Completely unaware.
Beatrice’s focus sharpened.
Hatherleigh moved then—closing the distance far too casually—and within moments, he’d engaged Lady Persephone in conversation.
She blushed.
Nodded.
And when the first waltz of the evening began, she allowed him to lead her onto the floor. Couples swirled across the polished boards in calculated intimacy. Laughter rose. Fans fluttered. Gloves brushed.
Now, a man asking a woman for a dance was not normally cause for concern, but the way Hatherleigh had been eyeing Lady Persephone beforehand… Beatrice did not trust it.
It had not been admiring or lustful or even shocked disgust at the sight of Lady Persephone’s scarred skin. It had been calculating. In the way a wolf would evaluate its prey before deciding to pounce.
Whether he sought some sort of financial or material gain from her or something more nefarious, Beatrice couldn’t be sure.
But she intended to find out.
“I believe I shall seek out some lemonade,” she said lightly, pushing away from the wall.
“Is that what you are calling it this evening?”
Beatrice’s stare locked with Lark’s, with the faintest hint of a smile before she drifted away—not toward the dance floor, but toward its periphery.
Ignoring the table displaying cups of warm lemonade, she walked past the musicians, taking note of other lurking gentlemen but mostly keeping watch of the pair.
She paused beside Lady Wetherby long enough to exchange a few pleasantries she forgot the moment they were spoken. The dowager lacked a certain conversational awareness, happy to carry on with minimal input from whoever she was speaking to. This made it easy enough for Beatrice to watch the room without appearing to do so.
Hatherleigh had all his attention on Lady Persephone, so Beatrice moved in that direction, keeping her pace unhurried. But near the refreshment table, she noticed a young debutante cornered by a gentleman who had either failed to notice her discomfort or had noticed and liked it.
Beatrice adjusted course.
Her ivory fan slipped neatly from her fingers and clattered against the parquet at his feet.
“Oh, how dreadfully clumsy of me,” she said, all wide eyes and harmless flutter.
The gentleman was forced to stop and retrieve it.
In that brief interruption, the young lady escaped toward her cousins.
Beatrice accepted the fan with a grateful, empty-headed smile.
Then she continued on her way. Ah, they were on the dance floor now.
Hatherleigh danced adequately, did nothing improper.
Not at first.
But the hour was still young.
When the waltz ended, he bowed over Lady Persephone’s hand and returned her to the edge of the floor with impeccable civility. Perhaps she had been wrong in her assessment earlier, or else Hatherleigh had changed his mind.
Either way, Beatrice marked the interaction and returned to surveying others in the room.
Twirling figures, leering eyes.
Time advanced. Candles burned lower. The room warmed.
