Exercise
The small dock was not entirely deserted. Several guests had wandered down from the lawns, some to admire the view of the river, others merely seeking a quieter place to talk, away from the noise of the garden party.
Gideon surveyed the row of little boats tied along the edge before selecting one that appeared reasonably dry and unlikely to sink beneath them.
Of course, Beatrice would insist on rowing.
“Here,” he said.
A servant—who seemed to materialize precisely when needed—stepped forward with a tray. Gideon handed over Beatrice’s champagne and his own untouched drink, then shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the narrow wooden bench inside the boat.
“For the lady,” he said.
A lady who was also his oldest friend’s little sister…
Her gown today was a clear blue. Not the muted lavender or grey she had worn so often these past weeks. He had noticed that immediately.
And it suited her. Perhaps a little too well.
Not hesitating for even a moment, Beatrice stepped confidently into the boat, balancing easily despite the slight rocking of the craft. Gideon offered a steadying hand, which she accepted only because he insisted, and followed her in.
He had not intended to bring her here.
Well—not here here. Not into a boat, on a quiet offshoot of the Thames, with hardly anyone else in sight.
The archery competition had been the plan. To smooth over the unfortunate business with Longstaffe and Lady Calliope. That much had been deliberate.
What he had not anticipated was the crush of attention that followed.
The moment it had begun—gentlemen pressing in, voices overlapping, her name repeated too often—something in him had tightened. He saw her fingers tapping away at her glass, her teeth catching her bottom lip. Subtle nervous gestures that betrayed her unease.
And before he’d had time to consider it, he was already moving.
Extracting her. For her brother, for his friend, of course.
Perhaps the version of Beatrice Dash had described would have welcomed the attention, but Gideon had known immediately, that wasn’t the case anymore.
So, he’d done the logical thing.
And now… now that he’d saved her, she was perfectly at ease across from him in a narrow boat, rowing with Beatrice-like confidence.
Sunlight picked out the red beneath her brown hair. The blue of her gown complemented the warmth of her skin and made her eyes seem deeper, stormier.
But it was not the gown that held his attention.
It was the line of her throat. The quiet rise and fall of her breath, drawing his gaze lower than it had any right to go. The soft shadow where the neckline of her gown curved over her breasts.
And the unhurried certainty of her movements—each stroke smooth, measured, inevitable—until his body began to register the rhythm in ways his mind very firmly refused to name.
Gideon dragged his gaze toward the riverbank.
Dash trusts you.
The thought struck with unwelcome clarity.
Gideon turned to study her again, and Beatrice, mercifully oblivious, was not looking at him at all.
Her gaze had shifted past him, toward the distant bank, where the servant who had taken their glasses bent to collect another abandoned drink in the wake of the festivities.
Her brow crinkled faintly. “You never drink champagne,” she said, the oars dipping once more into the water. “Or any other spirits.”
The words were light, meant to sound like idle observation.
“I…” Gideon began.
The memory rose unbidden. Seven boys—not yet men, at the mere age of six and ten. Reckless. Laughing. The roar of the raging ocean down below, beyond the cliff’s edge. Empty bottles and shards of broken glass glittering in the waning light of the fire.
“I do not care for its effects,” he finished.
“My brother doesn’t mind those effects.”
“No,” Gideon said. Each of them had played a part. Each of them carried their own ghosts. Gideon stared across the water and then blinked. He’d not allow the memory to intrude today.
The boat drifted for several strokes in silence.
Gideon cleared his throat lightly.
“I don’t find fault in those who enjoy it,” he said after a moment. “I simply prefer to keep my wits about me.” He gave a short, self-deprecating huff. “Someone must.”
Beatrice smiled faintly at that. “No, I understand. You keep watch over them—your friends, my brother. I can appreciate that. I think it’s admirable that you would take on the task with such consistency.”
Merely practical, but— “If you say so.”
“I do say so.”
“Well then, who am I to question such wisdom?”
“Exactly.” Her lip twitched, betraying her serious expression. “Observant man.”
And he was.
Observant enough to realize, after another exchange of nonsense and a laugh she tried poorly to hide, that he was enjoying himself.
Not enduring her company.
Enjoying it.
Beatrice Beckman, he was discovering—not for the first time—could be remarkably entertaining.
Which was something he had failed to consider when deciding her safety would be his responsibility.
He looked toward the water.
“Keep to the left. That way we’ll avoid the main channel.”
With a glance over her shoulder, she nodded, and they drifted into a companionable silence, marked only by the dip of the oars and the quiet slip of the river along the hull.
“Now look at this,” he said after a moment.
Beatrice glanced up. “At what?”
“This.” Gideon gestured lightly to the empty stretch of water around them. “Two people, unchaperoned—and yet nothing at all untoward.”
One brow lifted. “Your point?”
“That not every private moment conceals ill intent.”
“I know.”
He stilled. Her easy answer surprised him.
“You know,” he repeated.
“Of course I know.” She looked faintly offended now. “I never said all gentlemen have ill intentions.”
Beatrice looked out over the water, her grip adjusting on the oar. “Sometimes two people remove themselves from a crowd to speak freely. Or to have a moment’s quiet. Or because the room has become too loud and everyone in it too pleased with themselves.”
Despite himself, his mouth twitched.
“And sometimes,” she added, more softly, “they are simply friends.”
Gideon watched the lowered sweep of her lashes, the stubborn set of her chin, the faint color touching her cheeks.
And against all better judgment—indeed, with no judgment whatsoever—he found himself wanting to push.
“Do you believe me harmless, Beatrice?”
“Not entirely.” She glanced at him then, her gaze sharpening. “But Dash trusts you.”
Something shifted in his chest.
Unexpected.
Unwelcome.
Her oar dipped into the water.
“Blasted Dash,” Gideon said lightly, though the words came out rougher than he intended.
“Yes,” she said.
And held his gaze a moment too long.
Gideon cleared his throat and looked away.
Which was when he noticed the narrow strip of sand along Mrs. Shaw’s little island.
A dinghy had been drawn ashore there. A parasol lay draped across its side, a shawl abandoned over one seat—and beneath them both, protruding at a particularly guilty angle, was a very recognizable walking cane.
Beatrice followed his gaze.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The evidence suggested romance.
Not at all proper. But…
“We shall assume everything is… innocent here,” Gideon said mildly. “Unless you feel compelled to confirm the lady’s safety personally.”
Beatrice straightened slightly.
“No.”
Her oars dipped back into the water with renewed purpose as she looked firmly away from the island.
So she had seen them.
Earl of Grimstead—Grimm—one of Gideon’s more incorrigible friends—and a fashionable married lady who was widely known to be neglected by her husband.
“I am not that unsophisticated, Gideon.”
Gideon’s mouth twitched.
“No, my little archer,” he agreed. “You are not.”
With the boat drifting past the island, acknowledging the old nickname, she merely shot him a glare, and kept rowing with stubborn determination.
Unfortunately, as they rounded the bend, the river’s main current caught them—stronger than usual in early spring—and began tugging the little craft sideways.
Gideon refrained from commenting when she adjusted her grip and pulled harder.
The oars bit into the water, but for all her efforts, they went nowhere.
If anything, they might have been inching backward… and downstream.
A faint sheen of perspiration appeared along her brow and her upper lip, but Beatrice, Gideon knew, would let them be pushed out to sea before admitting defeat.
Gideon leaned forward and placed his hands on the oars just beside hers. He didn’t take them from her, but added his strength to hers.
And together they pulled.
The boat shifted, the bow catching the current at a better angle, and slowly they began working their way upstream.
After several steady strokes the water loosened its hold, and the current softened again as they turned back toward the calmer channel circling the island.
This time Beatrice surrendered the oars without protest and Gideon took them, settling easily into the rhythm.
And to his mild surprise, the small concession gave him an unexpected sense of satisfaction.
Because Beatrice Beckman was not a woman inclined to ask for help.
Nor to trust easily.
But she trusted him.