By the tilt of her head.
The proud set of her shoulders.
The tiny notch in her chin.
The full, unsmiling curve of her mouth.
That mouth.
Five days in the saddle and apparently he had learned nothing.
Then, as though she felt him watching, Beatrice turned.
THE CELEBRATION
Beatrice had stood beside her new sister-in-law through the entire reception line.
Smiling.
Greeting each guest by name, one after the other.
Accepting compliments on the decorations, the music, the supper arrangements, Ambrosia’s gown, Dash’s obvious happiness, the weather, the roses, and—in one particularly enthusiastic villager’s case—the quality of the trout served at breakfast.
None of those guests were Gideon.
He had not come. Of course he had not.
She had known he would not.
Hadn’t she?
He had not sent so much as a stiff, formal note expressing regret that he could not attend the duke’s celebration. For four weeks, there had been nothing.
Which was precisely what she had demanded.
So if some small, foolish part of her had glanced toward the entrance every time another carriage arrived, that was hardly worth acknowledging.
Now, the reception line had dissolved, and the ball was truly underway. All the planning, the flowers, the musicians, the tastings, the endless decisions over candles and ribbons and masks had come together beautifully.
Magnificently, even.
The ballroom glowed.
It was, in fact, a triumph.
Beatrice ought to have felt nothing but satisfaction.
And she did… for the most part.
Then a gentleman in a wolf mask crossed in front of her.
Her breath caught.
… Only because the mask was very well made.
That was all.
She looked away, to where a lady in a dramatic black domino laughed from behind a fan, a gentleman in a harlequin mask was bending over a dowager’s hand, and another with curling horns and painted red cheeks was standing near the supper room like some creature escaped from Dante’s Inferno.
