A SAFER DISTANCE
Beatrice awoke, braced for consequences.
There would be questions, of course. Reprimands. Almost certainly that particular expression Dash wore when he wished to be both brother and duke and somehow expected her to endure both without complaint.
As she tossed back the counterpane, she was already arranging her defenses.
She would not apologize for following Miss Whitcombe. She would not apologize for intervening. She would not apologize for carrying a bodkin sharp enough to discourage men who failed to understand the word no.
If Dash wished to lecture her, he might do so.
She had survived worse than brotherly disapproval.
Still, by the time she stood at her chamber door—dressed in a practical dove-grey walking muslin, her hair arranged in a simple knot, the bodkin safely tucked away in her jewelry box—Beatrice felt her chest tighten.
As it turned out, she had braced herself for nothing.
By the time Beatrice sat down to breakfast in the morning room, a pot of tea steaming at her elbow and toast arranged neatly upon the plate before her, she had almost succeeded in appearing unconcerned.
Almost.
“Will His Grace be joining me?” she asked the footman as he poured her tea.
“No, my lady. His Grace departed before sunup.”
“I… see.” She lifted her cup with admirable calm. “Off to tend his horticultural pursuits again, I presume?”
“He is, my lady.” And with that, the footman excused himself.
“Of course,” she murmured.
She felt a brief, indignant sting that Dash’s pursuit of Miss Bloomington had taken precedence over his own sister’s safety.
But relief followed quickly on its heels.
No Dash meant no questions. No judgment. No need to explain precisely how she had managed to place herself in danger the night before.
She shuddered to consider what might have occurred had anyone other than Lord Hawkins interrupted that scene in the folly.
She took a measured sip of tea.
Mr. Hatherleigh had not retreated when she’d brandished her weapon.
Lark had warned her. Quite plainly, in fact. But Beatrice? She’d dismissed it—confident in her own abilities.
Overconfident, as it turned out.
By assuming a man would choose preservation over escalation, she’d made a crucial mistake.
Because men were not invariably rational. Especially when thwarted. Even more so, she’d learned, when thwarted twice.
The first interruption had cost him opportunity. But the second… The second had not been about opportunity at all.
It had challenged something far more dangerous.
His pride. His belief that he was entitled to take what he wished—and that no one, least of all a woman, would dare oppose him.
How dare she?
