Progress
One moment Beatrice had been standing—bodkin raised, perfectly certain of her intentions—and the next the world had tilted sharply sideways.
The mattress caught her with a muffled thump.
For a stunned heartbeat she simply lay there, Gideon half-lying on top of her. One hand pinned to the mattress, the bodkin uselessly rolling upon the floor somewhere beside her, Gideon’s free arm caging her in so that she could not easily escape.
Good heavens. He had done that as though she weighed nothing at all.
She tensed beneath him, testing his hold, and found no give.
Panic flashed white behind her ribs.
For one breathless instant, it was not Gideon above her.
Then she blinked.
Gideon’s eyes were close enough for her to see the faint ring of gold around the brown.
It wasn’t the same.
The nightmare vanished.
It was Gideon. Gideon.
Beatrice took a moment to catch the breath that had been knocked out of her, just long enough for her to become aware of the solid press of his thighs bracketing hers. The strength in the arm that had trapped her wrist. The broad, unyielding line of his chest.
And the faint warmth of his breath…
But then Gideon was on his feet, extending a hand and hauling her upright.
“You extended your arm too far,” he explained, placing the bodkin back into her hand. “And you allowed me to get close.”
Beatrice forced herself to focus.
If Gideon could disarm her that easily, then she would certainly not be safe from a man who truly meant to harm her.
Hadn’t been… safe from men who truly meant to harm her.
She straightened immediately. Focus.
“This time,” Gideon continued, “don’t wait.”
Beatrice frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean”—he was all patience as he stepped back into position— “you allowed him to close the distance.”
She straightened. “I was warning him.”
“Yes.” His gaze was steady. “And while you were being courteous, he was advancing.”
She tilted her head.
“So I am to stab a gentleman before he misbehaves?”
“If the situation calls for it, then yes. You need to take the advantage,” Gideon replied calmly. “There is a moment—just before a man commits—when he believes he controls the outcome. That is when you move.” He stepped toward her deliberately. “Again.”
Beatrice lifted the bodkin.
“Not your arm,” he corrected. “Your body. Move your whole body.”
She shifted her weight forward just as he reached for her wrist.
For half a second she thought she had him.
And then the world tipped sideways, and once again, Beatrice was staring up at the ceiling.
“Better,” Gideon said calmly from somewhere above her. “But you allowed me to take your balance.”
He extended a hand and hauled her upright once more.
“Again.”
This time she did not hesitate.
The moment he stepped forward she moved—pivoting just as he had shown her, twisting her wrist instead of locking it straight.
Gideon caught her arm—but not cleanly.
The bodkin hovered far closer to his ribs than before.
His brows lifted.
“Well done,” he said.
Beatrice felt a small surge of triumph.
They repeated the motion.
Again.
And again.
Soon the bodkin was forgotten entirely. Gideon showed her how to shift her weight, how to break a grip before it could lock, how to turn a man’s momentum against him instead of resisting it.
Several times she still found herself on the mattress.
A handful of times she managed to stay upright.
When at last Gideon stepped back and reached for his coat, Beatrice was breathing hard, her hair half-escaped from its pins and her limbs aching in places she had never noticed before.
But something inside her had shifted. She was beginning to understand.
“Again, tomorrow?” He cocked a brow in a not-quite-challenging way.
Beatrice straightened at once. “Absolutely.”
Gideon’s mouth curved faintly as he shoved his arms into the sleeves of his coat. “Good,” he said. “Because you need to practice if this is going to work.”
And with just three days until the next ball, she was going to need to learn fast.
Three more days of lessons, four in total.
The next day, for her second lesson, Gideon insisted on going over everything she’d learned in the first lesson.
He corrected her stance. Adjusted her grip. Showed her, with infuriating calm, how easily her balance might be compromised—and how to recover it.
She resented him for it. The repetition. The fact that she needed it.
The third lesson was more interesting.
There was less correcting. More doing. His hand at her wrist. At her shoulder. At her waist. Guiding. Steadying. Entirely too close.
Closer than any waltz had ever required. But it was all necessary.
The fourth—
The fourth stretched on until both of them were thoroughly spent.
But she no longer flinched at the contact. She moved more surely. Thought more quickly.
And when he gave the smallest nod of approval, a ridiculous little bloom of pleasure opened in her chest.
Which was absurd.
When he criticized her, she argued. Naturally.
More than once, the argument ended with them both on the floor—her triumphant, him unrepentant—and, on at least one occasion, laughing.
She hadn’t laughed like that in a very long time.
The realization alone might have undone her.
These lessons, Beatrice found herself thinking more than once, were far better than the ballroom lessons she'd been forced to endure with Dash years before.
Far more useful.
Far more dangerous, if she allowed herself to notice the wrong things, such as the strength of his hands and the warmth of his chest and the weight of him over her and the startling, treacherous pulse low in her body whenever he had her pinned beneath him–
No.
She would not let her thoughts veer.
The lessons were useful.
When Beatrice entered Lady Longstaffe’s ballroom beside Lark three evenings after her first lesson, she was not afraid.
She was… eager.
Lark caught on immediately, pulling Beatrice to a stop just inside the doorway as she adjusted her gloves.
“You look altogether too enthusiastic,” she murmured. “Should I be concerned?”
“I cannot imagine why,” Beatrice answered, feigning innocence.
Lark’s answering look suggested she had known Beatrice far too long to be deceived. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I am afraid I won’t be of much use to you tonight.”
Beatrice frowned. “Why not?”
“Lady Barrington has hinted—rather pointedly—that I have neglected my duties of late.” Lark’s mouth tightened. “Which means I am to remain especially close to Theodosia this evening.”
“Oh, Lark.” Beatrice’s expression softened. “You needn’t worry on my account.”
“I had intended to help,” Lark said. “Particularly after what occurred at the Covington ball earlier this week.”
“I’ve been taking lessons, remember?”
Lark gave her a pointed look. “You cannot have learned much in three days.”
“You forget,” Beatrice said, “I am a fast learner.”
“I hope so.”
Just then, Lady Barrington’s urgent wave cut their conversation short, and Lark had no choice but to hurry away, her posture already shifting into dutiful attentiveness.
Left alone, Beatrice allowed herself a slow breath.
The ballroom shimmered beneath the candlelight, music curling through the air, laughter rising and falling in soft, pleasant waves.
Time, then, to resume.
Her gaze lingered—just for a moment—upon the entrance.
There were any number of places he might be. A livelier gathering. A more interesting room. Or—
No.
She was not looking for him, rather, she was noting his absence. The distinction was an important one.
He knew she would be here tonight. Her informing him had been part of their agreement.
And he had said he would come. Not might. Would.
And yet the doorway remained stubbornly free of broad shoulders, dark hair, and that infuriatingly steady gaze.
Beatrice straightened and returned her attention to the ballroom.
Well, then.
If this was a broken promise, it was at least a useful one.
It reminded her that no matter how vehemently a gentleman insisted he’d protect, no matter how calm his voice or competent his hands, one could not build one’s safety upon his arrival.
One had to be prepared when he did not come.
Beatrice straightened and jerked her attention back to the floor.
She was not here to speculate upon Gideon’s whereabouts. He had already done more than she might reasonably have expected in offering his instruction at all.
Tonight was simply an opportunity to put that training to use.
And yet—
Nothing happened.
The set progressed as expected. Gentlemen bowed. Ladies smiled. Conversations rose and fell in pleasant, predictable patterns. The same arrangements were played by the orchestra, already becoming far too familiar-sounding.
Beatrice observed and waited.
And waited.
And found, to her mild surprise, that she was becoming rather… bored.
Her gaze wandered. To the dancers. To the doors. To the clusters of matrons and their ever-watchful eyes.
She searched briefly for her brother as well at one point, having hardly seen him since they’d arrived in London, but Dash was, of course, nowhere to be seen.
Was he making any progress with Mrs. Bloomington? Or were all his efforts destined to prove in vain, confirming every whisper the ton so dearly loved to repeat?
The thought might once have amused her.
But not now. Not after the past few years.
Dash had sacrificed enough already. His marriage to Lady Hannah had been noble, certainly.
Heroic, even. He’d saved a vulnerable young woman from not only an unhappy union, but most likely a dangerous one.
And yet, Beatrice had never quite been able to shake the sense that an even darker truth had followed that marriage into the house and lingered there, unspoken.
She did not know what it was.
Only that there was… something.
Once, not long after Dash’s marriage, she had overheard him and Gideon in the library.
They had not been arguing, exactly, but she’d sensed that very darkness even from the hallway.
Something about an old friend. Sebastian…
and Harrowgate, the school Dash had attended while she’d still lived in France.