By the time Gideon turned toward the cardroom, it had begun to seem less like a refuge and more like salvation.
While playing a game of cards, a man could sit with his back to a wall, say very little, and still appear to be participating in society.
He turned toward the doors.
And this time, was caught by the sight of Lady Beatrice Beckman.
Her brother ought to have escorted her.
But of course, Dash was not here. Dash was presently making a ruin of every expectation attached to his name, his title, and his masculine pride.
His sister, it seemed, had chosen to be somewhat more selective.
The Duchess of Dasborough had been gone barely less than a month. For the wife of a duke—even a wife so briefly held—mourning ought to have meant black silk, closed doors, withdrawn company. A careful retreat for no less than a year.
And yet, Beatrice Beckman stood beneath the chandeliers in muted grey.
Not quite defiance. Not quite obedience.
The fabric absorbed the light rather than reflected it, softening her edges at first glance. One might have mistaken her for subdued. Unremarkable, even.
Gideon knew better.
There had never been anything unremarkable about Dash’s little sister.
Her shoulders were back, her chin level, her posture composed in a way that did not suggest ease so much as purpose. Her hair, a deep polished mahogany which he more often remembered in braids, had been swept high, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Her storm-blue eyes moved across the ballroom with uncommon focus.
Watching.
Like a stable cat in the yard: quiet, apparently indifferent, and alert to… what, exactly?
Gideon narrowed his eyes.
What the devil was she about?
With Dash otherwise occupied—playing gardener to the enigmatic Miss Ambrosia Bloomington—there was no one to properly mind his sister.
And if anyone required minding, it was Beatrice.
Gideon had just marked her position along the wall, when?—
“My dear Lord Hawkins,” came a familiar, honeyed voice, “you are a most disappointing man.”
Gideon turned.
“And why is that, madam?” he asked, though privately he wondered how, in the space of one evening, he had become such a general source of disillusionment.
The widowed Doña Carlotta stood in his path, oozing sophistication, and set her gloved hand lightly against his chest. “Every day I check my salver in vain. I had quite expected an invitation to drive, now that spring has arrived.”
Gideon inclined his head, allowing a faint smile.
“My apologies, madam. The Season has made a scoundrel of my memory.”
Had he promised her a drive? Quite possibly.
Her lashes lowered. “We need not trouble ourselves with Hyde Park, you know,” she murmured. “I’m amenable to a visit. There are… more private entertainments to be had.”
Ordinarily, Gideon might have been tempted to explore such entertainments.
