“I provide them with an exit. One that spares their pride.” A small shrug. “There’s nothing for them to fight against.” She had seen her father employ the same method with difficult tenants. Dash as well.
“But if he had not withdrawn?” Lark persisted softly. “Tendency is not certainty. What would you have done if he had not withdrawn?”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted briefly to the dance floor where Theodosia laughed as she passed beneath Blackwell’s raised arm.
“I would have managed,” she said, touching her fingertips to the small ornament nestled in her coiffure—innocent as any jewel might appear.
Lark did not smile in return.
“You cannot position yourself between every ambitious gentleman and every uncertain girl.”
“No,” Beatrice agreed calmly. “Only the ones who require it.”
But the conversation could go no further. At that very moment, the set ended in a flurry of bows and curtsies?—
—and across the room, a tall gentleman had fixed his attention squarely upon her.
He was already walking this way.
Beatrice stilled.
Gideon was dressed as he always was—without flourish, without apology. His black coat fit with ruthless precision, his ivory waistcoat plain to the point of severity. Even his cravat, though perfectly tied, refused ornament.
Where other men adorned, Gideon refrained.
By the time he reached them, because manners must be observed, Beatrice and Lark rose. Lark curtsied. And after the briefest hesitation, Beatrice did as well.
“My ladies.” His mouth curved faintly. “The flowers were doing admirably until you stood beside them.”
Beatrice nearly snorted.
Lark wore the uniform of all companions, stiff lavender and a demure chignon, while Beatrice’s own gown, gray muslin with black lace, had been made for mourning.
“That is kind of you, my lord,” Lark replied, diplomatic as ever.
“I don’t say it to be kind.” He inclined his head toward her, then his gaze moved to Beatrice. Flicking over her face and higher. “Your hair has grown… ambitious,” he observed.
“Are you policing my style choices?”
“Merely remarking on them.” His hazel gaze flicked downward, not in any way ogling her, but as though simply assessing for other ambitious fashion choices.
“I’d expected your manners to have improved over the years,” she returned lightly. “It seems my expectations were overly ambitious.”
A brief silence followed, then he turned fully toward her. “But my manners are impeccable. Why else would I seek you out for a set?”
Beatrice frowned. “Pardon?”
Before she could quite determine what he meant, he took her hands and lifted them as though examining some small curiosity. And with his fingers closed lightly around her wrists, he turned them just enough to confirm what he had apparently suspected.
“No dance card,” he observed.
The contact was brief—and not quite proper. She couldn’t help but notice the warmth of his palms through the thin silk of her gloves. The awareness surprised her.
She considered drawing her hands back, if only to prove she could. Yes, he was Lord Hawkins now, but he was also… just Gideon.
She did not.
“I do not suppose, then,” he continued, releasing her as though he had merely verified a detail of etiquette, “that it would be presumption to assume you have not already promised the next set?”
