Hunter, Predator, Prey #3
“We’ll continue our conversation another time, perhaps, Persephone.”
Another tremor ran through the woman beside her.
“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Hatherleigh,” Beatrice said lightly. “The lady has heard more than enough.”
Beatrice didn’t wait for an answer, but turned Lady Persephone gently toward the path, making sure to keep a secure hold on the other woman’s arm when she noticed the unsteady weave of her steps.
They were well along the path before Lady Persephone could speak.
“You will not tell anyone… will you?” Her voice was small. Not hysterical, simply shaken.
Beatrice slowed.
“Tell them what?”
“That I…” Persephone swallowed. “That I was foolish enough to…”
“Goodness, no.” If she did that, the poor woman would be trapped with that villain forever.
“He said he wanted to show me a constellation. He said my eyes reminded him of the stars at midnight. He said…” Persephone began, then stopped. “He only wanted to get me alone outside.”
“Yes,” Beatrice agreed softly. “I’m sorry.”
Persephone shuddered, and then swiped a hand at her eyes.
“Let’s take a turn about the garden,” Beatrice said, gentling her tone at once. “Have a moment to let the breeze cool your cheeks. Champagne often leaves me looking overly flushed.”
Persephone managed a fragile smile. “I don’t usually drink spirits at these sorts of events, you know. I don’t normally dance much either because of… well....” After a moment, she frowned. “My mother isn’t truly looking for me, is she?”
Beatrice hesitated only a fraction.
“No.”
Persephone stopped.
“When he led you outside,” Beatrice said evenly, “I followed.”
Confusion was replaced with understanding. “You knew his intentions?”
“I suspected.”
Persephone absorbed that. Then, very quietly: “You must think me such a fool, letting him lead me around like that at the barest hint of flattery. That should have been my first clue, honestly. No one calls me beautiful and means it.”
What an awful thing to say about oneself.
Beatrice felt a twist of indignation on Lady Persephone’s behalf, because surely she had not come to such a conclusion on her own.
“Well, I do,” she said. Persephone only looked at her skeptically. “What? It’s not as bad as all that. You must know that you’re lovely.”
And it was true. Sure, the scar could be a bit startling at first if one’s gaze lingered there. But Lady Persephone herself was rather pretty, with almost doll-like features and shimmering golden hair.
“I appreciate the sentiment, my lady, but it is as I said.” No one says I’m beautiful and means it. “I am not so delicate that I cannot face the truth about myself.”
Beatrice frowned, at a bit of a loss.
“It’s no matter,” Persephone went on. “I’m used to it by now, you see. This incident with Mr. Hatherleigh simply… reopened an old wound, one might say. Regardless, I thank you.” As they approached the terrace, Persephone lowered her voice to a near whisper. “For… interrupting him. Truly.”
Beatrice inclined her head. “I am glad I did. And if anyone asks, you and I have been exploring the gardens together. I believe the clove-scented ones must be the rosa rugosa. I believe my grand mere had some in her garden.”
They stepped back inside, discussing the perfect weather for roses, then stopped near the refreshment table, where Persephone detached reluctantly, smoothing her sleeves once more.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Call me Bea.”
Persephone nodded and returned to her mother’s side, where she was received without suspicion, without question.
Beatrice turned back to her own party.
“Ah—there you are,” the Marchioness of Barrington said briskly. “Vanished again.”
“I’ve been here all along,” Beatrice replied. “I suppose I faded into the wallpaper.”
Lady Barrington narrowed her eyes, but her attention was quickly diverted when Lady Theodosia pressed a gloved hand to her temple. “Well, it’s good you’re back now. We were just about to take our leave. You see, Lady Theodosia is tired. She danced every dance but one, after all.”
“Of course, my lady. Of course.” Beatrice cast one final glance across the ballroom—
—and very nearly missed him.
Lord Gideon Rothmore. Baron Hawkins.
When her brother brought him home ages ago, he’d introduced him as Gideon, which was how she’d always thought of him. But to most of his friends, he was known as “Hawk”.
He stood near the refreshments table, not drinking. Not conversing. Merely watching.
Her.
One brow raised, head tilted just a little.
It was the same look he had worn when she was fourteen and attempting to follow her brother and his friends over the stone wall bordering the south paddock.
The same look he had worn when she was sixteen and insisting she could ride astride without scandalizing half the county.
The look of a man who anticipated trouble and expected her to be at its center.
Spoilsport.
He inclined his head.
She returned the gesture with equal composure and turned away.
As she followed her party from the ballroom, the music swelled once more behind her—bright, oblivious, and most unfortunately, unchanged.