“Yes?”
She hesitated, but then… “Thank you.”
Something shifted in his expression—not surprise or even triumph, just something quietly pleased.
“You never have to thank me,” he said.
Then the door closed softly behind him.
Once he was gone, Beatrice turned back to her knives, selecting one of the smaller ones this time. Lighter.
Harder to master.
She adjusted her stance.
Exhaled. And threw.
A WALTZ
Two evenings later, Beatrice attended yet another festivity, but before taking to lurking around the ballroom, she allowed herself a few minutes to watch the first set.
It was a proper English country dance. Spirited but predictable.
Beatrice watched the line reform itself—partners exchanging places, hands briefly joined and then released, bodies in constant motion. No one remained long enough in one position to claim intimacy.
It was impossible not to see the design in it. In a country dance, a man could not secure a lady’s waist for more than a passing measure or murmur unchecked into her ear. There was very little opportunity for mischief when one was obliged to bow every third figure.
Beatrice sipped her lemonade thoughtfully.
Yes.
Predictability had its virtues.
Tonight, Beatrice and Lark had claimed a small table near the edge of the room. Beatrice angled herself just so—back to the wall, view unobstructed. Lark sat opposite her, hands folded around her fan. With Lady Theodosia dancing, Beatrice and Lark could converse openly.
“I thought at first he’d—I don’t know—changed his mind, decided to find someone more willing. But then he came back, started bringing her champagne. And when they went out to the gardens alone, I knew something wasn’t right,” Beatrice said quietly, continuing the account of the unsavory episode involving Persephone.
“And this was Mr. Hatherleigh?” Lark’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “The one with the collars so high he puts his eyeballs at risk?”
“The very same.”
“I suppose I’m not surprised. But Lady Persephone? Is she?—?”
“Unharmed.”
Lark exhaled—but did not look entirely reassured.
“There was no scene,” Beatrice added. “No raised voices. I merely… interrupted. Suggested her mother was inquiring after her. She was grateful for the opportunity to escape.”
“And Mr. Hatherleigh?”
“He tried to shoo me away initially but withdrew right away when I did not immediately back down.”
“You were fortunate. Men like that,” Lark said, lowering her voice, “don’t often yield so easily.”
“They do, though,” Beatrice said, setting down her glass, “if doing so allows them to keep their dignity.”
Lark frowned.
