Reforming the Rake. Sarah Barnwell Elliott
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view of her trim ankle and shapely calf.
He raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Charles supposed he ought to feel rather depraved for observing her unawares, but niggling morals aside, he just couldn’t avert his eyes. He even contemplated heading down the hall to knock on his sister’s bedroom door to ask if he could borrow her opera glasses.
However, his nefarious thoughts were interrupted before he could make that decision. The sound of a shrill voice rang out from next door—probably that termagant Louisa Sinclair. “Bea! Come inside now! We have to get ready.”
“Coming….” The girl responded slowly, without closing her book or making any sign to rise.
After a minute, the voice came again, more insistent this time. “Bea! We’ll be late as it is.”
With great reluctance, the girl closed her book, but she didn’t get up right away. First, she rolled onto her back, stretching like a cat and crossing her arms behind her head. She looked up at the sky, a faraway expression on her face and the faint trace of a smile about her lips.
Charles really should have looked away then. She could have turned her gaze up toward his window at any moment, and he’d feel like ten times a randy schoolboy, which wouldn’t do at all. But the problems that discovery posed were the furthest thing from his mind. For a moment, in fact, he forgot to breathe.
God, she was beautiful. He’d been admiring her body before, but her face… Perfect, tiny nose and generous lips… Charles swallowed hard. With her lying on her back as she now was, his prior imaginings were confirmed. She was indeed slim, but definitely curved in all the right places. He still couldn’t see all that he would like—the color of her eyes, the slant of her brows—but the general picture of beauty was undeniable.
Charles wondered at her age. She was definitely young, he decided, but not too young…twenty, perhaps? Twenty-one? He tended to avoid innocents, for the simple fact that they were usually looking for husbands, and he definitely did not fit that category.
Holding her book close to her chest, the girl rose and began walking toward the door. She paused, however, just before entering, tilting her radiant face up to the sky to enjoy her last few seconds of sun. Then, with a look of disappointment, she headed indoors and broke the spell.
Charles waited to see if she’d reemerge from the house. After several minutes had passed with nary a sign of her, a more profitable course of action came to his mind.
Charles rose from his position at the window and left his room, heading down the long hall to knock on his sister’s door. He ignored the portrait of his great-great-grandfather, who glared at him disapprovingly from beneath his abundant eyebrows.
“Lucy? You in there?” he called through the panel. At eighteen, Lucy was having her first season. Despite the twelve years age difference, they had always been very close, although Charles was still trying to get used to the fact that she was no longer a child.
Lucy opened her door and grinned at him. She was a pretty, petite girl and shared her brother’s raven-black hair and green eyes. Indeed, except for the fact that Charles stood well over six feet tall, the resemblance between them was uncanny. “Did you miss me, Charles?” she asked cheekily.
He snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lu. Came to see what you were doing tonight.”
She arched a single brow. “Could it be that you’re interested in accompanying me? That would be a first.”
“I went along for your debut two weeks ago,” he protested.
“That doesn’t count, and you know it. You had to come. Besides, you told me that would be the first and last time.”
He had said that—he could remember his words distinctly. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. What are the entertainments for the evening?”
“Just one that I know of—the annual Teasdale ball. That’s where I’m going.”
Charles nodded, as if debating whether to attend, but he’d already made up his mind. There was little he’d rather do less than attend Lady Teasdale’s blasted ball, but he wanted to know more about the girl in the yellow dress. Lady Sinclair had ushered her inside to get ready for something, probably this particular function. “Perhaps I’ll come along.”
“But you can’t stand Lady Teasdale!” Lucy exclaimed.
Charles realized this conversation wouldn’t be as brief as he’d hoped. He entered Lucy’s room and sank into her large armchair, trying to come up with a plausible excuse. “I realize that I’ve been lax in my duties, Lu. I shouldn’t leave you to face the vultures alone.”
“Charles, Mother always comes with me. It’s not as if I’m without a chaperone.”
“Ah, but you forget, Lucy, that Mother doesn’t know the men out there as I do. I should hate to see you wasting your time with the wrong sort.”
She gaped in disbelief. “How can you be so suspicious? You’re the worst of the lot, Charles. And did it ever occur to you that maybe I don’t want your blasted company?”
He pretended to look shocked. “Can these be the words of my own dear sister?”
Lucy wasn’t about to give up. She loved her brother dearly, but he could be a tad overprotective at times. She tried to put him off one last time. “Well, whether I want you there doesn’t matter. Besides, you’ll make Mother very happy. Just this morning she was telling me that it was high time you wed.” She batted her eyelashes innocently.
“Mother says as much every day.”
“Well, Charles…” Lucy was really warming up to the subject now. “I haven’t told you this before, but Mother has really been thinking about finding you a match recently. Seems she’s getting worried that you’ll never wed.”
“This is new?” he asked with a yawn.
She ignored his rudeness. “Well, no, not that in particular. But she has taken up an alarming new practice of carrying a notebook containing the names and parentage of every eligible girl she meets. Truly, Charles, she is never without it.”
He just stared for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. “She’s taking notes? What does this notebook look like, Lucy?”
She debated whether to tell him or not—what if he went looking for the book and stole it? Her mother would never forgive her, not to mention that Lucy would no longer be able to hold it over his head. But she knew he’d get the information out of her sooner or later. She tried to describe the book as vaguely as possible. “Well, I can’t say that I’ve seen the outside of the notebook too often…it’s always open when I see her with it. But I do believe it’s leather. Oh, and small, so she can fit it in her pocket.”
Charles had spent several years after university working for the War Office and easily recognized evasion. But his sister was as formidable as any French spy he had ever encountered, and he decided to drop the questioning for the moment. He’d find and destroy the book later.
“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.