Beside Her
Gideon descended the front steps of his house shortly after luncheon, hat in hand, jaw set, with every intention of behaving like a rational man.
The sun stood high over the square, bright enough to turn the windows of the neighboring houses into sharp panes of glare. A carriage rattled around the corner. Somewhere nearby, a vendor called out his wares. London carried on in its usual, indifferent fashion.
Gideon turned in the direction of Beckman House. He tugged once at the knot of his cravat, then dropped his hand.
The afternoon was not so warm as all that.
To be quite honest, the reaction had very little to do with the weather and everything to do with the conversation awaiting him.
How the devil, Gideon wondered—not for the first time—had the Beckman siblings managed to disturb his life on such a profound level?
Dash had been troubling enough.
Dash with his silences, with his gardening, with his increasing resemblance to a man awaiting execution rather than the decision of a single woman.
But Beatrice—
God help him.
Beatrice Beckman had become an affliction.
A beautiful, infuriating, sharp-tongued affliction who sent him scowls across crowded ballrooms when any reasonable woman might have offered a look of gratitude, perhaps a hint of affection—
No. If she had done either of those, she would not have been Beatrice. And Gideon was not fool enough to expect them now.
Particularly when she appeared far more inclined to stab him with her fan.
Which was unfair.
He was advancing her cause, was he not? The ladies were safer. Terraces were watched. Galleries and shadowed corridors no longer offered easy hunting grounds to men who preferred their prey unguarded and alone.
Beatrice objected only because he had done it without her.
And, admittedly, because he had done it in a manner likely to make her feel managed.
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
He could have handled that better.
But there had been no better way to keep her safe.
Therein lay the difficulty.
To protect her, he had to act.
He had known she would feel the walls of it, but had believed he could put them in place without making her despise him for them.
A spectacular miscalculation.
Still, he could not relent.
He had found the ball, hosted at the Ashcombe residence. A masquerade, five years past. Nothing else. Just the certainty that somewhere among those masked guests had been the man who had taught Beatrice how to fear.
He needed more from her.
God help him, he did not know how to ask without making her relive it.
And then there was Dash.
His oldest friend. His brother in every way that mattered.
The man to whom Gideon owed more loyalty than nearly anyone alive.
The man whose sister Gideon had touched with far less restraint than honor required.
Blast and damn.
Dash had not helped matters by becoming an ill-tempered ogre. If the gardening had been concerning earlier that spring, this new state of isolation was worse. He shut himself in his study, waited upon word from Mrs. Bloomington, and wore heartbreak with all the subtlety of a widow in full mourning.
More and more, it seemed possible Mrs. Bloomington did not mean to forgive him.
Which made Gideon’s present errand all the more abominable.
How was a man supposed to look his closest friend in the eye—his grieving, brooding, possibly half-mad closest friend—and confess that he had very nearly ruined the fellow’s sister against a tree in Hyde Park?
And that was only the latest of his transgressions.
Most of it, however, would remain his alone to carry. Beatrice’s history. Her fears. Every private moment she had trusted him with.
He owed Dash honesty.
But he owed Beatrice discretion.
The line between them was damned narrow.
Protecting her mattered more than easing his own guilt. More than Dash’s temper. More than Gideon’s urge to drag the entire wretched mess into the open and accept whatever punishment followed.
Gideon grimaced as he turned onto the square.
Dash, I have developed a tendre for your sister.
No. Far too mild for his present condition.
I wish to pay my addresses to Lady Beatrice.
Better.
Except Dash might expect some sort of explanation, and Gideon would then be forced either to lie, evade, or say something unforgivably stupid such as, Because she has become essential to my breathing.
Absolutely not.
My regard for your sister has changed.
Too vague.
I have not behaved toward Beatrice with the detachment expected of your friend.
Accurate, but also… damning.
Gideon exhaled hard through his nose.
Perhaps simpler was best.
I care for her.
There. That, at least, was true.
Not the whole truth. That he couldn’t shake the feel of her skin beneath his hands, nor the echoing memory of her breathless little sighs that he caught against his mouth.
But true enough to begin.
And if Dash demanded more?
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
He would tell him only what honor required.
That he cared for Beatrice. That his intentions were serious. That he meant to court her properly if she allowed it.
If she allowed it.
Regardless of Dash’s answer, Gideon would no longer pretend he was protecting her merely because of a promise made between friends.
Then, after Dash had either given Gideon his blessing, or challenged him to a duel, Gideon would turn his focus and energy to the equally impossible task of getting back into Beatrice’s good graces.
He would apologize—admit where he had erred.
He would listen. He would be patient.
He would do whatever was required.
Everything, except, of course, allowing her to place herself in danger again.
Not ten seconds after he rapped on the door at Beckman House, it opened.
Mr. Drake stood on the other side, every inch the proper Mayfair butler, though today his posture seemed a degree too rigid. Shadows marked the skin beneath his eyes.
“Afternoon, Drake.” Gideon handed over his hat. “Is Dasborough still in his study?”
“His Grace is not home at present, my lord.”
Gideon had not expected that. For one moment, he simply stared.
Was it possible Mrs. Bloomington was going to put him out of his misery?
Gideon opened his mouth to ask where the duke had gone, then stopped when movement above caught his eye.
Beatrice.
She stood at the top of the staircase, one hand upon the banister, her skirts falling in soft folds about her feet.
When had the unexpected sight of her become capable of undoing every carefully ordered thought in his head?
“Gideon,” she said.
For half a heartbeat, she smiled.
A real smile.
Then, as though recalling she was still furious with him, she pressed her lips together.
“Lady Beatrice.” He bowed.
But he could not help studying her as he straightened. She looked composed, certainly. Beatrice always looked composed when she wished to. But worry shadowed her eyes, tightening the fine lines of her expression.
“Dash is not here,” she said.
“I gathered as much.”
Her gaze shifted briefly toward Mr. Drake. Personal concerns were rarely discussed before servants, but after a moment she seemed to decide there was little point in pretending the butler did not already know the state of the household.
“He left no explanation?” Gideon asked.
“He was wearing the gardening clothes again.” Beatrice drew in a controlled breath. “I appreciate that you came to speak with him. Perhaps when he returns…”
Before she could finish, Mr. Drake moved silently toward the drawing room and opened the door.
A very subtle, if not impertinent, suggestion.
The butler, Gideon realized, was doing what he could to bring the matter of his employer to some sort of resolution. The household had begun listing around its absent duke, and Drake, poor devil, was attempting to right the ship by any means available.
Even if that meant shoving Lord Hawkins and Lady Beatrice into a room together.
Beatrice noticed too.
Her mouth tightened again, but after a pause, she descended the stairs.
Gideon waited, keeping himself perfectly still as though she’d bolt if he made one wrong move. But as she passed by him, as he caught the scent of her perfume, he felt himself come to life again. And whether he’d wanted to or not, his feet automatically had him following her into the drawing room.
Drake closed the door behind them, and Beatrice sat upon the sofa with all the dignity of a queen receiving an unwelcome ambassador.
Gideon took the place beside her.
Not across from her.
Beside her.
He had not come to speak with Beatrice, but given the opportunity, he would be a fool not to take it.
And now that he was here, Gideon could not help recalling the last time the two of them had sat alone in a drawing room.
This one was not so very different from his own. Most Mayfair townhouses possessed the same proportions, the same polished tables, the same arrangement of sofa and chairs designed to suggest propriety while providing just enough privacy for impropriety to become possible.
He cleared his throat.
Beatrice glanced away first.
“He has hardly eaten anything,” she said quietly. “He sleeps on and off, and when he does not sleep…” Her fingers twisted together in her lap. “The drinking.”
Gideon’s attention sharpened.
“I simply want my brother back.” Her voice did not break, but it came close enough that something in his chest tightened painfully. “And I do not think that will happen so long as he allows Mrs. Bloomington to keep him on her hook like this.”
She winced at once, as though regretting the harshness.
“I thought coming after her would be good for him,” she continued. “I thought once he found her, once they spoke… Instead, she has refused him, and he has only grown worse. And now he will not listen to me. Or Edwards. Or Drake. Or anyone.”
Mrs. Bloomington is bloody killing him.
The thought came sharp and immediate, and Gideon had to bite it back before the words could escape. Beatrice was worried enough without him putting that particular fear into language.