Reveling
The applause still echoed in Beatrice’s ears as she strolled toward a row of pale green willows, a glass of champagne balanced lightly in her hand and the medal at her throat hanging absurdly heavy from its deep blue ribbon.
Just beyond the trees, the Thames drifted lazily beneath their trailing branches.
Gideon matched his pace to hers.
She did not look back.
Instead, she lifted her glass of champagne, the cool stem damp against her fingers, and took a measured sip.
Second place had gone to Gideon, who had accepted the prize with easy indifference—a slender silver brooch shaped like an arrow and engraved with the date of Mrs. Shaw’s spring competition.
He had turned it once between his fingers before tucking it into his waistcoat pocket, as though it were no more remarkable than a spare button.
Third place went to Lord Longstaffe. And as the viscount accepted his prize, he’d turned to Beatrice, lifted his hand, and flicked it near his forehead in a subtle military salute.
Forgiveness, or at least respect.
Beatrice had scarcely finished accepting her own award, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, before Gideon had taken her gently, but firmly, by the arm.
“Come,” he had murmured. And before anyone else could detain her, he steered her neatly away from the gathering crowd.
Behind them, the garden party had come fully alive—bright congratulations, rueful remarks from defeated gentlemen, and a quintet sending a lively little country tune across the lawn.
“How did you know?” she asked.
The moment she’d won, the attention had become… overwhelming. Compliments. Questions. A few elderly ladies asking where she had learned to shoot.
One very determined gentleman requesting that she demonstrate again.
“You were studying the lace on Mrs. Shaw’s parasol,” he said.
“I was not. And what has that got to do with anything?”
“You were. To the exclusion of all else.” Gideon kept his gaze fixed on the river path ahead.
She huffed softly. “It was Italian. Point de Venise, I believe. I was merely admiring it.”
“Of course.”
She glanced at him. “I was.”
“You were also tapping the stem of your glass,” he added. “You used to do the same thing at your mother’s assemblies. When you wished to be elsewhere.”
Beatrice stilled.
She looked down at her hand.
Did she do that? She was not tapping it now.
And that he should notice something so… small, so particular to her, seemed unlikely.
Gideon had always been at Dash’s side—thoroughly occupied with whatever mischief the two of them had devised between them. And she had been—what? A nuisance for sure. A younger sister to be endured.
And yet—
Gideon’s mouth curved faintly.
“When Colonel Fairleigh asked about your technique,” he added, “you began chewing on your bottom lip. I thought it best we make our excuses before you drew blood.”
She winced. “I can only hope I did not make too great a spectacle of myself.”
Gideon glanced sideways at her.
“That is not what I meant, Beatrice. I simply know you.”
Her cheeks warmed.
Beatrice hid behind another sip of champagne, then cast about for something—anything—safer to say.
“I was feeling rather disappointed,” she said. “Right before you arrived at Beckman House.”
Gideon glanced at her.
“Why?”
“I had been expecting guests. My friend, Lark and her charge and Lady Barrington.” She gave a small, self-conscious shrug, and then forced a smile. “But no one came.”
It was not the sort of thing she would typically confess to anyone. The failure of the afternoon’s tea—small though the gathering had been intended to be—was… embarrassing.
Gideon didn’t laugh.
They continued along the path beneath the willows and, thinking again of Lark’s note and all its implications, Beatrice winced slightly.
“They chose to visit Lady Calliope instead,” she explained. “Who has apparently regaled half of Mayfair with my… miscalculation last night. I imagine I’m about to become a laughingstock.”
This was not her true concern really, but it felt somehow like a safer worry to disclose. She’d never been overly invested in her reputation.
For example, Beatrice knew she ought not have returned to society so soon after Lady Hannah’s death. She knew it. She simply had not cared overmuch. Furthermore, she’d known Hannah would have cheered her on.
And so she’d come because the ton’s opinion had always been easy enough to dismiss. Strangers might whisper, count the days, purse their lips over black gloves and grey gowns. Let them.
But Lark’s letter… had been different.
It had made her feel, for the first time, not improper, but… unwanted.
Beatrice looked down at the pale gold of her champagne.
Lark was her friend.
And the idea, however unlikely, that she might find herself once again on the outside of something… something she had only just begun to enjoy—
Beatrice lifted her chin.
To allow this to affect her so… It was absurd.
Except—
If she meant to continue in her self-assigned task, she would require invitations. Access. Not to be quietly set aside.
“You needn’t worry,” Gideon said after a few more steps. “After today, no one will be discussing anything but your marksmanship.”
She glanced at him sideways, studying him. Had he planned… all of this?
“What if I had lost?” she asked. “What if I had stepped up to the line and sent my arrow sailing into the sky out of an abundance of nerves?”
A faint smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. “The potential benefits outweighed the risks. Which,” he added mildly, “were negligible.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or terrified by your confidence.”
Gideon simply turned to meet her eyes.
For a moment, he was familiar to her—of course he was. Gideon. Hawk. Her brother’s friend.
And yet, the look that passed between them belonged to neither childhood nor friendship.
It was something else entirely.
“Well,” Beatrice said, touching the medal that rested against her collarbone, “if you dare try a stunt like this again…” She scowled threateningly. “Then I’ll be forced to—” She faltered.
The threat she had intended to deliver abruptly vanished from her mind.
Because Gideon had turned fully toward her, the gold flecks in his hazel eyes all but blazing.
“What will you do to me, Beatrice Beckman?” he asked softly.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth. A mouth that was—
“I’ll use you for target practice.”
She turned and marched ahead along the path. Because, for a fleeting and mortifying instant, she had wondered what it might be like to be kissed by him.
Gideon kept up with her, of course, and she’d nearly dismissed the thought by the time the trees opened onto the river’s edge. Not the full width of the Thames, but a narrow branch that wandered lazily away from the main current.
“It loops around the island,” he said from right behind her.
Reaching around, brushing her arm just barely, Gideon pointed toward a row of small wooden boats tied to a tidy little dock. “Shall we?” he asked.
“As long as I get to row.”