She Saved Him #4
His mouth met hers with such tenderness that her heart turned over entirely. This was not the desperate kiss in the park, nor the hungry, reckless heat of the sofa. This was slower. Deeper.
Deliberate and without doubt or guilt.
She touched his bare shoulder, careful of his injured arm, and felt him shudder beneath her fingers.
That pleased her.
Rather a lot.
Gideon drew her closer, and she went willingly, one hand sliding to the back of his neck while his good arm came around her waist. The kiss changed then, warmth gathering, restraint thinning.
He made a low sound against her mouth, and without making a conscious decision to do so, she found herself seated on his lap.
“Gideon,” she whispered.
“Careful,” he murmured. “I have been shot.”
She drew back just enough to glare at him. “You pulled me here.”
“Yes.” His mouth brushed hers again. “A reckless lapse.”
“You are wounded.”
“Tragically.”
“I ought to be tending your arm.”
“You have done so already.” His lips moved along the corner of her mouth. “With tremendous competence.”
“Gideon.” She meant to scold him.
Truly.
Instead, she kissed him again.
For several blissful, impossible moments, there was no Dash, no Hatherleigh, no Groby, no wound that required bandaging, no masked ball waiting below.
Only Gideon, warm beneath her hands, his mouth loving and tender, his arm holding her as though he had finally learned the difference between keeping her close and holding her captive.
Then came a knock.
Gideon stilled beneath her.
Another knock sounded, firmer this time.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Beatrice muttered, scrambling off his lap and smoothing her skirts with far less dignity than she would have preferred.
Gideon rose more slowly, looking altogether too composed for a shirtless man who had just had a lady on his lap.
Beatrice opened the door only a crack.
It was not the maid.
This time, it was Mrs. Crabshaw, the housekeeper—looking rather annoyed, actually.
Her gaze flicked past Beatrice’s shoulder.
The woman cleared her throat. “His Grace wishes to speak with Lord Hawkins in his study. At once.”
Beatrice’s brows shot up. “In the middle of his wedding ball?”
“A matter of urgency, apparently.”
Had the maid ratted them out to her brother? That… would not be ideal.
“Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Crabshaw,” she said calmly. “His lordship will be down shortly.”
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes.
Beatrice smiled.
Then she closed the door.
For a moment, she remained facing it, one hand still on the latch.
Then she turned.
Gideon stood beside the washstand, bare-chested, bandaged badly enough that she would have to redo it before he went anywhere, his dark hair disordered from her fingers. But his expression was steady.
Not nervous. Not even sheepish. Determined.
Beatrice’s heart gave a slow, heavy thump.
“Well,” she said.
“Well,” he answered.
“Dash knows you are here.”
“It would appear so.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to his chest, then back to his face. “You cannot go down like that.”
His mouth curved faintly. “No?”
“No. Maids would be fainting left and right. Perhaps a few footmen as well.”
“Can’t have that.”
But beneath the banter, the truth stood between them.
Dash had learned Gideon was alone with Beatrice in her bedchamber.
Perhaps he’d learned more than that. And now… they must face the consequences.
Gideon reached for her hand again.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Truly?”
“I intended to speak with Dash anyway. Properly. But I will not discuss your future without you there. As though you are not part of it.” His thumb brushed across her knuckles. “So will you come with me?”
For a moment, she could not speak.
Then she lifted her chin.
“Of course I will.”
His gaze softened.
“After,” she added, “I fix that bandage. Because if my brother is going to threaten you, I should prefer you not walk in bleeding on his carpet.”
Dash was going to be insufferable.
A strange little chill moved through her despite the warmth left over from all that kissing.
Gideon was finally going to face Dash, not as his best friend, his most trusted confidante, but as a man asking permission to marry his sister. Except…
Beatrice frowned.
No.
That was not quite right, was it?
Dash would have opinions about his sister marrying. Of course he would. He was a duke, an older brother, and a Beckman.
But Gideon was not merely any gentleman.
She lifted her chin. “You are not the only one to be doing the asking.”
Gideon stared at her.
His brows drew together. For one wild second, he looked as though he thought she might be teasing him.
She was not.
“You mean to ask Dash for me?” he said.
“I mean to inform my brother that I am marrying his dearest friend, assuming he can bring himself to part with you.”
A short laugh escaped him.
A little astonished. Perhaps a little appalled.
Then he shook his head, laughing softly. “Of course.”
“Of course?”
“Of course you would decide Dash’s permission is required in both directions.” His eyes warmed. “And dash it all, you may have a point.”
“Of course I do.”
She smiled then.
She could not help it.
And for the first time all evening, the future did not feel like a thing waiting to trap her.
It felt like a door she might open herself.