FOOLISH, FOOLISH MEN
The nerve of him. The absolute, impossible nerve.
After everything that had passed between them—he had looked her in the eye and thought to take control of her life. As though she were someone to be protected from her own decisions.
The thought put fire in her veins. But it also summoned something thick and unwelcome to her throat.
Not tears. Certainly not tears. Perhaps a scream or a shout.
By the time Beatrice reached Beckman House, her teeth were set so hard her jaw hurt, and poor Mr. Drake had scarcely finished opening the door before she thrust her gloves into his unsuspecting hands and swept inside.
Only she did not get three steps into the hall before something gave her pause.
The house was… unusually quiet.
Not empty—she could hear the faint clink of china somewhere belowstairs, the muted shift of a footman near the back passage—but subdued. As though Beckman House itself had drawn a careful breath and was waiting to see what came next.
Mr. Drake had not moved.
He stood near the wall, his shoulders held with an unusual rigidity.
Beatrice turned.
His expression was composed. Of course it was. But his gaze flicked—not quite toward the door of Dash’s study, then away again.
Her irritation cooled at once.
“How long has he been in there now?” she asked.
When she had left earlier that morning, she had wondered…
“Going on two days now, miss,” the butler informed her cautiously. “He’s refused to eat so much as a bite, and when I suggested Edwards draw him a bath, he demanded not to be disturbed.”
Of course he had. “Well. Take him a tray of biscuits. If he fusses, say I insisted, and please let me know if…” She glanced towards the door. “If he refuses that as well.”
Mrs. Bloomington was forcing Dash to wait.
Her brother had never been a patient man—least of all where the woman he loved was concerned. And Gideon had promised to watch over him, had he not? Instead of issuing edicts about Beatrice, he ought to be minding Dash.
As for Dash, why had he not taken the trouble to send Mrs. Bloomington a simple letter of explanation during those years he’d spent married to Lady Hannah? If Mrs. Bloomington was the love of his life, the poor woman deserved more than silence.
Foolish, foolish men.
Perhaps Mrs. Bloomington was right to hesitate.
Even the best of men could become unbearable with alarming ease.
It was the bearable moments that made them dangerous.
Her thoughts shot back to those heady moments she and Gideon had spent against that tree… But also to Mrs. Shaw’s garden party, ices at Gunters, and even that waltz they’d shared.
Her stomach gave the most traitorous little flutter. Which only worsened her temper further.
Because until this afternoon, she had genuinely believed Gideon Rothmore was different from other men.
Not merely because he listened to her. Not merely because he respected her mind.
But because somehow—he’d supported her even when he hadn’t understood completely. He’d seemed to… to trust her.
