Reforming the Rake. Sarah Barnwell ElliottЧитать онлайн книгу.
find a husband was rather pathetic. And if one counted her two years of restorative hibernation at her family’s home in Hampshire, well…that did make five years of indisputable failure.
Not that she considered it to be her sole purpose in life to get married. She had no problem with remaining single…as long as she wasn’t trying to wed; it was at that point that spinsterhood became failure. The secret to success, she’d decided, was to pursue spinsterhood the way most women pursued marriage. In fact, she’d become quite comfortable with the idea of remaining a perennial spinster, and hadn’t even planned on going to London for the season at all. No, that was her father’s idea.
“You know I love you, Bea,” he’d said, trying to be delicate, “but for heaven’s sake, do you think someday you’ll get married?”
Beatrice had only grinned, not realizing that this time he meant it. “But however would you survive without me?”
He had sighed resignedly. “I should miss you, Bea, but as for surviving…don’t take this the wrong way, but I dream of the day when all of my children find families and houses of their own, and I, God willing, can enjoy peace and quiet once more.”
Beatrice had begun to get a bit nervous, but attempted to cajole him out of this new mind-set. “You’d take that back, Father dearest, after a week. Who would help you organize your library? Who would help you with your correspondence?”
“Who has ever helped me with these things?” he’d asked in confusion.
Beatrice had ignored that remark. “And what about entertainment? How about my harpsichord playing?”
“That, my dear, I would miss least of all. In fact, I hope you take the instrument with you. No—” he’d held up his hand as Beatrice started to protest “—both you and your brother are of marriageable age. Eventually, I would like some grandchildren.”
“But you just said you wanted peace and quiet.”
“Beatrice,” he’d warned.
She’d sighed. “All right. I understand…but yet, Father, I don’t understand exactly. What are you proposing? It’s not as if I’ve been avoiding marriage.”
“It’s not as if you’ve been actively seeking it, either. You’ve had two years respite, Beatrice. If your mother were alive I hardly think she would have allowed it. I’ve been too indulgent, and it’s time you returned to London to give it another go. I’ve discussed this with Louisa, and she agrees. She’s even offered to sponsor you for the season. You can stay with her in town.”
Beatrice had already started to panic. “Aunt Louisa? Oh, no. Why can’t I stay at our town house?”
“Because I won’t be accompanying you, and your brother is there, indulging in God knows what sort of debauchery.”
“I’ll be a good influence on him.”
He’d smiled. “More likely he’ll be a bad influence on you. Louisa will keep you company—and make sure you at least try. I know you too well, Beazie. Left alone you’d just sit about and read novels. And don’t,” he’d added, looking at her firmly, “turn those sad eyes on me. I won’t go with you. I went to town during your first three seasons, and I’ve already promised Eleanor that I’ll be in town when she has her coming out in two years. And then Helen in just a few more years—”
The clock struck four, drawing Beatrice from her reverie. She’d been in London for nearly a month, and that had been a month of hard campaigning, at least on her aunt’s part. No, her unmarried status was not from lack of trying, nor was it from lack of interest—her reputation as “Cold Fish Beatrice” seemed to have faded, and she’d gained a few brave suitors. Try as she might, she was plagued with the same problem of old. Beatrice knew that it was silly and unreasonable, but she kind of, just a little bit, did believe in love at first sight. There was someone out there for her. She just hadn’t met him yet.
But there was no sense in dwelling on it now. She had to start getting ready for the theater. Her father was right: she did read too many novels, and she’d be better off if she pushed all romantic thoughts from her mind.
Chapter Three
C harles sorely regretted his decision to attend the ball. In general, he steered clear of that sort of thing, particularly if it were captained by Honoria Teasdale. He had been reminded of why he hated these events from the moment he’d walked through the door, when he’d felt precisely as if he’d been thrown to the sharks. Every woman in the room, be they mother or daughter, young or old, fat or thin, immediately began sizing him up, wondering if perhaps this was the year he’d be caught. Having no interest in marriage himself, he wouldn’t have attended the ball at all if it weren’t for that elusive girl in the yellow dress. And she, ironically, hadn’t appeared. Charles was beginning to think he’d imagined her.
“Charles, dear, you look a little bit forbidding,” his mother, Emma Summerson, chided as she approached. She was fair where Charles was dark, and petite where he was tall and athletic. When they smiled, however, their equally lopsided and charming grins immediately pegged them as being closely related.
Charles wasn’t smiling now. He practically scowled at the glass of lemonade she handed him.
“Take that frown off your face, Charles, or all of these young ladies will be frightened.”
“That is my fondest wish, Mother,” he replied. He’d long ago learned that his dangerous dark looks were what drew women toward him. Nonetheless, he was being sincere. Most of his friends didn’t relish the idea of marriage, but most of them also accepted that fate as inevitable, at least if they had a title to pass on. Charles, on the other hand, had vowed never to marry, his title be damned. Marriage, especially if it involved love, was far too dangerous. Charles had already lost two people he’d loved very much and refused to put himself at risk again.
His mother sighed resignedly. “Oh, I do wish you’d behave. Why’d you come tonight, anyway? You don’t enjoy this sort of affair. You’re not really worried about Lucy, are you?”
“I’m not worried so much, Mother…. I just think it’s a good idea to make my presence known—sporadically, mind you—to keep these young bucks on their toes.”
She sniffed. “Sporadically. I see. Very well thought out of you—after all, you do have a reputation to maintain. Wouldn’t do for you to appear in polite society too frequently, would it?”
“You know, Mother, I rather thought that with Lucy out now you’d concentrate on her love life, rather than dwelling on mine.”
“Although—” she said with a smile “—you could use the help.”
“But,” Charles countered, “I don’t need you keeping a notebook with the fortune, ancestry and physical features of every unmarried girl you meet, in that order.”
“Lucy told you?”
“’Course she did. She’s quite fond of me, you know. Tells me everything.”
His mother looked highly doubtful. “Well, she got it a bit wrong. My criteria are actually in the opposite order, dear. And I’m certain character and intelligence are in there somewhere, as well, although you sometimes seem to view those things as liabilities in a woman.”
Charles began to grow alarmed. “What are you talking about, Mother?”
She put her hand to her chin in thought. “Yes…the order is character, intelligence, attractiveness, family, then fortune. We have enough money to put fortune last.”
Charles raked an agitated hand through his hair, feeling for once that his own mother was one of the sharks he had to look out for. It was definitely time for him to leave. “This can’t be happening, Mother. I have to go. I will walk home—it’s just a few blocks.”
She smiled smoothly, feigning surprise. “So soon? But I see Lady Abermarle heading