“Miss Whitcombe?” she called, bright and unbothered, as though she had stumbled upon nothing more alarming than a forgotten fan. “There you are. Your mother has need of you.”
The girl shifted, attempting to free herself.
Hatherleigh kept his arms locked around her.
Beatrice took another step forward. Not afraid.
“You must come at once,” she continued lightly, her tone leaving no room for question. “She was quite insistent.”
No accusation. Only expectation.
For another heartbeat, Hatherleigh remained precisely as he was.
Then, very slowly, he straightened.
“My dear Lady Beatrice,” he said without turning, “you have mistaken the situation. I suggest you return to the ball.”
Closer now, Beatrice saw better.
Not fully—Hatherleigh still blocked most of his prey—but enough.
Miss Whitcombe’s ribbons had slipped. One glove hung half-pulled from her wrist. And when she managed to peer around his arm, Beatrice caught the glint of tears tracking down her cheeks.
“Come along, Miss Whitcombe.” Beatrice took a step closer.
“Miss Whitcombe is not your concern,” he continued, his tone no longer indulgent. “Nor your business.”
“Oh,” Beatrice said coolly, moving even closer, “but her well-being is very much my business, sir.”
He finally glanced over his shoulder, and the expression on his face was not embarrassment or shame. It was irritation.
His hand loosened.
Miss Whitcombe fled at once—skirts in hand, slipping past Beatrice and racing toward the glow of the house.
Although Hatherleigh had reached for her, he’d missed. He took a few quick steps around the folly and positioned himself between Beatrice and the path.
Backing her up against the low railing. Beyond it, a drop—and the tangle of rose bushes below.
“You interfere too often,” he said.
Beatrice reached for her hair, drew the bodkin free in one smooth motion, and raised it between them.
Steady.
At first.
The sight of it should have changed matters. In all her imaginings, this had been the moment when a man stepped back. When he understood that she was not helpless. That she was not some frightened girl to be cornered and managed and persuaded into silence.
For one brief, shining instant, confidence rose in her.
“Do not come any closer,” she said.
Hatherleigh stopped.
His gaze dropped to the knife.
Surprise moved across his face—not fear, precisely, but rather an offended astonishment. Then…
