I can entertain myself all right.” There was, she hoped, a melancholic note to her voice.

“ And our household must feel very chaotic to you at the moment,” Beatrice continued apologetically. “It’s such a shame that our butler, Cummings, absconded with our downstairs maid. We’re completely disorganized as a result, and I’ve no time to hire new staff. I’m afraid it’s become a bit of a burden to you. You shouldn’t have to help out as much as you do, especially during your first season.”

Eleanor shrugged. “You’ll get a new maid soon enough. Besides, Cummings was kind enough to recommend his father.”

“Yes,” Beatrice sighed, “but while Mr. Cummings Senior is very polite and correct in his manner he’s also completely deaf.”

Eleanor frowned. “You mustn’t let him go. I’m very fond of him.” Realizing her response seemed disproportionately heated, she added, “He’s kind to me.”

Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “Eleanor? Is something the matter? You’re behaving rather strange.”

It was Eleanor’s turn to sigh. “No, no, Beazie. Everything’s fine. I’ve just been thinking about the ball this evening.”

“You’re looking forward to it, I hope.”

“I’m afraid I am not.”

Beatrice sank back in the sofa. “Nor am I. But we must do what we must do.”

“Would you like more tea?” Eleanor asked, rising.

Beatrice nodded contentedly. “You’re in an obliging mood this morning. Just a drop of milk, please.”

Eleanor poured the tea in silence, then asked hesitantly, “Would you think it the worst thing if I didn’t go tonight?”

“You’re feeling well, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. It’s not that. It’s just, you see, a friend of mine asked me to come for a visit, and I already told her I would—”

“A visit on the night of the Montagu-Dawsons’ ball?”

“Miss Pilkington won’t be going to the ball. She took ill yesterday.”

Beatrice cocked her head slightly. “Pilkington? Have you mentioned her before?”

Eleanor smiled patiently. “Yes. Jane Pilkington. I introduced you to her at the Nortons’ party two weeks ago. Surely you remember.”

Beatrice obviously remembered nothing of the sort, but she agreed nonetheless. “Oh, yes. Of course. You know how scatterbrained I can be.”

Eleanor nodded sympathetically. “I met her at the beginning of the season. She’s come all the way from Yorkshire and doesn’t think her family can afford to send her so far from home next season if she doesn’t meet her match this time. So this ball actually meant a lot to her and she’s devastated she’ll have to miss it. She needs cheering up.”

Beatrice frowned. “I understand your sentiments, but I hope her illness isn’t contagious.”

“Oh, no. It’s just a mild cold, and you know what my constitution is like. It’s her spirits, really, that suffer most. I know I should go to the ball, but I’m sure I won’t be missed in that crush.”

Beatrice shrugged. “I suppose I don’t mind if it’s just this once.”

“Must I go?” her husband, Charles Summerson, asked hopefully from the doorway.

She turned around, making a face. “Absolutely. Lady Montagu-Dawson would never forgive us if we all deserted.”

He groaned and sank down into a chair. “Doesn’t seem a bit fair. Eleanor’s the only reason we’re going in the first place.”