“So your brother’s friend can kiss you, but he can’t marry you?”
“It…” The trouble was Beatrice didn’t know the answer to this question. “I hadn’t planned on marrying,” she said after a moment of thought, but with less fervor than she normally had on this subject. “And…” She needed to change the subject. “There… was more.” Beatrice worried the lace at the edge of her glove. “What I am about to tell you may permanently alter your opinion of my character.”
“My opinion of your character is already quite settled,” Lark said. “You are reckless, loyal, scandalous, and far more interesting than anyone else in this box. Do continue.”
Beatrice supposed that was only fair, though usually the scandalous sorts of things she got up to were of a very different nature. Things such as attacking unsuspecting viscounts who were playing hero to ladies caught in rosebushes. Or turning her brother’s ballroom into an archery range and, later, a room for pugilist practice. Outlandish things. Purposeful things. Not improper things of an alarmingly personal nature.
Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and she knew the rosy color must be all too obvious to her friend. “It… was more than a kiss,” she said in a near-whisper.
Both of Lark’s brows shot up.
Beatrice had never told her everything about what had happened five years ago. Not plainly. But Lark was clever and far too observant not to have filled in the parts Beatrice had left unsaid.
Her friend’s expression softened.
“And you…” Lark lowered her voice. “You wanted this?”
Beatrice nodded. She had more than wanted… that. And then, because she was pressingly compelled to examine it with the one person she trusted— “I… was on his lap. Astride. Fully clothed, of course, but… things happened.”
Lark blinked several times. “Dare I ask what kinds of things happened?”
Pressing.
Touching.
Rubbing.
“Suffice it to say… I was left in a state of…”
“Embarrassment?”
Beatrice shook her head.
“Regret?”
Another shake.
“Bliss?”
Beatrice’s blush deepened. “Yes. That one.”
Lark leaned back slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “I see.”
But did she?
Beatrice did not. Not at all. Which was precisely the problem.
“I know you say marriage isn’t likely, but…” Lark continued almost tentatively, lowering her voice even more if that was possible. “But what if you are… in a delicate condition?”
A delicate…?
“Oh! I’m not! We didn’t?—”
Lark narrowed her eyes.
“Truly,” Beatrice said, and then reiterated, “No clothing was removed.”
Lark’s expression, by now, would be considered almost comical if Beatrice wasn’t so confused by all of it herself.
