“Oh, not yet,” Lark said. “Surely Beatrice ought to show us how it is properly done. She has had a head start, after all.”
Several gazes turned eagerly toward Beatrice.
Beatrice, who had resigned herself to keep to the edges, went still.
“I’m not really—” Beatrice began.
But Gideon turned. “An excellent suggestion.”
Finally, he looked at her.
The look was calm. Infuriatingly unreadable.
And still, Beatrice felt it as surely as if he had touched her.
Her fingers curled once at her sides before she forced them still.
“Very well,” she said.
The others moved back, gathering near the edge of the mattresses.
Beatrice stepped into the center, where Gideon stood opposite her.
“My lady,” he said.
“My lord.”
Longstaffe coughed into his fist.
And then, Gideon extended his hand and closed his fingers around her wrist. Gently at first, but then squeezing just tight enough to make the exercise challenging.
It was precisely what he had done to every woman in the room.
Still, heat shot up her arm.
“Alright?” he said quietly.
Beatrice gritted her teeth. “Of course..”
She turned her wrist as instructed.
He adjusted. Expected her to pull free.
Instead, she stepped in.
Her free hand caught his arm. Her foot slid behind his. A turn of her hips, a sharp shift of balance, and Gideon was no longer standing.
He came down on the mattress with a force that made the whole thing jump beneath him.
A collective gasp broke from the ladies, immediately followed by applause.
Lark let out a delighted laugh. “Oh, well done, Bea. You’ve given us all something to aspire to.”
Longstaffe folded his arms. “I approve of this lesson.”
Gideon lay still for half a second, staring up at Beatrice.
And then for the first time all afternoon, he gave her a real smile. Quick. Almost helpless.
