CAN IT WAIT?
Beatrice startled violently and scrambled off Gideon’s lap, fumbling herself back into a proper place on the sofa. In her panic, unfortunately, she barely noticed the way Gideon went still.
“Careful.” His voice was low, rough with the hint of a wince.
Heat rushed to her face as understanding struck.
Before she could apologize—or attempt to soothe him by means she was in no state to consider—Gideon reached for one of the decorative cushions at the end of the sofa and settled it across his lap.
In no hurry, and as though this were a perfectly ordinary solution to a perfectly ordinary problem.
Then his gaze flicked to hers, his expression one of innocence and calm.
As though they had not just committed the sort of folly that could ruin her, and possibly put him on the wrong end of a pistol.
As though he were not, at that very moment, preventing either of those things with nothing but a tasseled velvet cushion.
Beatrice pressed her lips together.
Gideon’s expression remained utterly composed.
And the absurdity of it nearly undid her.
“Enter,” he called.
She should have been horrified. Ashamed. At the very least, dismayed by what had just taken place.
Instead, the sight of Gideon—rumpled, unshaven, and receiving his butler with a strategically placed pillow hiding his… unfortunate state of affairs—sent a bubble of mirth rising in her throat.
She pressed her lips together just as the butler stepped inside carrying a silver tray. HIs expression, Beatrice noticed, was perfectly neutral as would be that of any decent butler.
“A message for you, my lord. The courier insisted it was urgent.”
“My thanks.” Gideon accepted the folded note with one hand.
The butler did not immediately leave.
For one silent moment, he stood there, grave and unreadable, as though awaiting some further instruction no one in the room wished to give.
Gideon lifted his gaze.
“That will be all.”
“Of course, my lord.”
The door closed softly behind him.
But instead of tearing it open, Gideon merely glanced at the seal before focusing all his attention back to Beatrice.
As though the letter could wait.
As though she could not.
But the butler had said the missive was urgent, hadn’t he?
“I can go…” Beatrice moved to stand, but Gideon reached for her hand to keep her seated beside him.
“Not yet, Bea,” he said. “You needed something?”
Oh.
Right.
She’d been about to ask him something. Something important. Something that had seemed perfectly clear before noticing Gideon’s…
Pillow.
He arched a brow. “A favor?”
“Oh!” She blinked at him. “Dash.”
The one name she probably shouldn’t have uttered so soon after…
But it was too late now.
Gideon’s expression slipped, and she could practically feel him bracing for whatever she was about to say.
“I am beginning to think his coming to London to win Mrs. Bloomington was not, perhaps, the wisest decision. It was sweet, if a little strange, when it was just the gardening. But now…” She gestured vaguely.
“He drinks—far more than usual. He drags himself about the house like a man half dead. And when he is not doing either of those things, he sits and stares tragically into the distance. One would think—” But she stopped herself there.
One would think him a widower, was what she’d been about to say. Except he was a widower, technically, even if he’d never been particularly close with Lady Hannah.
Beatrice had merely… forgotten. Momentarily.
“I just… thought to ask if you might speak with him about it.”
Gideon had been staring at the floor, but once she fell silent, he winced, and lifted his gaze to meet hers.
“I fully intend to speak to Dash,” he said after a moment. “About Mrs. Bloomington, but also about…” He gestured a little helplessly between the two of them, and his mouth tightened.
“No.” Beatrice withdrew her hand at once. “You can’t tell him,” she insisted. “You can not tell Dash about this.”
The words came out before she could think better of them. But the instant they were spoken, she felt the truth of them settle in her bones.
Because suddenly, terribly, she saw where this was going.
Dash and Gideon, she knew, told one another everything. Everything.
He merely looked at her, pained. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice.”
“I can’t lie about this, Beatrice.”
“I’m not asking you to lie.” Not really.
Only moments ago, Gideon had been kissing her senseless on this very settee. His hands had been on her. His breath had been against her throat. She had come apart in his arms with a complete lack of shame or sense.
And now they were arguing.
Gideon’s jaw pinched. “Your brother trusts me. He trusts me, of all men, not to take advantage of you.”
Beatrice nearly lost her breath hearing those words.
“Take advantage of me?” she repeated.
His eyes closed briefly, as though he heard the mistake as soon as she did.
“I do not mean—”
“You did not take advantage of me,” she said again, more fiercely this time. “Do not make what happened between us into something done to me.”
His gaze came back to hers.
“And yes,” she continued, before he could speak, “Dash is your oldest and dearest friend. But he does not need this. Not now.”
“Beatrice—”
“No. He is already not himself. You know that. I know that. Everyone in that house knows it and pretends not to. What possible good would come from placing this at his feet as well?”
While Gideon said nothing, Beatrice’s pulse skipped a beat.
Because beneath her genuine concern for Dash, another fear was already stirring.
Would her brother be angry?
Not merely with Gideon.
But with her.
For complicating the one friendship he had always depended upon. For making herself a problem between him and a man who was like a brother to him.
Her stomach twisted.
“This… you and I…” She faltered beneath Gideon’s steady gaze, because the truly maddening thing was that one look from him nearly made her forget why they were arguing.
Nearly.
“We can wait. Can’t we? Until Dash is… Dash again?”
Gideon frowned, though something like amusement flickered through his eyes.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
“Then you agree that telling him now would be a mistake.”
Gideon’s expression shifted. And then— “Was this morning a mistake?”
Beatrice stilled.
Oh.
“I…” She drew in a breath. “I don’t know.”
He tilted his head. And then cocked one brow.
“No,” she said again, softer but firmer. “Not a mistake. But… Whatever it was, whatever this… is, if we take it to Dash now, it’ll be out of our hands.”
His jaw ticked. “Beatrice—”
She could picture the scenario all too easily. Dash’s anger. Gideon’s honor. A discussion of duty. Responsibility. Permission. Marriage. And not because either of them had chosen it, but because the aristocracy was horrid about making a single moment into an entire future.
Even the best-case scenario could cost them the ability to make that choice for themselves.
For a long moment, Gideon only looked at her. Far too honorable for her peace of mind.
“Furthermore,” she added, quieter now, “once you have slept and shaved and no longer smell faintly of whisky and cigars, you may very well decide this morning looks different.”
“I will not.”
The answer came quickly.
But then he looked away, exhaling through his nose.
“However,” he said, through nearly gritted teeth, “I take your point.”
Beatrice waited, allowing him to come to the natural conclusion without additional assistance from her.
He leaned back against the sofa, one hand still resting atop the strategically placed cushion. “I dislike this plan.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. “But you agree?”
His hazel eyes returned to hers. “I agree to wait,” he said. “For now.”
And that was enough.
Beatrice smiled then, pleased despite herself.
Then his gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered.
The pleasure shifted at once into something warmer, lower, and not nearly so innocent.
She forced her attention back to the folded note still resting in his hand.
“He said it was urgent,” she reminded him. “Your correspondence.”
Gideon glanced down at the missive, thoughtful now, before turning it slowly between his fingers.
“It likely concerns Groby.”
At the name, Beatrice sat a little straighter. “Ah,” she said.
She did not like Mr. Groby. Everything in her recoiled from the man. But she was curious. About the letter. About what Gideon would do about it.
“Were your efforts fruitful?”
“Only in so far as knowing what he hasn’t done, otherwise…” He frowned. “A rather pathetic waste of time.”
Indeed. Especially since part of his intentions had been to keep Beatrice at a distance.
Look how well that turned out.
Beatrice refrained from reminding him. Instead, she glanced down at the letter again.
“I do not like him,” she said quietly.
Lady Hannah was reason enough. So were the rumors, and his manner with Gideon outside the gunsmith’s shop.
But even without any of that, Beatrice suspected she would have disliked him. Some instinct in her recoiled.
Gideon’s expression gentled unexpectedly.
“That,” he said, leaning slightly toward her, “is because you are a wise woman.”
And then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do…
He kissed her again. Not hungrily this time. But slowly. As though he meant to savor it.
As though they had all the time in the world.
When their lips parted, Beatrice’s heart was behaving most irregularly once again.
All of this—these feelings, and the terrifying ease with which Gideon seemed capable of unsettling her entirely… it was too much.
Flustered, she rose abruptly to her feet. And this time, she escaped his reach before he could pull her back.
Though, judging by the look in his eyes, he considered attempting it anyway.
“You have business to attend to,” she said, smoothing her skirts once more. “I ought to leave you to it.”
Gideon rose more slowly.
The pillow remained behind.
Beatrice turned toward the door, then stopped and glanced back.
“And you will not speak to Dash about…?” She made a small, useless gesture between them. “About this?”
Something warmed briefly in Gideon’s eyes.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Good.” She drew a breath. “But you will see him?”
His expression changed at once, settling into something steadier.
“Yes.”
Of course.
Of course he would.