That, perhaps, was the most aggravating part.
Beatrice and Lark had spent weeks devising such small interruptions. A dropped handkerchief. A summons from a mother who had never sent one. A reason to pull a woman away before a gentleman could press too close.
Gideon and his friends had simply adapted the methods to suit themselves.
Instead of a handkerchief, someone fumbled a plate of food at precisely the right moment. Instead of reminding a young lady that she’d lost her chaperone, Lord Longstaffe might call across the room that a gentleman’s partners awaited him at cards.
It was not that they were cleverer than Beatrice.
There were simply more of them.
And they were larger.
Most vexing of all, whenever Beatrice did notice a situation requiring interruption, she was the one redirected.
At Lady Wetherby’s musicale, Beatrice had spotted a cluster of gentlemen lingering too long near the gallery staircase with Miss Cresswell. Before she could reach them, Longstaffe had drawn her into a discussion about a missing fan. By the time she freed herself, Blackwell had placed Miss Cresswell safely beside Lady Wetherby, and the gentlemen had scattered.
At the Ridleys’ garden party, she had seen Lord Grimstead attempting to steer poor Miss Shipley toward the hedge maze. Gideon had intercepted him before Beatrice could take three steps.
At the Tindales’ card party, she had watched Gideon and Blackwell quietly remove two gentlemen from the premises altogether after a low-voiced exchange she had not been close enough to hear.
She was never close enough anymore.
Gideon had drafted reinforcements, put her own strategies to work, and then made certain she could not employ them herself.
And although Beatrice was the one who had determined to avoid him—not the other way around—Gideon did not seem to mind in the least.
There had been no lessons. No surprise outings to garden parties. No walks in the park.
It was maddening.
Beatrice turned sharply toward the punch bowl.
Really, it was no wonder she was out of sorts.
Before matters with Gideon had turned so thoroughly complicated, Beatrice had gone to bed with little more troubling her than schemes, lists, and the occasional irritation with her brother.
Now she went home furious. Restless.
And sleep, rather than offering a reprieve, was no better. It betrayed her.
It betrayed her with dreams of Gideon. Dreams that were so vivid, she woke overheated and tangled in her sheets.
His hands setting her bodice to rights. His mouth near her throat. His voice, low and strained, saying her name.
As though she were not merely his friend’s little sister.
As though he needed her.
Beatrice snapped her fan open and fluttered it towards her suddenly heated cheeks.
“One might consider it noble, wouldn’t you agree?” Lark asked.
Beatrice gave a short laugh. “Lord Hawkins and his friends?”
“The ballroom has become something of a fortress.”
Beatrice snapped her fan closed. “It doesn’t solve the problem, though.”
