A Thing Apart
Much later that night, Beatrice sat before the fire in her bedchamber, her damp hair unbound, one hand lifting the heavy strands away from her neck as the heat worked its slow magic.
It was far later than she ought to be awake.
And yet, sleep felt unlikely, for the day had not gone at all as she had imagined—and, rather inconveniently, not in any troubling way.
In fact—
Beatrice frowned slightly and shifted the fall of her hair over one shoulder.
She had enjoyed it. Thoroughly.
And not simply because she’d won the contest. Or because of the ride in the boat. Or the trip to Gunters after, where Gideon insisted she sample an absurd number of ices.
Curiously, it was because of… him.
She had expected Gideon to be overbearing. Disapproving. A slightly more handsome version of her brother—before Dash had diverted all of his attention toward his current campaign.
But Gideon hadn’t been like Dash at all. In fact, he’d been rather agreeable. Amusing, even.
Which was… inconvenient.
Beatrice reached for the towel draped over her shoulder and pressed it lightly to the ends of her hair.
“Two people, unchaperoned—and yet nothing at all untoward.”
Gideon’s words teased the back of her mind.
Not every private moment between a gentleman and a lady meant danger. She knew that. She had always known that.
Her mouth tightened.
But that did not make such moments safe.
Even without ill intent, a lady observed in the wrong place, with the wrong gentleman, at the wrong time, was likely to suffer for it. If not her person, then her reputation.
Beatrice exhaled softly.
And yet, reputations were not what drove her.
No, in fact, her mission had never been about preventing gossip. It was about preventing worse things.
Private things.
Terrible things.
Things that happened when a lady’s refusal went unheard, when something could be taken without consent and then after, kept silent out of shame.
Her fingers stilled in her hair.
Better, she thought, to act too soon than too late. Better to be mistaken than to leave some poor girl to go through what—
Beatrice drew in a quiet breath and let it go.
No. She was not that girl any longer.
“Do you believe me harmless, Beatrice?”
Beatrice’s gaze lowered to the fire, the words turning over slowly in her mind.
He had not been teasing her. Or talking down to her. He had asked as though…
As though he did not think he was harmless at all.
Her fingers tightened around the towel.
The rest of the day returned to her in fragments—not in order, but in feeling. The carriage ride back from Mrs. Shaw’s estate. The ices at Gunter’s. His voice beside her, unchanged in tone and yet altered entirely to her ear.
He had not touched her improperly.
And yet she remembered every accidental brush. Every offered hand. Every moment his attention seemed to linger and she could not be certain whether it had—or whether she had simply wished it so.
Had he meant to? Had she?
The question unsettled her more than it ought.
It felt as though some invisible silken thread had wound itself around the two of them, delicate as breath and impossible to ignore.
And at the end of the day, when the carriage came to a halt before Beckman House, Gideon had stepped down first, of course. Offered his hand.
She had thanked him. Properly. Though perhaps not quite as composedly as she might have wished.
And Gideon—he had bowed. But he had not stepped away.
Beatrice’s breath caught faintly at the memory.
She’d held herself perfectly still.
Utterly still.
As though any movement might break the moment.
Beatrice pressed the towel more firmly to her hair.
Had he wanted to… kiss her?
No! It had been nothing.
Only Gideon being far too handsome in the fading light and herself being… unsettled.
That was all.
Beatrice shifted in her chair, the heat of the fire no longer entirely to blame for the warmth rising along her throat.
He was Gideon. Dash’s closest friend. A man she had known as long as she’d been in England—almost a brother, even.
Beatrice drew her hair forward again, more firmly this time.
There were other, far more interesting subjects to think about. Dash and Mrs. Bloomington. Lady Calliope’s unfortunate tendency to gossip. And Lark, whom she hadn’t spoken to since Lady Longstaffe’s party.
Her chest squeezed a little at the possibility of a rift.
She had not attended the Middletons’ ball that evening. Instead, she had sent her apologies to Lady Barrington—and to Lark—without explanation.
Not because she’d been angry or resentful.
No—the discomfort lay elsewhere.
In the thought of being discussed. Observed. Interpreted by people whose opinions she did not respect and yet could not entirely ignore.
Even though Gideon had assured her more than once that it would be forgotten.
Her hand slowed in her hair.
Why did her thoughts constantly circle to Gideon?
To his voice. His nearness. The moment at the carriage, when he had not stepped away at once.
Slowly, almost without meaning to, Beatrice lowered the brush.
He had bowed over her hand, not releasing it right away, and when his gaze lifted again, it had not gone to her eyes.
It had gone to her mouth.
Her fingertips rose to her lips.
And then his thumb had moved. One slow brush across the back of her glove. Barely even a caress.
And yet Beatrice had felt it everywhere.
In her breath.
In her stomach.
Behind her knees.
Everywhere.
With that one simple touch, he had awakened feelings she had believed gone from her forever.
Want.
The word itself felt dangerous. Impossible.
Kiss me, she had thought.
The realization stole the breath from her now as surely as it had then.
Kiss me.
Touch me.
She’d tilted her head back, very nearly closed the distance between them.
But then one of the horses had whinnied, impatient with the delay, stamping against the stones.
Gideon had stepped back.
The moment had broken.
Now, sitting alone before the fire with her hair unbound and the heat licking over her skin, that awareness returned.
Worse. It deepened.
Beatrice pressed her palm into her lap.
Yes, today had been different. But…
Perhaps Gideon Rothmore had not changed at all.
Perhaps it was merely London. Mayfair in springtime. Not to mention the fact that Dash was not constantly at Gideon’s side.
At Dasborough Park, Gideon had always been Dash’s friend. But here, he had become more defined.
Here, she noticed him as a gentleman.
A devastatingly handsome one.
Beatrice pulled the brush through her damp hair and frowned at the fire.
It was proximity, perhaps, in addition to the change of scenery.
Or perhaps somewhere between Hannah’s death and this return to London, something inside Beatrice had altered as well. Come away, maybe.
How inconvenient.
Still, there seemed little point in denying it.
She had a tendre for Gideon Rothmore.
She’d taken a fancy to him. Nothing more. Nothing that could not be managed with a little sense and a firm refusal to make a ninny of herself.
And so, having made that embarrassing admission, Beatrice finished drying her hair, twisted it into a loose braid, wrapped herself in a comfortable gown, and settled beside the fire.
She opened Byron’s Don Juan—a book she would never admit to owning—and attempted to continue where she had left off.
She’d reached the part where Haidée realized that love had ruined her. She had given Juan everything and still could not wish him away.
Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,
’Tis woman’s whole existence.
Beatrice frowned at the page.
As though a woman could hold no ambitions of her own. No interests beyond the orbit of some gentleman’s attentions.
The idea was absurd. Dangerous. Reckless.
Beatrice turned the page rather sharply, focusing her eyes on the printed words.
And yet…
The house was quiet. The fire crackled softly. The words began to blur.
She might have drifted off, had a door not closed somewhere below. A moment later, footsteps sounded in the corridor outside her chamber.
Dash.
Setting the book aside, Beatrice stretched then rose, seizing upon the excuse to look in on her brother.
Not that Dash was likely to welcome being looked in on.
They had never been the prying sort of siblings. Not in any serious way. And if Dash preferred to keep his troubles tucked out of sight, Beatrice could hardly object.
She had done the same with hers.
Still… she was awake.
“Dash,” she called from her doorway, careful to keep her tone light. “I wondered where you’d been.”
He muttered something she couldn’t make out.
Barefoot, she crossed the corridor toward him. “Not that I worry, of course. I assumed you’d gone off to sulk somewhere” —her mouth curved faintly— “or to moon about in Madam Bloomington’s hothouse.”
But Dash did not smile at her teasing as he usually would.
Oh, this Mrs. Bloomington was beginning to irritate Beatrice, even if part of her understood why Mrs. Bloomington was so angry. Still… given the circumstances… the woman would be a fool not to forgive Dash eventually.
“You missed a very fine garden party today,” she went on lightly, deciding it best to change the subject.
“They held an archery contest. I entered, naturally. And, mon frère…” Her eyes sparkled with mock triumph.
“I beat everyone. Everyone. Even Lord Hawkins—and you know how highly he thinks of himself.”
Dash’s mouth curved, but only just.
The expression vanished almost as soon as it appeared.
Beatrice slowed.
Dash stood half-turned in the corridor, the lamplight catching in his dark hair. He dragged a hand through the already-messy strands as though he could not stop himself.
His eyes were not merely shadowed or tired.
They were hollow.
Her chest tightened.
“What happened?” she asked more quietly.
Her brother didn’t answer, but just stood there, looking horribly defeated.
“Mrs. Bloomington will come around,” Beatrice said softly. “You have always had a way of—”
“No.”
The word was quiet.
Final.
“Not this time, Beatrice.”
He touched her arm—briefly, almost absently—as though even that small gesture cost him something.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “But for now… just go back to bed.”
Did he really think he could boss her around so easily?
She tilted her head, searching for some trace of the man who had arrived in London with purpose, with hope.
“I will be fine,” he repeated.
And because he was Dash—and because he would shut her out entirely if she pressed—Beatrice drew in a slow breath, gave a single nod, and turned back toward her chamber.
He would win the lady over. And if he didn't, it would be Mrs. Bloomington’s loss.