Ha!
Served him right to feel the whisper of steel at his cheek.
It was not her little knife, either. Not the slender bodkin she liked to conceal in her coiffure. This blade was longer, better balanced for throwing—borrowed from the kitchens and adjusted carefully to suit her wrist.
She reached for another.
“Dash is not home,” she said in lieu of a greeting.
Gideon, wearing a gentleman’s typical morning attire, hat in hand, did not reply. He merely strolled farther into the ballroom as though near-decapitation were an entirely customary welcome.
Beatrice let her gaze catch just long enough to note his dark coat buttoned over a conservative waistcoat, set off by a white cravat arranged with the sort of effortless symmetry that suggested discipline rather than vanity. As always, his neat brown hair had been subdued with pomade, not a single strand out of place.
Nothing about him clamored for notice.
He did not need to.
Her brother’s friend possessed an infuriating talent for fitting precisely where he stood.
In the country. In a London ballroom. And now, somehow, here.
He stopped a few paces away and folded his arms across his chest.
Like an older brother. But also… not.
Ma foi.
Beatrice felt a subtle tightening beneath her stays—an awareness she refused to dignify with examination—and lifted her chin.
“If you wish to watch,” she said coolly, “I advise you stand slightly farther to the right.”
One corner of his mouth shifted.
He, however, did not.
Doing her best to ignore him, Beatrice crossed the room, grabbed the handle of the blade, and jerked it out of the target.
“I—apologize if I gave you a fright,” she said stiltedly. But then, she couldn’t help but to add, “Most visitors don’t enter unannounced.”
Gideon—or anyone else who decided to call—should have either been led into the drawing room to wait for her or else escorted here by Mr. Drake, who would have known to knock before intruding. She had been certain to alert the staff to her activities in order to avoid any incidents like this one.
“Ah, my mistake then,” he said far too lightly.
“Apology accepted.”
“I was already aware of your skill with the bow and arrow,” he said. Then, mildly— “This is new.” A question within a nonquestion.
Beatrice turned the blade in her hand, inspecting its surface.
“A lady cannot have too many accomplishments, surely.”
His brow lifted slightly. “True.” He took another step into the room, unhurried. “Though I confess, I had not realized edged weapons had been added to the usual list.”
She selected another blade, weighed it in her hand, and adjusted her grip the way she’d seen in the diagrams. If she had a proper teacher, this would be easier. But alas… “It ought to be.”
He studied the hay bales. The chalked circle. The distance she had measured.
And just as the silence threatened to settle— “Did you enjoy yourself at the ball last night?” he asked.
