And in that hesitation, she realized the concession required very little of her.
“If it becomes necessary,” he said, too evenly, “yes.”
Her brows rose.
His restraint cracked.
“By God, Beatrice, you cannot continue walking into danger trusting that cleverness and a bodkin will be enough to see you safely out again.”
Beatrice bristled at that. “I was prepared to handle him.”
“You were fortunate,” Gideon repeated evenly, “because I was there.”
But he would not always be there. Had not been in the past. Neither was Dash. Not that she blamed them per se, but she’d learned well enough that she could not rely on the heroics of others, not even those she trusted. No woman could.
His gaze did not waver. “You could have been… injured.”
He seemed to have chosen that word with intention. Injured. Not compromised. Not ruined.
The distinction settled deeper than she would have liked, and for a fleeting instant, the past pressed too close.
Too much champagne. The clawing scent of roses. Insistent hands…
“You frightened me last night, Beatrice.” His voice was low. The words unexpected. “And I do not care to repeat the experience.”
Beatrice held her breath, and after a moment, let it out quietly…
“But you are not angry?” she asked as she lifted her cup, cradling its warmth with both hands.
“Oh, I am,” he said. “Furious, in fact.” He set his jaw and Beatrice stiffened. “But not with you.”
Oh. Well, then.
“When,” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt, “can we begin these lessons?”
THE NEXT STEP
Considering the next ball was only three days away, Gideon and Beatrice arranged to begin her lessons that very afternoon—which meant that she only had a few short hours to prepare some sort of practice area for them to use.
Seeing as she had already been using the Beckman House ballroom for knife-throwing and archery practice, Beatrice decided that was as good a place as any. A few simple additions ought to be sufficient for their purposes.
Mr. Drake listened to her directions with admirable restraint.
“You wish, my lady,” he said carefully, “for the ballroom floor to be… padded.”
“Temporarily. And only the one corner. We needn’t cover the entire floor.”
“But that will leave the beds without mattresses, my lady.” The prospect appeared to disturb him greatly.
“Just the guest rooms, Mr. Drake.”
He paused just long enough to convey his utter bafflement.
Then he bowed. “Very good, my lady.”
Which meant, in butler language, that he disapproved profoundly—but would execute the order nonetheless.
By mid-morning, three spare mattresses had been conveyed from the upper floors and arranged side by side along the far wall. A thick carpet had been unrolled over them to firm them up, and two long bolsters were positioned to keep the entire arrangement from shifting.
