LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Yes, Mother?” he said, glancing nervously over his shoulder as the large Abermarle shadow began to loom closer. Now it was imperative that he leave.

      She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Always judge a girl by her mother, because in ten years, she will be her mother.”

      Charles nodded curtly and walked briskly to the door, hoping to God that none of Lucy’s suitors ever met their mother.

      His mother watched him fondly as he beat his retreat. Lucy walked up behind her grinning.

      “I see you got rid of him, Mother,” she remarked with definite satisfaction.

      “Easily. You should never doubt me,” her mother replied. She began to chuckle. “You should have seen the look on his face, dear, when I informed him about The Book…. He was looking at me as if I’d gone quite mad.”

      “As if?”

      She ignored her daughter’s sarcasm. “If Charles is going to be so ornery about finding a match for himself, I hardly see why he should come here and ruin your chances by glowering at all your beaus.” She turned toward her youngest child. She’d been blessed with three children, but only Charles and Lucy had survived. Mark, Charles’s junior by two years, had died in a carriage accident when he was thirteen. The memory still hurt, and she cherished her remaining children. They both made her so proud. They infuriated her, too, but for the most part her heart swelled with joy whenever she looked at them.

      Her eyes began to mist up.

      “Are you all right, Mother?” Lucy asked, resting her hand on her arm in concern.

      “I’m fine, Lucy. I was just thinking about how much you and Charles resemble your father…Charles especially, the devil. Your father was quite the handful before we wed.”

      Lucy raised her eyebrows. “He couldn’t have been as wicked as Charles. I can’t see you putting up with that.”

      Her mother smiled and slipped her arm around her. “I never had to put up with it. From the moment we met he became a paragon—with, of course, the occasional reminder.” She turned to look at her daughter. “I hope your marriage, when it comes, is every bit as special. Charles’s, too.”

      “I shouldn’t get my hopes up too much about Charles,” Lucy warned. “He’s in no hurry to marry at all. I suppose he will eventually, of course—he has the title to think about. But I wouldn’t expect a love match.”

      Her mother merely shrugged. “He might surprise us yet. At any rate, he’s gone now, and you can enjoy yourself. Lord Dudley is by the French doors, and I sense from his penetrating gaze that he’s desperate to attract your attention.”

      Lucy rolled her eyes. “I noticed him, too, although I was trying to pretend I hadn’t. I suppose I should go dance with him or else seem terribly rude.”

      “Yes, dear, I think you’d better.”

      As Lucy headed off toward Lord Dudley, her mother smiled benignly, pleased that she’d been able to send off her other child so easily. Children could be such nuisances sometimes, and she needed time alone to think…or rather, to scheme.

      Wearing the same harmless smile, she let her gaze wander around the room. There had to be a better reason for Charles to attend the ball that evening than concern for Lucy. She was sure of it. It was only a matter of finding out who that better reason was and whether or not she was eligible.

      It was nearly ten by the time Beatrice, Eleanor and Ben returned from the theater, and with every minute, Beatrice grew more alarmed. Louisa would be a veritable volcano by the time she reached the ball.

      As their carriage rolled to a stop in front of their aunt’s town house, Eleanor stretched, a contented smile on her face. All of the Sinclair children resembled each other very closely, save Eleanor. Whereas the rest of the clan tended to be tall and blond, Eleanor was petite, brunette and blue-eyed. “Time for bed,” she said over a yawn, opening the door and sliding from the carriage. She looked back at Beatrice. “I suppose you could thank Louisa for letting me come out tonight when you see her. If you must.”

      Beatrice just smiled. “’Night, Ellie.” But as Eleanor headed into the house, Beatrice nudged her brother. “Ben?”

      “Hmm?” he mumbled, half-asleep.

      “Do you think Louisa will be terribly peeved because we’re late? It’ll be eleven by the time we arrive.”

      He grunted. “Tell Louisa to go to the devil. I’m not going.”

      “Ben! I can’t tell her that!”

      “You can. What’s the worst she can do?”

      “Kill the messenger.”

      He turned to his sister, his head lolled back against the seat, grinning unrepentantly. “It’s a bloody boring affair, Beatrice, and I’ve already done you one favor for the evening. No one should be forced to be in the same room as that Teasdale gorgon. You wouldn’t go yourself, if you weren’t scared of Louisa.” He winked at her.

      “I am not scared of her, Ben! You don’t have to stay with her all season—imagine sharing a house with that woman when she’s angry. Besides…” Beatrice paused for a moment, grasping for words. “It’s just that, well…I really should go. I have a certain responsibility.”

      He shook his head in disgust. “I’m glad I’m not a girl.”

      “Why’s that?” Beatrice snorted. “There’s actually more pressure on you, you know—you’re the one who has to produce an heir.”

      Ben shuddered in distaste. “Let’s not discuss this subject now. I have plans for later and have to get going. Mind if John brings me home in the carriage? It’ll be back by the time you’re ready to go.”

      Beatrice shrugged. “Have a pleasant evening, Ben.” I won’t, she miserably added to herself as she climbed from the carriage.

      Her feet trailed reluctantly for the first few steps, but the prospect of Louisa’s temper prodded her into action. By the time she reached the front door, she had broken into a full-fledged run. Humphries, Louisa’s butler, held the door open, waiting for her with a smile.

      “Good evening, Miss Sinclair.”

      “Good evening, Humphries!” she called back, racing past him and flying up the stairs. He didn’t blink an eye. He was used to her last-minute mad dashes.

      Once in her room, Beatrice rang for her lady’s maid, Meg, but wasted no time in removing her clothes on her own, a feat much easier said than done. By the time Meg arrived, Beatrice’s gown was halfway over her head and she was stuck inside of it; she couldn’t undo the buttons on her own and had decided to see if she could simply wiggle it off over her head.

      She could not.

      “Do you need help, Miss Beatrice?” Meg asked from the doorway.

      “Obviously I need help. Pull!” Beatrice ordered in a muffled voice, one arm pinned behind her back, one held uncomfortably above her head.

      Meg took a second to assess the situation. Beatrice was writhing about like a caught fish. “Stand still for a moment, dear. Let’s try this in the conventional fashion.” And with that, Meg yanked the gown back down, smiled at Beatrice’s flushed face and proceeded to unbutton.

      “Meg, you’ve saved my life. I don’t know what I would do without you. Louisa will have been expecting me for nearly an hour already, and you know how annoyed she gets whenever she is…”

      “Annoyed?” Meg murmured helpfully. Few people would dare to mock Louisa, but Meg had been in the family long enough to dare most things. She’d begun as Beatrice’s governess, but had become her lady’s maid and companion once Beatrice had outgrown the schoolroom.

      Beatrice just grinned. “That’s it exactly, Meg, although I suppose

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