Gideon rose.
“Let’s get to it, then.”
A NOTABLE ABSENCE
Three days of lessons. It was what Gideon had promised.
And yet, for the second day in a row, when the ladies of their little society stood assembled in the Beckman ballroom, ready and waiting—it was Lord Longstaffe, not Lord Hawkins, who stood before them.
And for the second day in a row, the viscount offered a brief apology on his friend’s behalf. Not an explanation, just that some pressing matter required Lord Hawkins’s immediate attention.
Beatrice told herself it did not matter. Longstaffe was quite capable of teaching the lessons alone.
And Beatrice, well, she had come to London with a purpose. She was meeting with some success, even.
She had most definitely not come to London to swoon over any particular gentleman.
She told herself this multiple times.
And yet… his absence did not diminish as she had expected. If anything, it grew more pronounced.
So much so that it settled—quite firmly—into irritation.
Because if nothing else, Gideon Rothmore had simply proven her point.
A gentleman might help a woman build something. He might even make her believe, briefly, that he meant to stand beside her in it.
But in the end, he was more than capable of distancing himself.
Leaving her to resent herself for noticing.
Later that afternoon, Beatrice’s resolve had settled firmly back into place.
As she dressed to attend Lady Blythe’s musical, she chose silver and deep emerald—neither somber nor overly bright. A compromise.
The bodkin went into her hair as always, though more for reassurance than expectation. Having managed to escape Lord Longstaffe multiple times at this point, she trusted the maneuvers they had learned. Mostly.
And tonight, at least, she would not be alone.
By the time Lady Barrington’s carriage drew beneath the eaves of Blythe Hall, Beatrice had nearly managed to compose herself. The marchioness, Lady Theodosia, and Lark were with her, and their presence and chatter filled the carriage just enough to keep her thoughts from circling back to Gideon.
Nearly.
Or so she told herself.
Inside, the salon was warmly lit, chairs arranged in careful rows before a modest pianoforte, a harp set slightly to one side. Conversation hummed softly beneath the rustling of silk and the faint tuning of strings.
From their seats, Beatrice and Lark quickly spotted a few familiar faces. The same young ladies who had stood beside them for several hours this week—now composed, coiffured, and entirely proper.
And yet—there was something in the way they held themselves.
A subtle lift of the chin. A steadiness in their gaze.
Beatrice recognized it at once. It was as though each of them wondered, not whether she might be called upon to use what she had learned, but whether it would work.
Not fear. Well, some fear. But also… something almost like anticipation.
Beatrice settled back in her seat, folded her hands neatly in her lap, and refused to turn around again.
