A Waltz
Two evenings later, Beatrice attended yet another festivity, but before taking to lurking around the ballroom, she allowed herself a few minutes to watch the first set.
It was a proper English country dance. Spirited but predictable.
Beatrice watched the line reform itself—partners exchanging places, hands briefly joined and then released, bodies in constant motion. No one remained long enough in one position to claim intimacy.
It was impossible not to see the design in it. In a country dance, a man could not secure a lady’s waist for more than a passing measure or murmur unchecked into her ear. There was very little opportunity for mischief when one was obliged to bow every third figure.
Beatrice sipped her lemonade thoughtfully.
Yes.
Predictability had its virtues.
Tonight, Beatrice and Lark had claimed a small table near the edge of the room. Beatrice angled herself just so—back to the wall, view unobstructed. Lark sat opposite her, hands folded around her fan. With Lady Theodosia dancing, Beatrice and Lark could converse openly.
“I thought at first he’d—I don’t know—changed his mind, decided to find someone more willing.
But then he came back, started bringing her champagne.
And when they went out to the gardens alone, I knew something wasn’t right,” Beatrice said quietly, continuing the account of the unsavory episode involving Persephone.
“And this was Mr. Hatherleigh?” Lark’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “The one with the collars so high he puts his eyeballs at risk?”
“The very same.”
“I suppose I’m not surprised. But Lady Persephone? Is she—?”
“Unharmed.”
Lark exhaled—but did not look entirely reassured.
“There was no scene,” Beatrice added. “No raised voices. I merely… interrupted. Suggested her mother was inquiring after her. She was grateful for the opportunity to escape.”
“And Mr. Hatherleigh?”
“He tried to shoo me away initially but withdrew right away when I did not immediately back down.”
“You were fortunate. Men like that,” Lark said, lowering her voice, “don’t often yield so easily.”
“They do, though,” Beatrice said, setting down her glass, “if doing so allows them to keep their dignity.”
Lark frowned.
“I provide them with an exit. One that spares their pride.” A small shrug. “There’s nothing for them to fight against.” She had seen her father employ the same method with difficult tenants. Dash as well.
“But if he had not withdrawn?” Lark persisted softly. “Tendency is not certainty. What would you have done if he had not withdrawn?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted briefly to the dance floor where Theodosia laughed as she passed beneath Blackwell’s raised arm.
“I would have managed,” she said, touching her fingertips to the small ornament nestled in her coiffure—innocent as any jewel might appear.
Lark did not smile in return.
“You cannot position yourself between every ambitious gentleman and every uncertain girl.”
“No,” Beatrice agreed calmly. “Only the ones who require it.”
But the conversation could go no further. At that very moment, the set ended in a flurry of bows and curtsies—
—and across the room, a tall gentleman had fixed his attention squarely upon her.
He was already walking this way.
Beatrice stilled.
Gideon was dressed as he always was—without flourish, without apology. His black coat fit with ruthless precision, his ivory waistcoat plain to the point of severity. Even his cravat, though perfectly tied, refused ornament.
Where other men adorned, Gideon refrained.
By the time he reached them, because manners must be observed, Beatrice and Lark rose. Lark curtsied. And after the briefest hesitation, Beatrice did as well.
“My ladies.” His mouth curved faintly. “The flowers were doing admirably until you stood beside them.”
Beatrice nearly snorted.
Lark wore the uniform of all companions, stiff lavender and a demure chignon, while Beatrice’s own gown, gray muslin with black lace, had been made for mourning.
“That is kind of you, my lord,” Lark replied, diplomatic as ever.
“I don’t say it to be kind.” He inclined his head toward her, then his gaze moved to Beatrice. Flicking over her face and higher. “Your hair has grown… ambitious,” he observed.
“Are you policing my style choices?”
“Merely remarking on them.” His hazel gaze flicked downward, not in any way ogling her, but as though simply assessing for other ambitious fashion choices.
“I’d expected your manners to have improved over the years,” she returned lightly. “It seems my expectations were overly ambitious.”
A brief silence followed, then he turned fully toward her. “But my manners are impeccable. Why else would I seek you out for a set?”
Beatrice frowned. “Pardon?”
Before she could quite determine what he meant, he took her hands and lifted them as though examining some small curiosity. And with his fingers closed lightly around her wrists, he turned them just enough to confirm what he had apparently suspected.
“No dance card,” he observed.
The contact was brief—and not quite proper. She couldn’t help but notice the warmth of his palms through the thin silk of her gloves. The awareness surprised her.
She considered drawing her hands back, if only to prove she could. Yes, he was Lord Hawkins now, but he was also… just Gideon.
She did not.
“I do not suppose, then,” he continued, releasing her as though he had merely verified a detail of etiquette, “that it would be presumption to assume you have not already promised the next set?”
“Oh, my lord,” Beatrice replied sweetly, “you must know I don’t attend these assemblies to frolic around to music.”
His brow lifted faintly. “A tragedy.”
“You will survive it.”
“You wound me.” He pressed his right hand over his heart, but his eyes gleamed with quiet mischief.
“I have no doubt you’ll make a full recovery.”
“That would require a lifetime.” But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
And—confound it—so did hers.
She felt the smile before she could stop it, felt it tug at her lips.
The winter had been long. Heavy in a way that laughter had not quite touched—even in Lark’s company.
Lady Hannah had been the Duchess of Dasborough to the world. To Beatrice… she had simply been Lady Hannah. Delicate but strong in her own way, and so very young.
And now Dash…
It seemed a very long time since anything had felt light.
She straightened at once, smoothing her expression into something more suitable.
“I will convey your kind efforts to my brother,” Beatrice said smoothly. “But you need not entertain me on his behalf.”
“I ask on no one’s behalf but my own. One set,” he said. And then, he extended his hand.
C’est pas vrai. Unbelievable.
A few ladies beside her were watching. Lady Barrington’s eyes caught hers from across the room. A lifted brow.
Beatrice could not refuse the invitation without spectacle.
“If I must,” she said, expressing a theatrical sigh—just enough to suggest she had not been languishing in anticipation. Glancing back at Lark, she added, “We shall continue our discussion another time.”
“Enjoy the set, dearest Bea,” Lark replied, clearly entertained.
Only once they reached the floor did Beatrice realize something was amiss. The dancers were not assembling in lines, but stood separated, facing one another.
Before she could question it, Gideon was arranging her. He turned her neatly into position, one hand closing around hers, the other settling at her waist.
She stilled, her breath caught—just briefly.
This was not a country dance.
“You do know the steps?” he asked quietly.
“Of course I do.”
They were standing close.
Very close.
It was how one danced the waltz, after all.
Beatrice had watched this dance often enough, noting the peculiar intimacy it permitted. A gentleman’s hand placed low and firm. A lady’s face near his collar. Conversation carried in undertones no one else could hear.
All of it performed beneath the full gaze of the ballroom.
But it was here, if one paid attention, that certain men began to calculate. To weigh their advantage. To decide whether a particular lady might be persuaded into greater liberties once the music ended.
“Compose yourself, my lady. You look positively undone to have been singled out by me.”
“That is not the word I would have used.”
The music began, and with the lightest pressure at her waist, Gideon set them into motion.
And as she sucked in a startled breath, she suddenly became very conscious of his scent. Clean linen. Starch. And beneath it, something subtler—steeped tea—earthy, dark, and quietly comforting, with just the slightest edge of bitterness.
It didn’t make her dizzy, but it made her feel heavier and lighter at the same time. Like her limbs, skin, even her lungs, felt a pull to be…
Closer.
Grands dieux. Good heavens.
This was how easily this dance could persuade. How proximity might blur judgment.
She had experienced giddiness—years ago, when she had first come out. A quickening. A bright, foolish curiosity.
But this—
Was the same but different. Grounded.
Which made no sense at all.
The first turn was smooth and her feet moved easily, as though gravity were a mere suggestion. The second turn left her feeling even lighter.
She had meant to remain alert. Meant to keep her attention divided—half upon the steps, half upon the room.
Instead, the rhythm caught her.
The pressure at her waist altered just slightly, steadying rather than steering.
She had not realized she required steadying.
“You are distracted.” His low voice sounded close to her ear. “Should I be insulted?”
Beatrice lifted her gaze to his. “Why would you be insulted?”
He simply laughed, and they turned again.
“It’s not that I’m distracted, merely thinking,” she explained.
The chandeliers blurred, silk and satin sweeping across the floor. His hand remained precisely where it ought to be.
“What are you thinking about?”
She met his eyes, considering whether she wished to answer honestly. “Character,” she said eventually. “And how often people reveal it when they believe no one is looking.”
There was the smallest shift in his expression, neither mocking nor disturbed, but she could see that she now had his full attention.
“Many gentlemen,” she went on, “take advantage of the waltz.”
“Do they?”
“It is rarely obvious,” she continued, staring at the lapel of his jacket. “But one can tell.”
“How so?”
“If a man’s intentions are improper,” she spoke thoughtfully, “his body betrays him.”
They turned again.
“In what way?” he murmured.
She scanned the dancers—partly to prove her point, mostly to avoid his eyes.
Gideon.
Dash’s friend. Familiar. Safe.
He had held her hand before—many times, in fact—but only in the careless way of childhood. Pulling her upright. Brushing dirt from her palms.
This—was not that.
“There,” she said quietly, inclining her head toward a young couple not far from them. “Mr. Knightly.”
The gentleman in question could not have been more than two and twenty. His posture was upright but uncertain, his grip careful—fingers placed precisely where instruction demanded.
“He keeps space between them,” she continued. “His palm does not settle lower. His thumb does not… explore. He blinks too often. Wide-eyed. He is watching the steps, not her mouth.”
Gideon followed her gaze.
“True.”
“He is more concerned with not embarrassing himself than with persuading her of anything.”
Another turn and butterflies took flight in her stomach again.
Ridiculous.
Her heart beat with unnecessary force, and his hand at her waist felt impossibly warm, the pressure of his fingers sending a faint, wicked tingling beneath her skin.
“I see,” he said mildly. “But how does a lady distinguish genuine affection from persuasion?”
There was no teasing in it now. Only interest.
“Persuasion tests boundaries,” she replied, sounding more breathless than the exertion required. “The hand reaches low. The body is tense. But the eyes are the true giveaway. He is not watching her adoringly. He is measuring her tolerance.”
She felt the shift in him then. Subtle. The line of his jaw tightening.
She had said too much.
“How the devil do you know all this?” he asked. No. It was closer to a demand.
“From observation,” she answered at once—too brightly.
His hand tightened at her waist.
“You will tell me,” he said quietly, “if a particular gentleman attempts to measure your… tolerance?”
The fierceness in his voice caught her unprepared.
“Of course,” she said quickly.
But she wouldn’t. She would not need to.
These matters did not unfold that way.
Telling meant questions. Scrutiny. Whispered calculations about how far a gentleman had been encouraged. It meant a lady’s conduct was examined more closely than the gentleman’s intent.
Much better to prevent such incidences entirely.
And that—precisely that—was why she was here.
“Really, my lord.” She spoke softly but firmly. “You’ve seen me at these parties. No man will have the opportunity to ‘test my tolerance.’”
“If—”
“If I require assistance, I will send for you. As promised.”
She did not wish to discuss this further. Not when she could feel the tension coiled beneath his sleeve.
They travelled nearly a full circle around the floor before she felt the rigidity in him ease.
If she had been any other young woman, she might have relaxed then. Might have surrendered to the music. To the attention. To the fact that the most quietly formidable man in the room, the one who was also likely the most handsome, held her with unerring steadiness.
But she was not any other young woman.
She had not come to London for diversion. She had come with purpose.
And Gideon Rothmore, for all intents and purposes, was practically a brother to her.
“You are thinking again,” he said, the familiar warmth returning to his voice.
“Only that you needn’t worry about me.”
“Very well. But I hope,” he added lightly, “that your confidence doesn’t come solely from the fact that you’re wearing a bodkin in your hair.”