Lark’s gaze moved over her face. She tilted her head, and her eyes narrowed.
Oh, bother.
Beatrice had not said a word. Had not so much as smiled. And still, Lark knew.
Beatrice met her friend’s inquisitive stare and gave the smallest possible shrug. And as Lady Barrington lamented that Theodosia had declined yet another proposal—from a marquess, no less—Beatrice could only silently arrange her skirts, smooth her gloves, and adjust a ribbon that required no adjusting at all.
Hopefully, at some point in the evening she would get the opportunity to speak privately with Lark.
Only… she was not entirely certain how much she wanted to say.
Or how one began such a conversation. Because… how did one describe what had happened on Gideon’s sofa that morning?
Even Beatrice did not quite know what to make of it.
She had returned home flushed and unsettled, so much so that she had struggled to get any sleep that night.
She had paced. Sat. Stood again. Then caught herself staring at nothing, fingers hovering near her mouth, and felt heat rise in her face all over again.
What had it meant?
She had made Gideon promise not to go to Dash about it, but that did not answer the more difficult questions. Would he court her eventually? Did he wish to? Did she wish him to?
And there, unfortunately, her thoughts became less sensible.
Because yes.
Whatever else she did or did not know, Beatrice wanted more of him.
She simply had no notion what more could look like without creating impossible complications.
By the time Lady Barrington’s party had been shown into the earl’s private box, there was the usual flutter of settling in—cloaks surrendered, fans opened, and greetings exchanged with acquaintances in neighboring boxes.
At last, Lady Barrington leaned forward to speak to her sister, and the others turned their attention to the audience below.
Lark seized the moment.
“Well?” she said.
Beatrice drew in a breath.
“He kissed me.” It was as good a place to start as any.
“Lord Hawkins,” Lark confirmed, and Beatrice nodded. “Where? When?” She glanced around the adjacent boxes, only partly occupied, and winced apologetically at the volume of her voice.
“This morning.” And then, avoiding direct eye contact, “In his drawing room.”
Lark shook her head, eyes wide. “I won’t even ask what you were doing there. I take it you were alone.” Disapproval was written all over her friend’s face. Under no circumstances was a lady to visit a gentleman’s house—certainly not without a chaperone—but warring with the disapproval turning down her friend’s mouth, there was… curiosity.
“Are you betrothed?”
“No!” Beatrice yelped, scandalized. And then, lowering her voice, “Of course not.”
Lark arched her brow. “What do you mean ‘of course not’? Why not?”
“Because he’s… Gideon. He’s Dash’s friend.”
There had even been times when she would have claimed he was like a brother. Not anymore. Definitely not now.
