The Rake's Proposal. Sarah Barnwell Elliott
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“I’m not used to making women angry. So an apology is in order.”
Kate blinked in surprise. This was the last thing she had expected. In fact, she had assumed that he would be angry with her, not the other way around.
“You’re sorry, then?” she asked tentatively.
“Somewhat.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘somewhat’?”
“Well,” he answered, spinning her around, “I suppose I shouldn’t have teased you so much, but I’m not sorry. And,” he said, his amber eyes wandering over her face, “I shouldn’t have kissed you, but I’m definitely not sorry.”
“Oh?” She felt as if she was melting beneath his gaze.
“But I am sorry that I told you to leave. That, sweetheart, was a real pity.”
PRAISE FOR SARAH ELLIOTT and her debut novel REFORMING THE RAKE
“A fun, frothy story! Charming!”
—New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James
“Sarah Elliott writes with elegance and wit.”
—Jessica Benson, author of The Accidental Duchess
“A deliciously sexy romance, [Elliott’s] deftly written debut will delight readers with its wonderfully endearing characters and wickedly sharp wit.”
—Booklist
“Debut author Elliott writes convincingly about how a tortured man can be healed by the love of a good woman.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub
“Reforming the Rake is a charming and engaging debut novel by a new writer with a fresh, exciting voice. This reviewer predicts a successful career for Sarah Elliott and cannot wait for her next book!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
The Rake’s Proposal
Sarah Elliott
MILLS & BOON
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I am very grateful to Jessica Alvarez and Laura Langlie
for reading my books so thoroughly and for being
so patient and encouraging. A huge thanks also to
Alex Duda and Brad Davis, who generously
gave their time to design my website.
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
Epilogue
Chapter One
March 1817
T he world seemed to look favorably upon Katherine Sutcliff. Her face and figure were admired, at least by the residents of Little Brookings, her tiny Dorset village. Her mind and humor were considered quick and sharp. She had ample funds and a loving family who forgave her occasional lapses of memory, decorum and common sense.
Of course, her life was not as tranquil and carefree as it appeared: she had at least one—secret and very serious—problem.
Her most immediate dilemma, however, was her inability to fall asleep.
She lay in bed, sighed and stared at the ceiling. She’d been trying for at least two hours, and neither warm milk nor a large dose of Milton’s Samson Agonistes had helped at all. Even conjugating irregular French verbs had failed.
Kate supposed she could blame her insomnia on simple nerves and an unfamiliar bed. It was only about twelve hours since she’d arrived—dusty from several days of travel—at her brother Robert’s smart London doorstep. He would be getting married in the autumn, and she planned to stay with him in town until that time. That meant she’d be there for the entire season, and although she’d resigned herself to this fate, she wasn’t too pleased about it. Oh, she got on with her brother tremendously well—it was the reason behind her visit that was causing her distress.
She needed to get married herself. She didn’t want to, but there it was.
Kate sat up in bed, Milton sliding dejectedly to the floor as she did so. Marriage. It was a horrible but unignorable fact, and the only way to get that horrible thought from her mind, even temporarily, was…
A glass of brandy, preferably a large one. That would at least make her sleepy; it had better, since simple determination wasn’t doing the trick.
She climbed out of bed, pulling on her robe as she did so, and slipped out her bedroom door. She padded lightly down the spacious hallway toward the study, feeling rather furtive beneath the disapproving glares of looming ancestral portraits. The house was completely silent, and even though she was doing nothing wrong, she crept along guiltily like a thief. Everything in her brother’s house was large and dark, and she felt dwarfed inside it. She pulled open the heavy study door, lit a lamp, and in the dim light poured a generous glass of brandy. Robert’s study smelled vaguely of smoke. She pulled out the heavy leather chair at his desk. Sitting down in this ultra-masculine seat and regarding the room in front of her somehow made her feel more in control.
So, too, did the brandy.
Marriage. Most girls did it. Some even had to do it, and so what if she was joining their ranks? Surely worse things happened at sea.
Surely?
Several long minutes of mentally debating this question had passed when she became aware of a knocking at the front door. She listened intently for a moment and it came again, louder this time and more insistent. Standing, heart racing, she crossed the room to peek from the window. It was well after midnight and the sky was pitch-black, so dark that the stars shone against