“It was… incredibly intimate. And exciting. But… I am most definitely not in a delicate condition.”
Unless, of course, some very important detail had been omitted from her education on such matters.
Lark was blinking again, this time with her brows furrowed.
“I did not realize such a thing was possible.”
“Nor did I,” Beatrice admitted at once.
Ordinarily, Beatrice considered herself quite capable of understanding her own thoughts. Her own preferences. Her own mind.
Yet, ever since returning home that morning, she had struggled to make proper sense of any of it.
Matters between her and Gideon had become… alarmingly complicated.
And before Beatrice could even begin untangling those complications with Lark, Lady Barrington turned and touched Lark’s arm.
“Miss Montague, I quite forgot. Would you be so good as to ask the attendant whether Lord Barrington’s spare opera glasses were brought up from the carriage? I meant to see to it before we came in.”
“Of course.” Lark gave Beatrice one last, sharply inquisitive look before rising.
Which meant Beatrice could not explain the interruption by the butler, nor Gideon’s swift decision to conceal himself behind a decorative cushion—a choice that had seemed merely prudent at the time, but which had since provided her with an entirely fresh source of embarrassment.
Because while Beatrice had experienced la petite mort…
She was fairly certain Gideon had not.
And the implications of that seemed to raise still more questions.
Before those disturbing questions could settle in and request tea, the door to the box opened and Lark stepped back in, the opera glasses apparently located, and took her place beside Beatrice just as the lights dimmed.
Conversation quieted throughout the theater. The orchestra began the opening strains of The Marriage of Figaro.
As the actors appeared onstage, Lark touched Beatrice’s hand lightly and leaned close.
“I am happy for you,” she whispered.
The simple sincerity of it caught Beatrice unexpectedly off guard.
And in that moment, she realized quite firmly that the two of them were going to require an entire morning alone together in the park.
Possibly two.
Not for the first time, she found herself wishing Lark had not insisted upon seeking employment, and that they might instead sit up half the night as they once had—discussing every imaginable subject beneath the heavens.
Including, apparently…
Feelings. Of the romantic variety.
Onstage, the opera gathered speed—voices overlapping, tempers flaring, secrets tumbling into the light, but Beatrice scarcely followed any of it.
Her thoughts were not in the theater.
They were in a drawing room.
On a sofa.
With Gideon.
