Beatrice in Breeches
Gideon lifted the knocker at Beckman House for the second time that day.
Not to meet with his friend, but to meet with his friend’s sister.
To teach her how to better defend herself.
And as he waited for the door to open, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from returning to the moment he’d seen Miss Whitcombe sprinting along the garden path. Without Beatrice.
To the sight of Hatherleigh’s hand closed around Beatrice’s wrist. Her face, not frightened, not pleading, but bright with furious determination.
Thunderous anger surging through him. Fear, the lightning that followed.
Gideon shifted his feet, glancing over his shoulder.
He had always admired her independence—in theory. A spirited young woman was preferable to a simpering one. It kept a household lively.
But unprepared independence was dangerous.
If his sister Veronica had attempted such a stunt, he would have locked her in her chambers for a fortnight and posted a footman at the door.
Fortunately, Veronica would never have dreamed of placing herself between a predator and his prey armed with nothing but a bodkin and righteous outrage.
Beatrice, however—
Gideon stopped the thought there.
Because Beatrice was not his sister.
The distinction landed low in his body before he could prevent it. Unwelcome. Immediate. Entirely inappropriate.
He adjusted his gloves and fixed his attention on the door.
No.
She was not his sister.
But the responsibility remained.
If Beatrice intended to continue placing herself between predators and the unsuspecting, then by God, she would learn to do it properly.
“My lord?” The butler’s voice cut through his thoughts as he gestured for him to enter.
Gideon handed over his gloves. “Mr. Drake.”
“Her ladyship is expecting you. And… the ballroom has been… prepared.”
Those pauses carried an entire paragraph of professional disapproval.
“Excellent.” Gideon followed him down the corridor.
In truth, he had spent the better part of the morning considering the most efficient way to begin.
Not fencing. Not blades.
Both of those weapons required space and preparation—luxuries rarely afforded in the sort of encounters Beatrice seemed determined to provoke.
No.
Beatrice Beckman needed better balance. She needed the ability to deny a larger opponent his leverage.
Pugilism provided some of it. Grappling provided more.
He had learned both in those years when he’d drifted almost aimlessly, before assuming his father’s title. During one particularly long winter in Vienna, an enterprising Hungarian officer had demonstrated several methods of putting a man flat on his back without striking him at all.
The principles were simple.
Leverage. Timing. And the intelligent use of another man’s momentum.
When Gideon stepped into the ballroom, he stopped.
Beatrice had, indeed, prepared the ballroom.
Three mattresses had been dragged in and covered with carpet, creating a good-sized padded surface for two people to practice on. Her targets remained, but had been pushed off to the side.
“My lord.”
He turned.
For half a second, Gideon forgot entirely what he had intended to say.
Gone were Lady Beatrice’s usual grey muslins and silk skirts. Gone, too, were the layers of petticoats and stays and all the other feminine mysteries that kept a lady’s form politely suggested rather than plainly declared.
Instead, she wore a loose linen shirt tucked into a pair of breeches.
Borrowed, he assumed.
Though, if so, the original owner had been an unfortunate boy of narrow hips and improbably long legs, because the fit upon Beatrice was…
Precise.
His gaze caught there before he could stop it. At her waist. The curve of her hips. The clean line of her thighs beneath the snug cloth.
They covered everything that ought to be covered.
They simply did so with a degree of honesty no gentleman was meant to survive.
His gaze moved lower, over the line of her legs, then stopped at her bare feet.
Delicate toes. Fine ankles. One foot angled slightly outward in a stance of such casual defiance that…
Good God.
“Do you approve?” she asked.
His gaze snapped back to her face.
She stood with her fists on her hips, watching him with bright, challenging eyes.
Gideon cleared his throat.
“It will do.”
The apparel was, in fact, practical. The fact that it was also… distracting was his own problem.
Clearing his throat, he forced himself to properly examine the room.
Mattresses, carpets, all arranged inelegantly, but… the space was functional.
“Well?” Beatrice all but demanded. “Are you here to teach me how to fight,” she continued, “or shall I have the servants bring tea?”
There was a glint in her eyes.
Gideon exhaled a quiet laugh.
Yes.
This was Beatrice.
He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto a nearby chair.
“We might begin with the assumption,” he said, rolling his sleeves once, “that although boiling tea can be an effective weapon, it’s doubtful you’ll have any on hand while skulking around various Mayfair gardens.”
She folded her arms. “Noted.”
When he stepped closer, her gaze dropped briefly to his boots.
“What about those?” she asked.
For half a second Gideon saw the scenario with a brother’s eye—
Dash walking into the ballroom.
Seeing his sister dressed like this.
Mattresses absurdly arranged where there ought to be a dance floor.
Gideon with half his clothing removed.
—but there was nothing nefarious going on here. Improper, perhaps, for a lady to learn such things as wrestling, but this was all intended for Beatrice’s own protection.
Dash would understand. He knew what his sister was like.
Still… “I am capable of instructing you with my boots on,” he said evenly.
And then, just as deliberately, he forced aside every stray thought and stepped onto the carpet. “Come over here.”
She tilted her head—because he’d just given her an order, of course, and that was often reason enough for her not to do something—but then she padded across the floor, apparently willing to allow it in this instance.
Good. She would have to get used to listening to him if they were to make any progress with these lessons.
“Give me your hand,” he said, extending his own, palm up.
This time she didn’t hesitate at all.
Her sleeves had been rolled up loosely, practical for movement. But as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist… he saw them.
Four shadows against pale skin. A watercolor of black and blue. Unmistakable.
The world narrowed; the air around him thickened.
He had known Hatherleigh grabbed her last night. He had seen the struggle.
But knowing and seeing the result… The blighter had gripped her so tightly, he’d left bruises.
“Hatherleigh hurt you,” he said.
With her hand still loosely in Gideon’s grasp, she glanced down, then gave a faint shrug.
“Well, yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “That is the reason we’re here, is it not?”
Gideon swallowed.
Working through the roaring in his ears.
For one irrational instant he considered saddling his horse and going after the blighter. And then finishing the beating he, Longstaffe, and Blackwell had begun.
Instead, he forced his voice level. “It is.” And then more softly, “Let’s make sure that never happens again.”
Her expression sharpened.
Good.
“Take out your bodkin,” he said.
Beatrice blinked once but obeyed, reaching up into her hair and drawing out the slender steel pin. She held it exactly as she had the night before—arm extended, chin lifted, the point steady.
“Now what?”
“Now,” Gideon replied mildly, “Show me what you intended to do last night.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “You wish me to stab you?”
“I wish you to try.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes but did not hesitate.
She lunged.
Gideon’s hand closed over her arm—high enough to avoid the marks Hatherleigh had left—turning it so that the point of the bodkin was deflected harmlessly to the side. A step forward, a sweep of the leg, and she lost her balance all too easily.
One moment she was upright. The next Gideon had her pinned on the mattress—trapped, the bodkin twisted harmlessly from her grip, his other hand braced beside her shoulder to keep her from rolling.
Beatrice stared up at him.
Gideon met her gaze evenly.
Awareness broke through his concentration.
Her warmth beneath him. Her breath lifting softly against his chest. The unsettling rightness of her there, pinned beneath his weight yet somehow fitting him with dangerous ease.
His jaw tightened.
No.
He released her at once and shot to his feet.