>
“Since we’re not friends, may I ask you a rather rude question?”
Beatrice blinked. “Excuse me?”
Charles’s green eyes sparkled devilishly. “Why aren’t you married?”
“A great many people aren’t married,” she retorted defensively. “I could be asking you the same question.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to be married. The fact that you’re in London for the season implies that you don’t share my sentiments. What’s stopping you? You’re intelligent and amusing, not to mention,” he added quietly, his eyes darkening, “the most beautiful woman in town. Are you sure you’re really looking for a husband?”
Beatrice colored again. “Are you proposing?” She knew that she shouldn’t have asked him this question—there was no telling what sort of outrageous answer he’d give—yet the question had slipped out all the same.
Charles leaned in closer yet again, this time to whisper in her ear. “Not marriage.”
Praise for debut author Sarah Elliott
“Sarah Elliott has a fresh new voice that makes the marriage of convenience into something altogether too sexy and fun to be just convenient!”
—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James
“Sarah Elliott writes with elegance and wit. The book is funny, it’s sexy, it’s romantic. What more could you want?”
—Jessica Benson, author of The Accidental Duchess
Reforming the Rake
Sarah Elliott
MILLS & BOON
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!
Or simply visit
Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.
This book is dedicated to Laura Langlie for her patience and tenacity and to Elizabeth Sudol for giving much-needed encouragement.
Contents
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
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter One
May 12, 1816
C harles Summerson, ninth marquess of Pelham, hadn’t meant to spy. No, he actually felt rather embarrassed for not closing his window right away—after all, he’d merely stuck his head out to check the temperature, and, having decided that he would not require a heavy coat for his ride in the park, had no reason to linger.
Nonetheless, he lingered.
It wasn’t even Charles’s own window, for that matter; that is, it was his former window. He was temporarily staying in his boyhood room at his mother’s Park Lane home while his own town house underwent repairs. Still, he had grown up in that very room, and in all those years he had never appreciated how prime a vantage point his window was for observing the goings-on in his neighbor’s garden. Not that he’d ever been particularly interested in her goings-on before, and frankly, he wasn’t interested in them now. Lady Louisa Sinclair had lived next door to the Summersons for as long as Charles could remember. She was one of those society matrons who was perpetually just shy of sixty years old…preserved, he assumed, by the vinegar that ran through her veins.
Today, however, was different, for today Lady Sinclair was not in her garden. Quite the contrary. Instead, there appeared to be an entirely different variety of female in his neighbor’s garden: definitely younger, and far gentler on the eyes.
Charles quietly observed the unfamiliar girl for several minutes without moving. He hadn’t the faintest idea who she was, and from his position he could make out few details. She was sprawled out in the middle of Lady Sinclair’s pristine lawn, facing away from him. and propped up by her elbows in order to jot something hurriedly into a small book. Charles wished he could see her face. All he could really see was the back of her blond head, bent so avidly over her writing.
He let his gaze travel down her body, or what he could see of it, anyway. She wore a pale yellow dress, the same color as Lady Sinclair’s daffodils, and Charles noted that it was appropriately, albeit disappointingly, modest. He had to rely on his imagination to fill in the details that the dress concealed: a tall, slim frame, gently rounded hips, small waist…ample breasts. He silently willed her to roll over and satisfy his curiosity.
Her legs lay flat behind her, and Charles let his gaze roam down even farther. He noticed that her slippers had abandoned her feet and now lay haphazardly on the ground at her side. He could see nothing of her calves—as was proper—but he could see her feet quite clearly. Periodically, she wiggled her toes in the grass.
He knew he really ought to turn away, and surely would have if it weren’t for those damned feet. But seeing a woman’s stockinged feet only made him all the more curious to see the rest of her, and as she was so focused on…well, whatever it was she was doing, there was really no chance of being discovered, was there?
After a minute, the girl paused in writing to leaf through the pages of her book. Charles would have given just about anything at that moment to read along with her—rather salaciously, he hoped that it was her diary, where she recorded her deepest secrets, hidden desires….
He forgot about the contents of her