The absence of Lord Hawkins was no concern of hers.
She had managed perfectly well before he had involved himself in her business, and she would manage perfectly well now.
Better, perhaps.
There would be no low voice at her shoulder. No dry remark meant only for her. No faint creases at the corners of his eyes when he almost smiled.
Beatrice straightened and forced herself to study the room for the signals she had been watching for all season.
Not for Gideon.
For signals.
A recital was not quite the same as a ball, as far as her mission went. There were fewer opportunities for whispered invitations in dark corridors, and strategic disappearances. Even so, she had learned not to trust any gathering simply because it called itself respectable.
Only once she had taken the measure of the room did she turn her attention to the musicians.
The performance began with great promise.
A cautious pianoforte piece. A delicate harp solo. A song delivered with perhaps more courage than actual talent.
There was effort. There was enthusiasm. There was applause enough to reward both.
Beatrice did her best to remain attentive—to the music, to the room, to anyone who entered late or slipped away too quietly.
But as the evening wore on, fans fluttered more often, gentlemen shifted in their seats, and even Lady Barrington’s expression took on the fixed serenity of a woman determined not to nap.
Beatrice’s attention began to wander.
Unfortunately, it wandered in one direction only.
To Gideon.
It was not that she expected his constant presence, but he was the one who’d implied he would at least make an effort.
And as for that almost kiss on Bond Street…
His hand on her waist had not been imagined. Nor the way he’d stared at her mouth.
She’d been clutching her reticule—she remembered that now. If not, she very well might have reached up and touched the side of his face.
Even now, days later, there was a lingering ache that made her shift in her seat, her knees drawing together as though she could contain it.
She forced her breaths to slow.
Immediately after Mr. Groby had gone on his way, Gideon had seemed all too eager to be rid of her.
And he hadn’t been the same since.
By the time the final piece concluded, the applause was warm, though likely inspired more by the end of the evening than by the performance itself.
Beatrice rose with the others and waited for relief to follow.
It ought to have. None of the ladies in their little society had been called upon to make use of their newly acquired skills that night.
But the expected lightness never came.
Not that night.
