Sarah Elliott - The Rake's Proposal

Kate blinked in surprise. This was the last thing she had expected. In fact, she had assumed that he would be angry with her, not the other way around.

“You’re sorry, then?” she asked tentatively.

“Somewhat.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘somewhat’?”

“Well,” he answered, spinning her around, “I suppose I shouldn’t have teased you so much, but I’m not sorry. And,” he said, his amber eyes wandering over her face, “I shouldn’t have kissed you, but I’m definitely not sorry.”

“Oh?” She felt as if she was melting beneath his gaze.

“But I am sorry that I told you to leave. That, sweetheart, was a real pity.”

“A fun, frothy story! Charming!”

—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James

“Sarah Elliott writes with elegance and wit.”

—Jessica Benson, author of The Accidental Duchess

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

—Booklist

“Debut author Elliott writes convincingly about how a tortured man can be healed by the love of a good woman.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“Reforming the Rake is a charming and engaging debut novel by a new writer with a fresh, exciting voice. This reviewer predicts a successful career for Sarah Elliott and cannot wait for her next book!”

—The Romance Readers Connection

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I am very grateful to Jessica Alvarez and Laura Langlie

for reading my books so thoroughly and for being

so patient and encouraging. A huge thanks also to

Alex Duda and Brad Davis, who generously

gave their time to design my website.

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

Epilogue

March 1817

T he world seemed to look favorably upon Katherine Sutcliff. Her face and figure were admired, at least by the residents of Little Brookings, her tiny Dorset village. Her mind and humor were considered quick and sharp. She had ample funds and a loving family who forgave her occasional lapses of memory, decorum and common sense.

Of course, her life was not as tranquil and carefree as it appeared: she had at least one—secret and very serious—problem.

Her most immediate dilemma, however, was her inability to fall asleep.

She lay in bed, sighed and stared at the ceiling. She’d been trying for at least two hours, and neither warm milk nor a large dose of Milton’s Samson Agonistes had helped at all. Even conjugating irregular French verbs had failed.

Kate supposed she could blame her insomnia on simple nerves and an unfamiliar bed. It was only about twelve hours since she’d arrived—dusty from several days of travel—at her brother Robert’s smart London doorstep. He would be getting married in the autumn, and she planned to stay with him in town until that time. That meant she’d be there for the entire season, and although she’d resigned herself to this fate, she wasn’t too pleased about it. Oh, she got on with her brother tremendously well—it was the reason behind her visit that was causing her distress.

She needed to get married herself. She didn’t want to, but there it was.

Kate sat up in bed, Milton sliding dejectedly to the floor as she did so. Marriage. It was a horrible but unignorable fact, and the only way to get that horrible thought from her mind, even temporarily, was…

A glass of brandy, preferably a large one. That would at least make her sleepy; it had better, since simple determination wasn’t doing the trick.

She climbed out of bed, pulling on her robe as she did so, and slipped out her bedroom door. She padded lightly down the spacious hallway toward the study, feeling rather furtive beneath the disapproving glares of looming ancestral portraits. The house was completely silent, and even though she was doing nothing wrong, she crept along guiltily like a thief. Everything in her brother’s house was large and dark, and she felt dwarfed inside it. She pulled open the heavy study door, lit a lamp, and in the dim light poured a generous glass of brandy. Robert’s study smelled vaguely of smoke. She pulled out the heavy leather chair at his desk. Sitting down in this ultra-masculine seat and regarding the room in front of her somehow made her feel more in control.

So, too, did the brandy.

Marriage. Most girls did it. Some even had to do it, and so what if she was joining their ranks? Surely worse things happened at sea.

Surely?

Several long minutes of mentally debating this question had passed when she became aware of a knocking at the front door. She listened intently for a moment and it came again, louder this time and more insistent. Standing, heart racing, she crossed the room to peek from the window. It was well after midnight and the sky was pitch-black, so dark that the stars shone against it in sharp relief. Kate could see a carriage in the drive, a very elegant gilt-trimmed one at that, and she could just make out the shadowy figure of a man at the door. It was too dark to see his face or any details of his form.

Another knock.

“Robert, you’re a bastard if you don’t let me in…I know you’re in there—your light’s on…I need to borrow a bed for the evening.” Knock, knock.

Kate made up her mind then and there. Her nervousness was ridiculous. She should really go rouse Robert’s butler, as it wasn’t entirely proper for her to open the door so late at night, particularly whilst wearing her dressing gown. But the butler would have gone to bed hours ago, and her dressing gown was so demure it was nunnish; her everyday dresses were more revealing, and that didn’t say much considering she was determinedly unfashionable. Besides, the man on the other side of the door was clearly just some friend of her brother’s, in search of nothing more than a place to rest his probably inebriated head for the rest of the night. Who but a friend would speak about him so disparagingly?

Still slightly uneasy, but convinced that she was being ridiculous, Kate walked into the hall. She squared her shoulders, pulled her thick dressing gown tightly around her body and opened the door.

Lord Benjamin Sinclair, eldest son of Viscount Sinclair, was nine-and-twenty, wealthy and handsome enough to make most women temporarily mute the first time they laid eyes on him. It was a rather odd experience, then, to have the tables turned: for a moment, it was he who forgot how to speak.