He merely followed her. “I’ll walk you to your carriage,” he offered, placing his hand on the small of her back and guiding her down the dark hallway.
Beatrice would have protested if she’d had the words, but all she could do was follow his lead. Every inch of her body was aware of him—his smell, his heat, the light pressure of his hand burning a hole through the thin fabric of her gown.
When they approached the main section of the dimly lit store, Charles stopped, causing her to stop, as well, and look up at him in question.
But looking at him was a mistake. The dimness of the hall did nothing to obscure the heat of his gaze. If anything, the shadows made him seem even more handsome, more wicked. Without taking his eyes from hers, he leaned closer, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Lips parted breathlessly, she waited.
He didn’t kiss her, though. He merely reached out his hand and gently brushed something from her cheek.
“A smudge of dust,” he explained gruffly.
“Oh.” Heat rushed to her face, but she didn’t know whether it was from embarrassment or from his proximity. It didn’t matter…the soft pad of his thumb still rested on her cheekbone, and with what seemed like excruciating slowness, he let his hand trail along the line of her jaw, over her shoulder and down her spine, until it settled again at the small of her back.
With his small nudge, they were moving once more. She found herself waving distractedly to Mr. Larrimor as she passed him on the way out. Charles guided her across the street, stopping in front of her carriage to open the door. As he turned to help her inside, she had the sensation that he was about to kiss her once more. He wanted to. She could see it in his eyes, in the nearly imperceptible way his head tilted toward hers.
But he didn’t. As if he’d just remembered where they were, he drew back slightly, his expression suddenly impassive. He merely nodded goodbye, closed her carriage door, and Beatrice was off, head swimming and heart racing.
Charles watched her carriage wind slowly through the afternoon traffic for a moment before he crossed the street to reenter the store. He knew he looked cool and collected, but inwardly the blood pounded through his veins.
God, he wanted her. It was ridiculous, really, for a man of his experience to be feeling this way. All he’d done was rub a bloody spot of dust from her face, and it had taken every ounce of his control not to throw her on the floor and make love to her…. If he did something like that again, he’d scare her off for good.
Charles was not surprised when, several hours later, Louisa Sinclair’s butler informed him that Beatrice was out. He was almost certain that it was a lie, but no matter. He left the novel for Beatrice and turned to leave.
He was surprised, however, to see Louisa walking up the path just as the door closed behind him. She carried her parasol like a lance, and when her eyes lit on Charles he noticed her lip curl ever so slightly, making her resemble an aggressive terrier.
She looked him dead in the eye. “Good day to you, Pelham.”
“Good day, Lady Sinclair. I hope you are well,” he greeted her mildly.
She sniffed. “As well as can be expected. Have you business at my house?”
He silently cursed her lack of tact before saying, “Of sorts…I encountered your niece at Larrimor’s Bookshop and just came over to lend her a book.”
Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “Humph. That sounds remarkably out of character. Did your mother send you over here?”
Charles hadn’t blushed since he was thirteen, but Louisa had a way of making him feel like he was about thirteen. “My mother?”
She nearly cackled. “Ah, you thought it was only your sister who had to be cautious around your matchmaking mama, didn’t you, boy? Well, I have a pretty good idea why you were sent here.”
Charles finally understood her meaning. If she wanted to make him feel like a callow lad, he could at least have fun with her, as well. “Madam, are you implying what I think you are?”
“Of course, my boy. Open your eyes.”
“But Lady Sinclair—you’re nearly twice my age! Think of the scandal! Of course,” he added with a lecherous grin, “scandal has never stopped me before.”
Louisa just sputtered, opening and closing her mouth several times in rapid succession. It was one of the few times in her life that she had been rendered speechless, and if Charles hadn’t feared what would happen when she finally did regain speech, he would have remained to watch. Instead, he just doffed his hat and sauntered down her steps, wisely retreating before she could recover.
When Louisa did recover—it took all of ten seconds—she marched directly inside her house and up the stairs to her niece’s room, swiping the offending book from the hall table along the way.
“Beatrice Sinclair,” she demanded as she entered without knocking, “what has been going on here in my absence?”
Beatrice looked up from her dressing table in surprise. She was readying herself for dinner, although truth be told she’d been pretty much caught up in thoughts of green eyes and black hair and how to avoid them in the future. She hadn’t the faintest idea what her aunt was talking about. “What do you mean, Louisa?”
Her great-aunt waved the novel under her nose. “I didn’t even know that you two were acquainted. I do not condone it.”
Beatrice blushed. “I simply ran into him in the bookstore—”
“He informed me.”
“Yes, well, he offered to lend me a book, being neighbors.”
Louisa said nothing. She slammed the novel down on Beatrice’s table, her nostrils flaring.
“Oh, Lousia, you’re overreac—”
“Beatrice, I have been Summerson’s neighbor since he was born, and not once has he lent me a book. I just can’t believe he would have the audacity…in front of my very eyes…”
“Louisa! It’s just a book.”
“Don’t be a fool, Beatrice. He is a rake.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Louisa, that hardly means he doesn’t read.”
“That’s not what I meant, Beatrice, and you know it. Summerson’s just trying to lull you into trusting him.”
She sighed in frustration. “I know his reputation, Aunt. I didn’t mean to encounter him, and I’m not about to be ‘lulled’ into trusting anyone. Should I have been rude to him?”
“Perhaps,” Louisa muttered. “That’s preferable to running the risk of anyone seeing you with him. Look, Bea, to be perfectly frank with you, I’m quite fond of the lad—always have been. But he’s notorious where women are concerned. Just stay away from him. He’s too charming by half, and I don’t want to see you make any mistakes.”
Beatrice nodded, miserably wishing she were back home in Hampshire where life was simpler.
Evenly, she vowed, “I haven’t made any mistakes, Louisa. I didn’t ask for him to come here, and rest assured, I don’t plan to seek him out.”
Chapter Seven
N early a week had passed without Beatrice seeing Charles. Of course, this wasn’t to say that she hadn’t been thinking about him; no, she’d been doing that to excess. She could even admit to some mutinous feelings of disappointment because he hadn’t sought her out—she’d flattered herself, she supposed, in thinking that he meant to pursue her. If that had ever been his intention, he’d clearly settled his attentions on some other hapless girl. By the time of his mother’s party, he’d have quite forgotten her. She certainly had nothing to worry about.
If it