For several blissful, impossible moments, there was no Dash, no Hatherleigh, no Groby, no wound that required bandaging, no masked ball waiting below. Only Gideon, warm beneath her hands, his mouth loving and tender, his arm holding her as though he had finally learned the difference between keeping her close and holding her captive.
Then came a knock.
Gideon stilled beneath her.
Another knock sounded, firmer this time.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Beatrice muttered, scrambling off his lap and smoothing her skirts with far less dignity than she would have preferred.
Gideon rose more slowly, looking altogether too composed for a shirtless man who had just had a lady on his lap.
Beatrice opened the door only a crack.
It was not the maid.
This time, it was Mrs. Crabshaw, the housekeeper—looking rather annoyed, actually.
Her gaze flicked past Beatrice’s shoulder.
The woman cleared her throat. “His Grace wishes to speak with Lord Hawkins in his study. At once.”
Beatrice’s brows shot up. “In the middle of his wedding ball?”
“A matter of urgency, apparently.”
Had the maid ratted them out to her brother? That… would not be ideal.
“Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Crabshaw,” she said calmly. “His lordship will be down shortly.”
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes.
Beatrice smiled.
Then she closed the door.
For a moment, she remained facing it, one hand still on the latch.
Then she turned.
Gideon stood beside the washstand, bare-chested, bandaged badly enough that she would have to redo it before he went anywhere, his dark hair disordered from her fingers. But his expression was steady.
Not nervous. Not even sheepish. Determined.
Beatrice’s heart gave a slow, heavy thump.
“Well,” she said.
“Well,” he answered.
“Dash knows you are here.”
“It would appear so.”
Her gaze dropped briefly to his chest, then back to his face. “You cannot go down like that.”
His mouth curved faintly. “No?”
“No. Maids would be fainting left and right. Perhaps a few footmen as well.”
