Nothing meant to draw the eye.
Which was precisely the point.
Beside her, Lady Theodosia Radcliffe glowed in primrose silk as her mother scanned the crowd for advantageous prospects.
Lark stood on Beatrice’s other side, calm, observant, hands folded lightly at her waist. Once companion to Hannah, now companion to Theodosia, Beatrice’s dearest friend was steady as stone.
“I don’t suppose your brother is attending tonight?” Lark murmured, her lips hardly moving.
Beatrice kept her eyes forward. “Mon frère is otherwise occupied.”
Lark’s mouth curved. “Your French is showing.”
“Dash brings it out in me.”
It was true. Beatrice had spent the first years of her life in France, though every governess she’d had since coming to England had made it her personal mission to smooth the accent away. For the most part, they had succeeded.
Except with Dash.
His own accent had always remained far more pronounced, and when Beatrice was vexed with him, worried for him, or both, the old sounds had a way of slipping through.
“Hm.” Lark’s gaze drifted toward the dance floor. “He’s not attended a single ball since you both arrived in London two weeks ago. One would think he’d at least keep up appearances. But I suppose he has been rather single-minded of late, hasn’t he?”
“He certainly is distracted,” Beatrice answered.
Which was, conveniently, exactly the way she preferred it.
A lovelorn duke was far less meddlesome than a vigilant brother. Dash, a widower now, was presently consumed with securing the affections of the lady he deemed his destiny, and so long as the chase did not end in humiliation or heartbreak, Beatrice could scarcely object.
“But what about you?” Lark went on, her voice gentler now. “I know this is not truly why you’ve accepted these invitations. Still, you are here. And before all this, you did love to dance.”
Beatrice said nothing.
“Surely accepting a few offers to dance won’t ruin your mission.”
“I am in mourning.” Beatrice smoothed her palms over the front of her skirts, the dull grey silk a useful reminder of the role she had chosen. “And I have no wish to encourage attentions I cannot return. A dance can imply more than I mean to offer.”
“You are aware,” Lark murmured, a teasing smile touching her mouth, “that a single waltz need not lead to a proposal. Even in Mayfair, a lady may enjoy one dance without signing away her future.”
Beatrice snorted softly.
This was the ton, after all.
“Perhaps some ladies may,” she said. “But not me.”
Lark’s smile faded a little.
Beatrice lowered her voice. “I can’t be distracted by waltzes, Lark. Or flirtation.”
Her gaze moved over the glittering room—the chandeliers, the silk gowns, the polished shoes, the easy smiles.
For one sharp moment, she longed for the quiet woods at Dasborough Park.
She would not have set foot in a London ballroom at all if she had not known what hunted here. Not wolves or bears. Something worse. Men with good names, good coats, and manners polished enough to hide the rot beneath.
“I know,” Lark said quietly. “But truly, Bea… this undertaking of yours. It’s terribly risky. And with me bound to Theodosia’s side all evening, I cannot be nearby if you require assistance.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise. You have your charge. Your position.” Beatrice’s tone softened. Lark lacked the security of a wealthy relation. Dash had offered her continued residence after his wife’s death, but she declined, preferring employment to dependence. “You mustn’t trouble yourself on my account.”
