These matters did not unfold that way.
Telling meant questions. Scrutiny. Whispered calculations about how far a gentleman had been encouraged. It meant a lady’s conduct was examined more closely than the gentleman’s intent.
Much better to prevent such incidences entirely.
And that—precisely that—was why she was here.
“Really, my lord.” She spoke softly but firmly. “You’ve seen me at these parties. No man will have the opportunity to ‘test my tolerance.’”
“If—”
“If I require assistance, I will send for you. As promised.”
She did not wish to discuss this further. Not when she could feel the tension coiled beneath his sleeve.
They travelled nearly a full circle around the floor before she felt the rigidity in him ease.
If she had been any other young woman, she might have relaxed then. Might have surrendered to the music. To the attention. To the fact that the most quietly formidable man in the room, the one who was also likely the most handsome, held her with unerring steadiness.
But she was not any other young woman.
She had not come to London for diversion. She had come with purpose.
And Gideon Rothmore, for all intents and purposes, was practically a brother to her.
“You are thinking again,” he said, the familiar warmth returning to his voice.
“Only that you needn’t worry about me.”
“Very well. But I hope,” he added lightly, “that your confidence doesn’t come solely from the fact that you’re wearing a bodkin in your hair.”
WHEN HE DOESN’T
Beatrice was saved from responding when the music came to an end, effectively concluding the waltz and, along with it, their conversation. She dropped her arms, loosened her hand, stepped back a little awkwardly, and then dipped into a hasty curtsy. “My thanks,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes.
“Beatrice—” He reached for her, but she was already withdrawing.
If she lingered, he would only continue to press in that quiet manner of his. And his questions were beginning to sound less like questions at all. Which probably meant she’d revealed too much.
The trouble with Gideon was that he listened. And now he would be watching even more closely. She couldn’t even say that this was special treatment from him; anyone of his acquaintance was subject to his monitoring.
Not that it was any of his concern.
Rather than face Lark right away, Beatrice made her way to the retiring room, one of the few places where a lady might have a little privacy.
Once inside, Beatrice removed her gloves and then poured a careful measure of scented water onto her wrists. She took a deep breath. Held it. Released it.
It was just a dance. Only Gideon.
Lavender and powder hung in the air, and the chilled water steadied her until she caught sight of herself in the looking glass. Eyes perhaps brighter than usual, cheeks a little flushed…
And glinting from where it was tucked neatly between carefully pinned cinnamon strands: the bodkin.
Was that the only reason he’d claimed a dance, to get close enough to see if the jewel in her hair was a weapon?
Beatrice scrunched up her face. Dash it all.
Because she was willing to admit, at least to herself, that he hadn’t been entirely wrong to think it was how she came by her confidence.
