Stoll Through the Park
The following morning, Beatrice arrived at the Serpentine Bridge at least ten minutes before seven.
She was anxious for this conversation. As anyone would be.
She had told Gideon about the attack. Not everything, but enough.
And although Beatrice knew, with every sensible part of her mind, that what happened to her had not been her fault, she’d spent half the night wondering if this was going to change things between them.
It shouldn’t. But Gideon was a man after all.
And, yes, five years ago, Beatrice had been foolish. She’d concede that.
She had been told, of course, always to remain with a trusted companion. To avoid isolated locations. To observe the rules that governed young ladies with blind obedience.
But no one had told her the devastatingly ugly reason for doing so.
Not that her body might be in danger. Not that a gentleman might cease to be a gentleman the moment no one was present to see him. Not that the consequence of disobedience might be something far more terrible than gossip.
No. Beatrice would not blame herself for that.
She had not been the evil part of what had happened.
She had been innocent.
And that was the word that caught.
If she had been innocent then, what was she now?
Ruined.
She rejected the word. Despised it.
But as she slowed near the bridge, her gloved fingers tightening briefly about her reticule, she could not stop wondering whether Gideon, given a night to think on it, would see her differently now.
Whether he would look at her and see not Beatrice, but the thing that had been done to her.
The thought made her stomach twist.
Yet still—foolish, impossible creature that she was—she wanted to see him.
When she saw him crossing toward her, relief struck so swiftly it was almost pain.
He had come. Of course he had come.
Gideon lifted his chin and met her gaze, and as he drew nearer, she got a clear look at his face.
“Oh, Gideon,” she breathed.
A faint bruise shadowed the skin beneath one eye. Three thin scratches marked his cheek, only half-hidden by the morning’s unshaven darkness along his jaw. Another scrape marred his temple.
Her doing.
All of it.
Her heart sank to the soles of her shoes.
And yet Gideon’s gaze merely softened. He knew precisely what she saw.
“Good morning, Beatrice.”
She took one step toward him. “Are you dreadfully angry with me?”
He gave a small shake of his head. “Shall we walk?”
That was not an answer.
But he offered his arm, and because she did not quite know what to do with this unexpected ache, Beatrice placed her hand on his sleeve and walked beside him.
For several moments, neither of them spoke.
The park was quiet at this hour, the paths nearly deserted, the air cool beneath the trees.
It should have been peaceful. Instead, Beatrice could think only of what she’d done to his face.
The way she had struck out. The way she had driven her knee into him.
The way she had fought him as though he were—
No.
She drew in a careful breath to make the apology she ought to have made the night before.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t know,” she said at last. “I didn’t know it was you.”
His arm stilled beneath her hand, but he did not stop walking.
“I would never have—” She broke off, frustrated by the uselessness of mere words. “You startled me. That is all. I was turned around, and I heard someone behind me, and I thought—” Her throat tightened. “I did not know it was you.”
“I know that, Bea.”
“It was… quite uncalled for.”
At that, he finally stopped.
Beatrice was forced to stop with him.
And when Gideon turned to face her, his expression was… grave. “I know you would not have lashed out if you knew it was me.”
She studied his face, but that only made her aware of the cuts again, the bruise, the scrape near his temple. Evidence.
Of her terror, her lack of control.
“I am so very sorry,” she whispered.
“Do not apologize to me for defending yourself.” Before she could argue, he held up one hand. “I mean it.” His voice remained calm, but also low and fierce. “You were right to protect yourself. Never apologize for that.”
For a moment, she could not seem to breathe properly.
“I frightened you,” he said.
“But–”
“I frightened you,” he repeated. “And I will do my best never to do so again.”
The words settled quietly.
Beatrice looked up at him. This time she didn’t see the bruises, just the steadiness of his eyes.
“You could not have known,” she said.
“No. But I know now.” His gaze held hers. “I never want you to be afraid of me.”
Her heart gave a strange, painful twist.
They stood there, just off the path, beneath the shelter of trees whose leaves shifted softly overhead.
Then Gideon asked, “Have I frightened you before?”
She frowned. “Oh, Gideon. No.”
“I wasn’t sure. Yesterday…”
Beatrice thought back to the day before.
To the way he had stopped, again and again, waiting for her. Letting her choose. Letting her set the pace even when his restraint had been worn thin enough for her to feel it trembling between them.
“Never,” she said.
His throat moved, as though he had to swallow hard.
“Perhaps,” she added quietly, “I should ask if I frightened you.”
His eyes changed.
Then he touched her face, his thumb brushing the curve of her cheek with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
“Truly? Beatrice.” His voice caught. “You scare the hell out of me.”
Before she could answer, he’d gathered her into his arms and was kissing her.
His hand curved along her jaw, the other warm at her waist as he guided her from the path and into the deeper shade beneath the trees, where the low branches all but hid them completely.
Beatrice went willingly.
More than willingly.
The air there was even cooler, heavy with damp earth and the faint scent of leaves.
Beatrice scarcely noticed any of it.
Not when Gideon kissed her like this.
Not rushed. Not apologetically. But… very deliberately.
And with an attention that made every place his mouth touched feel suddenly, unbearably alive.
When her back met the rough bark of a tree, Gideon lifted his head enough to look at her properly, his breath still uneven.
“No fear?” he asked quietly.
“None,” she whispered.
The word had scarcely left her mouth before his lips found her again.
This time when he grasped her hand, he pinned it gently beside her shoulder against the tree. His other hand moved slowly along her waist, tracing the curve of her hip through layers of muslin and stays.
And somehow, Beatrice felt every inch of it.
The pressure of his palm against her ribs. The heat of his body crowding close to hers.
The roughness of his jaw brushing her skin as his mouth moved to the sensitive place beneath her ear.
She tilted her head back to the side, giving his mouth access to travel down the line of her throat.
Molten lava seemed to spread through her in waves, low and insistent. The same as the day before, but also… different.
His hand slid higher, just below her breast, giving her every opportunity to stop him.
She did not.
Instead, she leaned into the warmth of his hand where he cupped her, making a soft sigh of contentment before she could catch herself.
Gideon lifted his head immediately, his gaze fixed on her face.
Not triumphant or self-satisfied. But purposeful, fully conscious of…
Of her.
“Still good?” he asked, his voice rougher now. Watching her reaction as though it mattered more than anything else.
“Yes.”
His thumb moved over her through the fabric, weakening her knees.
Gideon shifted closer at once, steadying her against the tree.
“I should stop,” he murmured against her skin.
Beatrice could only shake her head, tilting her hips forward.
The movement brought the full length of him against her.
Hard. Unmistakable.
Even through layers of clothing, she could feel him pressing against her stomach. The realization of what she did to him—what this did to him—weakened her knees even more.
Gideon exhaled unsteadily. And as he eased the fabric of her bodice lower, cool air met the heated flush of her breast.
She shivered.
Again, his gaze lifted briefly to hers.
Beatrice nodded, and then watched as he oh, so slowly dipped his head to claim her with his mouth.
Warm. Wet.
Nothing like anything she’d ever imagined.
When his lips closed around one peak, her eyes fluttered closed and she all but collapsed against the tree. As sensations pulled low through her body, her fingers tightened helplessly on his shoulders.
“Oh—”
She did not pull away— instead, she pressed closer—and he gave her a little more of him. The deep pull of his mouth. The rough scrape of his jaw against the sensitive underside of her breast.
And that warm pressure of his tongue… seemed to travel through her entire body. So much… desire. Low in her stomach.
“Gideon…”
This was different than the drawing room.
Then, she had overwhelmed herself. This time—
This time he guided the pace, he explored… careful and deliberate, drawing sensation from her piece by piece until she scarcely knew how to breathe.
“Beatrice.” His voice sounded strained now. Almost raw.
Gideon pressed his forehead briefly against her shoulder, his breath uneven against her skin.
She could feel his heart racing.
“God help me,” he whispered. The words were not playful. They sounded torn from him. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Again?” she asked.
“Again,” he agreed.
His hold at the curve of her hip remained steady, his mouth gentle against her skin, but the rest of him—the rigid set of his shoulders, the roughness in his breathing, the hard length of him still pressed against her—betrayed how fiercely he fought himself.
Which was why, perhaps, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, Beatrice slid her hand down between them. And the moment her palm settled over his trousers, Gideon went utterly still.
“Beatrice…”
Beneath her palm, the hard plane of his stomach tightened. His breath caught. His hips shifted toward her before he stopped himself.
As though even now, every part of him was waiting to learn what she would choose.
“You are so careful with me,” she whispered. Even before he knew… He’d let her have all the control.
Gideon shut his eyes briefly. “I must be.”
“Perhaps,” she said softly, her hand moving just slightly, dipping lower with a boldness that surprised even herself, “you deserve care as well.”
His breath left him in a low, broken sound. He dropped his head against her shoulder, and for one breathless moment she thought he might stop her.
Instead, his hand slid into her hair, holding her firmly in place as though he couldn't trust himself to do anything else.
“Bea.” His voice dropped. “You can’t possibly know what that does to me.”
“Can’t I?” she whispered.
Her answer seemed to undo him further.
Beatrice felt it immediately—in the sharp pull of his breath, in the low vibrations running through his body beneath her hands. Encouraged by it, she let her palm move more firmly over him, learning the shape and pressure of him through the fabric of his trousers.
Gideon groaned softly against her throat.
Not calm now. Not controlled.
The sound pulsed straight through her.
And so she continued, following her instinct more than her knowledge.
She noticed every reaction he gave her—the tightening of his hand in her hair, the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the involuntary shift of his hips when her touch grew firmer.
“Beatrice…”
His voice was truly wrecked now.
She had never heard anything like it.
She shifted, pressing herself against the hard line of one of his thighs, seeking relief from the unbearable ache building inside her.
Good heavens. How had wanting turned into need?
Gideon’s mouth found her throat again, rougher, less careful. His teeth grazed her skin and the sharp sensation pulled a helpless sound from her.
He thrust forward against her hand.
“Fuck—” The word broke from him raggedly, followed by a strained, “I’m… Bea…”
What little control he had left shattered.
She felt it in the powerful movement of his body against hers, the hard pressure of him driving against her palm and stomach, and breaths that were harsh and uneven beside her ear.
And then—her body answered.
The sensation struck suddenly and completely, tearing through her in hot, overwhelming waves. All she could do was cling to him as wave after wave of pleasure tightened her body with startling force.