A Notable Absence
Three days of lessons. It was what Gideon had promised.
And yet, for the second day in a row, when the ladies of their little society stood assembled in the Beckman ballroom, ready and waiting—it was Lord Longstaffe, not Lord Hawkins, who stood before them.
And for the second day in a row, the viscount offered a brief apology on his friend’s behalf. Not an explanation, just that some pressing matter required Lord Hawkins’s immediate attention.
Beatrice told herself it did not matter. Longstaffe was quite capable of teaching the lessons alone.
And Beatrice, well, she had come to London with a purpose. She was meeting with some success, even.
She had most definitely not come to London to swoon over any particular gentleman.
She told herself this multiple times.
And yet… his absence did not diminish as she had expected. If anything, it grew more pronounced.
So much so that it settled—quite firmly—into irritation.
Because if nothing else, Gideon Rothmore had simply proven her point.
A gentleman might help a woman build something. He might even make her believe, briefly, that he meant to stand beside her in it.
But in the end, he was more than capable of distancing himself.
Leaving her to resent herself for noticing.
Later that afternoon, Beatrice’s resolve had settled firmly back into place.
As she dressed to attend Lady Blythe’s musical, she chose silver and deep emerald—neither somber nor overly bright. A compromise.
The bodkin went into her hair as always, though more for reassurance than expectation. Having managed to escape Lord Longstaffe multiple times at this point, she trusted the maneuvers they had learned. Mostly.
And tonight, at least, she would not be alone.
By the time Lady Barrington’s carriage drew beneath the eaves of Blythe Hall, Beatrice had nearly managed to compose herself. The marchioness, Lady Theodosia, and Lark were with her, and their presence and chatter filled the carriage just enough to keep her thoughts from circling back to Gideon.
Nearly.
Or so she told herself.
Inside, the salon was warmly lit, chairs arranged in careful rows before a modest pianoforte, a harp set slightly to one side. Conversation hummed softly beneath the rustling of silk and the faint tuning of strings.
From their seats, Beatrice and Lark quickly spotted a few familiar faces. The same young ladies who had stood beside them for several hours this week—now composed, coiffured, and entirely proper.
And yet—there was something in the way they held themselves.
A subtle lift of the chin. A steadiness in their gaze.
Beatrice recognized it at once. It was as though each of them wondered, not whether she might be called upon to use what she had learned, but whether it would work.
Not fear. Well, some fear. But also… something almost like anticipation.
Beatrice settled back in her seat, folded her hands neatly in her lap, and refused to turn around again.
The absence of Lord Hawkins was no concern of hers.
She had managed perfectly well before he had involved himself in her business, and she would manage perfectly well now.
Better, perhaps.
There would be no low voice at her shoulder. No dry remark meant only for her. No faint creases at the corners of his eyes when he almost smiled.
Beatrice straightened and forced herself to study the room for the signals she had been watching for all season.
Not for Gideon.
For signals.
A recital was not quite the same as a ball, as far as her mission went. There were fewer opportunities for whispered invitations in dark corridors, and strategic disappearances. Even so, she had learned not to trust any gathering simply because it called itself respectable.
Only once she had taken the measure of the room did she turn her attention to the musicians.
The performance began with great promise.
A cautious pianoforte piece. A delicate harp solo. A song delivered with perhaps more courage than actual talent.
There was effort. There was enthusiasm. There was applause enough to reward both.
Beatrice did her best to remain attentive—to the music, to the room, to anyone who entered late or slipped away too quietly.
But as the evening wore on, fans fluttered more often, gentlemen shifted in their seats, and even Lady Barrington’s expression took on the fixed serenity of a woman determined not to nap.
Beatrice’s attention began to wander.
Unfortunately, it wandered in one direction only.
To Gideon.
It was not that she expected his constant presence, but he was the one who’d implied he would at least make an effort.
And as for that almost kiss on Bond Street…
His hand on her waist had not been imagined. Nor the way he’d stared at her mouth.
She’d been clutching her reticule—she remembered that now. If not, she very well might have reached up and touched the side of his face.
Even now, days later, there was a lingering ache that made her shift in her seat, her knees drawing together as though she could contain it.
She forced her breaths to slow.
Immediately after Mr. Groby had gone on his way, Gideon had seemed all too eager to be rid of her.
And he hadn’t been the same since.
By the time the final piece concluded, the applause was warm, though likely inspired more by the end of the evening than by the performance itself.
Beatrice rose with the others and waited for relief to follow.
It ought to have. None of the ladies in their little society had been called upon to make use of their newly acquired skills that night.
But the expected lightness never came.
Not that night.
Nor the next afternoon, at Lady Turnbridge’s garden party.
Nor at the Duvall ball the evening after that.
Everything proceeded without a single incident.
Which made Gideon’s retreat all the more impossible to ignore.
He had not simply grown busy, or distracted, or politely distant.
He had changed after Bond Street. When he’d nearly kissed her.
Gideon Rothmore had nearly kissed her.
And if he had since decided that moment was some regrettable lapse, then, dash it all, he could bloody well find the courage to say so to her face.