Crossing the Line… Again
Gideon rested his forehead against the tree behind her shoulder, trying to catch his breath while Beatrice slowly gathered herself in his arms.
For the second time in as many days, Gideon had crossed a line he had spent the better part of a week ignoring. And no, he’d not stumbled across it, he’d gone willingly.
But it was not why he’d asked her to meet him here.
But then, a second voice answered almost immediately.
Was it not?
He shook his head. Dazed.
The truly dangerous thing—the thing he had not anticipated, despite knowing her nearly all his life—was that Beatrice had not merely responded to him. She had taken charge.
Of the moment.
Of him.
Beatrice, with her sharp mind and fearless curiosity and complete disregard for the sensible limits that governed most civilized behavior, had simply… touched him.
Gideon finally found the strength to lift his head. Beatrice still leaned against the tree, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly swollen. Pinker than usual. Glistening.
One side of her bodice remained lowered, exposing the sweetest stretch of skin—skin he had very recently become far too acquainted with.
Gideon closed his eyes briefly.
This had long since surpassed harmless affection.
And if he delayed speaking with Dash much longer, it would cease being dishonorable only in theory.
Gideon drew in a slow breath through his nose before opening his eyes again.
Beatrice still had one hand between them, the other resting on his chest, as though neither of them had quite decided how to separate after what had just occurred.
It felt far too… natural. As though they belonged like this.
His gaze lowered to her bodice despite himself.
At once, color rushed back into her cheeks.
“Oh.”
For the first time since he had hauled her against the tree and proceeded to lose every shred of restraint he possessed, a little embarrassment flickered across her features.
With far more dignity than a man who had just ruined himself inside his own trousers had any right to be, Gideon drew the fabric back into place along her shoulder.
Her breath caught when his knuckles brushed warm skin.
Neither of them spoke.
He fastened the loosened ribbon at the edge of her sleeve, straightened the wrinkled line of her bodice, then reached upward, removing a small leaf tangled near the elaborate arrangement of her hair.
Another had caught near her temple.
He brushed that away too.
“There,” he murmured.
Her eyes lifted to his then.
And then—far too knowing—her gaze dropped deliberately to the front of his trousers.
Ah. Well.
Gideon couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
Not with Beatrice looking at him like that.
Not when what had happened between them felt less sordid than sacred.
Her lips parted slightly, and for one terrible moment, he thought she might apologize.
Instead, she reached up and adjusted the front of his jacket. Smoothed one lapel. Tugged his cravat back into place.
A futile effort, perhaps. But a tender one.
And somehow that made it infinitely worse. Or better.
God, he no longer knew.
Her fingers lingered, oh, so briefly, against his chest before withdrawing.
When she looked up again, dignity had returned to her expression. Fragile, perhaps. But present.
“We ought to continue our walk,” she said with remarkable composure.
Gideon stared at her for half a heartbeat longer before offering his arm once more.
“Yes,” he said roughly. “We ought.”
She placed her hand on his sleeve again, and together they returned to the path beneath the trees.
For a little while, they only listened to their footsteps.
It was Gideon who finally broke the silence.
“I wish to speak about last night.”
Beatrice’s expression shifted almost immediately. Some of the softness faded, replaced by caution.
“What happened below the theater,” he clarified gently.
“You startled me.” She kept her gaze forward. “And you said you want me to protect myself.”
“I know. And I do. But...” Gideon kept his voice calm. He had replayed the scene over and over through the night. “You were angry. And not merely angry. You were…” He exhaled lightly. “Out of yourself.”
“I was using what I learned. From the lessons.”
“The lessons taught you escape.” Gideon slowed slightly beside her, turning to stare at her profile. “When I caught hold of you, you stayed. And you fought.” At that, her shoulders stiffened.
“You did not know it was me,” he said quietly. “Even after I called your name.”
She shook her head. “I did.”
“No.” His voice gentled, but only barely. “For several moments…” He shook his head. “You were not there with me.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Gideon stared ahead at the winding path, though what he truly saw was that narrow backstage corridor again. The darkness. Her frantic breathing. The blind terror in her movements.
“When I spoke to you, you did not hear me.” His brow furrowed faintly at the memory. Beatrice remained silent.
“And when you looked at me…” His voice lowered further. “You were seeing something else entirely.”
That finally made her glance toward him again.
Not defensive. Uneasy, though.
At least she was actually listening to him now.
Gideon exhaled slowly through his nose.
“It was as though you had gone somewhere else in your mind,” he said carefully. “Somewhere frightening enough that even after you should have recognized me—you still believed you were in danger.”
Her fingers tightened upon his sleeve.
He could feel it, even now. The violent trembling in her body. More than fear. Rage.
Someone had forced fear beneath her skin so deeply that the wrong touch, the wrong moment could drag her back into it before reason ever had a chance to intervene. What kind of man inflicted that sort of terror upon another human being and continued walking the earth afterward?
Gideon’s hands curled at his sides.
The instant she’d told him someone had harmed her, something inside him went cold with fury. But even then, some selfish corner of his mind had resisted the full horror of it.
He had not allowed himself to picture her…
Not truly. Not Beatrice.
He had accepted the knowledge without fully knowing it.
Last night had stripped any illusion completely.
And God. It devastated him in ways he had not anticipated.
Not simply because someone had hurt her. But because someone had altered her.
And he saw it now.
Not weakness. Survival. The sort that clawed and fought and struck before thought could even form.
And now, the memory would not leave him. The sheer violence of her panic.
“I… am sorry,” she said, voice almost a whisper. “I thought you were… It just… happened.”
“I don’t want your apology.”
“Well, I’ll… I’ll be more careful next time. I’ll make sure—”
“Listen to me. There won’t be a next time, Beatrice,” he said more quietly. “It took all my strength to contain you. And I am considerably larger than you.”
Beatrice’s lips parted faintly, though no words emerged.
“If you aren’t upset about…” she gestured towards the scratches on his face. The bruise around his eye. “Then, I don’t understand what the problem is. You make far too much of a moment’s panic.”
“I do not.” Gideon would not be moved on this.
The more he had thought about it afterward, the more unsettled he had become.
“You must understand that another man, faced with… such an assault… if he lacked restraint, if he lacked honor…” She needed to hear this. “Such a man would not have cared how he subdued you.”
An ordinary gentleman, caught unexpectedly beneath such frantic blows, would have struck back instinctively. Another sort of man would have fought back.
The thought alone turned Gideon’s stomach.
“There was something terrifying about it,” he admitted quietly.
Her head turned sharply toward him then.
“Not you,” he clarified. “Never you.” His gaze held hers steadily. “The fear itself.”
For one long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Beatrice looked away again.
And that fear he’d experienced all night… that gut wrenching, horrifying fear that inevitably, she’d take one risk too many, had him saying the one thing she never wanted to hear.
“You must stop putting yourself in these situations.” He’d not compromise on this.
Her response was a decidedly unladylike half laugh, half snort.
“I’m not joking, Beatrice.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.” She dropped her hand from his arm and her pace increased. Gideon kept up easily.
“I can when you throw yourself into danger without a second thought.”
Her chin lifted. “I do have second thoughts. And third ones. I'm not reckless.”
“You aren’t. Until you are.”
That struck true enough for her steps to momentarily falter.
For several moments they walked without speaking.
Then, more softly, he said, “If something sets you off again, if, while confronting one of these scoundrels, you feel threatened, so much that you cease thinking clearly… if those emotions carry you beyond reason…” He hesitated.
Because there it was. The heart of why he had asked her here.
The honorable reason, at least.
The promise.
Not just to Dash, but to himself.
Protect her. At the time, Gideon had thought the task easy enough. Simple, even.
Now it consumed him.
“You will no longer place yourself directly in danger,” he said firmly. “The Vigilance Society may continue if you insist upon it, but not outside of the ballroom.”
Beatrice stopped walking altogether. And then, she pivoted toward him. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“No.” Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “No, I do not believe I did.”
Gideon held her gaze evenly, though he knew damn well he was stepping onto perilously thin ice.
“You may organize your little society. You may investigate. You may hold lessons and keep watch from inside the ballroom, identifying problems so that someone else can take action, if it pleases you.” His tone sharpened slightly. “But you will no longer confront these men yourself.”
For one stunned moment, she simply stared at him. And then hurt flickered across her face so quickly he nearly missed it.
Which was somehow worse than anger.
“Gideon—”
“No.”
The word came harder now. Final.
He saw the exact instant she realized he meant it.
Her cheeks flushed hot with outrage. “You knew what this society was when you agreed to help us.”
“I knew what you intended,” he corrected grimly. “But I did not have the information then that I do now.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—”
“You could get hurt.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“And any woman could get hurt walking through Hyde Park in the morning!” she snapped back. “That does not mean we all lock ourselves indoors forever.”
“It is why ladies have companions.”
“And see how well that’s worked out for them! Have you talked with Dash, then? Is this coming from him?”
That landed precisely where she intended.
Gideon’s jaw tightened. “It’s not—”
“You cannot stop me.”
“I can.”
The words fell between them like flint striking stone.
Her eyes widened slightly.
Then narrowed.
“I will,” he said.
Good God.
Steam practically rose from her as she stood there glaring at him beneath the trees, her chest lifting sharply with each breath. She looked genuinely ready to strike him.
Furious.
And, absurdly, some deeply reckless part of him admired her for it.
“You arrogant—” She broke off, clearly searching for a word sufficiently insulting. “Impossible. Overbearing… Espèce d’insupportable tyran!”
“You may call me a tyrant all you like.”
“Oh, I assure you, I intend to.”
“But you will not continue placing yourself in danger.”
A humorless laugh escaped her. “You can’t simply take away my purpose because you have suddenly decided I am too fragile to manage it.”
Fragile. Christ.
If only she understood.
“There is nothing fragile about you,” he said quietly. “That is precisely the problem.”
For a heartbeat, something shifted in her expression then. Doubt?
But it vanished as quickly as it had come.
Because Gideon knew that when any man tried to confine her, Beatrice Beckman did not hear protection. She heard betrayal.
“I thought,” she said carefully, “that you of all people… understood.”
Gideon did.
That was the hell of it. Protecting Beatrice ought not to mean taking the choice from her.
But neither could he stand aside and wait for someone to hurt her again.
She would hate him for that, and that thought…
It left him sick. Not because he did not understand, but because he did.
And God help him, he even respected her for it, for what she was trying to do.
But that was overshadowed by something else now.
Something possessive. Something desperate.
“No, Beatrice, you don’t understand,” he said roughly. “Which is precisely why I can’t allow this to continue.”
Her face hardened instantly, twisted with hurt, then rage, then—God help him—rebellion. And with not another word, she turned sharply and marched down the path.
All of Gideon’s instincts demanded he go after her.
Tell her it was temporary. Tell her the lessons need not end. That he would eventually see them continued, safely, once he knew the danger had passed.
It was a fair offer. Or it would have been, had Beatrice been any other woman.
She would hear the bargain for what it was: him placing limits around a life that was not his to govern.
It was another thought that stopped him.
When, precisely, would the danger pass?
There would always be men who resented any woman for seeing what they did not wish seen—for stepping in or speaking out. Such a woman would make enemies.
If Beatrice continued, she would make enemies.
So he would do what he could—take matters into his own hands.
For her.
Because this—whatever had begun between them—had gone far beyond friendship. Far beyond the promise he had made to her brother, his oldest friend.
As Beatrice disappeared through the morning mist, Gideon felt the unvarnished truth of his circumstances.
He was ruined where she was concerned.
Utterly ruined.