“No.”
Gideon stepped into her path, not touching but unmistakably blocking her retreat.
“You will return to Miss Montague,” he said quietly. He didn’t sound angry so much as he exuded authority. “And you will remain at her side until the coachman deposits you safely at Beckman House. Do you understand?”
“But—”
“And you will speak of this to no one.”
Beatrice lifted her chin. “You are issuing orders now?”
“I am preventing further ones from becoming necessary.”
He meant Dash. He meant society.
Quelle peste. She folded her arms across her chest. “I am capable of handling myself.” She’d intended to knee him in the groin. If her leg could reach high enough, bound up in all her heavy skirts…
“Yes,” he agreed mildly. “I noticed.”
That pricked.
Her jaw tightened.
“I did not require rescuing.”
“No,” he said evenly. “You required a safer distance.”
A safer…
Yes. The distinction was infuriating.
He held her gaze a moment longer, then added, softer, “Beatrice. You do not get to be singularly brave at the expense of your own well-being.”
But… this was about her well-being!
And protection. And justice!
Still, with a glance at the unconscious Hatherleigh, she had conceded that now might not be the time to argue her position.
She drew a breath, then let it go.
“Very well,” she’d said at last. “I shall do as you… suggest. Which means I will remain suitably ornamental until conveyed home.”
“Thank you.”
He did not sound triumphant, only relieved.
But she still didn’t move.
“Gideon?”
“Yes?”
She had questions—several. What he intended to do with the man at their feet. How he had known she required assistance. Whether he meant to inform her brother.
But she asked none of them.
“Thank you,” she said instead.
