“Oh, my lord,” Beatrice replied sweetly, “you must know I don’t attend these assemblies to frolic around to music.”
His brow lifted faintly. “A tragedy.”
“You will survive it.”
“You wound me.” He pressed his right hand over his heart, but his eyes gleamed with quiet mischief.
“I have no doubt you’ll make a full recovery.”
“That would require a lifetime.” But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
And—confound it—so did hers.
She felt the smile before she could stop it, felt it tug at her lips.
The winter had been long. Heavy in a way that laughter had not quite touched—even in Lark’s company.
Lady Hannah had been the Duchess of Dasborough to the world. To Beatrice… she had simply been Lady Hannah. Delicate but strong in her own way, and so very young.
And now Dash…
It seemed a very long time since anything had felt light.
She straightened at once, smoothing her expression into something more suitable.
“I will convey your kind efforts to my brother,” Beatrice said smoothly. “But you need not entertain me on his behalf.”
“I ask on no one’s behalf but my own. One set,” he said. And then, he extended his hand.
C’est pas vrai. Unbelievable.
A few ladies beside her were watching. Lady Barrington’s eyes caught hers from across the room. A lifted brow.
Beatrice could not refuse the invitation without spectacle.
“If I must,” she said, expressing a theatrical sigh—just enough to suggest she had not been languishing in anticipation. Glancing back at Lark, she added, “We shall continue our discussion another time.”
“Enjoy the set, dearest Bea,” Lark replied, clearly entertained.
Only once they reached the floor did Beatrice realize something was amiss. The dancers were not assembling in lines, but stood separated, facing one another.
Before she could question it, Gideon was arranging her. He turned her neatly into position, one hand closing around hers, the other settling at her waist.
She stilled, her breath caught—just briefly.
This was not a country dance.
“You do know the steps?” he asked quietly.
“Of course I do.”
They were standing close.
Very close.
It was how one danced the waltz, after all.
Beatrice had watched this dance often enough, noting the peculiar intimacy it permitted. A gentleman’s hand placed low and firm. A lady’s face near his collar. Conversation carried in undertones no one else could hear.
