The distinction landed low in his body before he could prevent it. Unwelcome. Immediate. Entirely inappropriate.
He adjusted his gloves and fixed his attention on the door.
No.
She was not his sister.
But the responsibility remained.
If Beatrice intended to continue placing herself between predators and the unsuspecting, then by God, she would learn to do it properly.
“My lord?” The butler’s voice cut through his thoughts as he gestured for him to enter.
Gideon handed over his gloves. “Mr. Drake.”
“Her ladyship is expecting you. And… the ballroom has been… prepared.”
Those pauses carried an entire paragraph of professional disapproval.
“Excellent.” Gideon followed him down the corridor.
In truth, he had spent the better part of the morning considering the most efficient way to begin.
Not fencing. Not blades.
Both of those weapons required space and preparation—luxuries rarely afforded in the sort of encounters Beatrice seemed determined to provoke.
No.
Beatrice Beckman needed better balance. She needed the ability to deny a larger opponent his leverage.
Pugilism provided some of it. Grappling provided more.
He had learned both in those years when he’d drifted almost aimlessly, before assuming his father’s title. During one particularly long winter in Vienna, an enterprising Hungarian officer had demonstrated several methods of putting a man flat on his back without striking him at all.
The principles were simple.
Leverage. Timing. And the intelligent use of another man’s momentum.
When Gideon stepped into the ballroom, he stopped.
Beatrice had, indeed, prepared the ballroom.
Three mattresses had been dragged in and covered with carpet, creating a good-sized padded surface for two people to practice on. Her targets remained, but had been pushed off to the side.
“My lord.”
He turned.
For half a second, Gideon forgot entirely what he had intended to say.
Gone were Lady Beatrice’s usual grey muslins and silk skirts. Gone, too, were the layers of petticoats and stays and all the other feminine mysteries that kept a lady’s form politely suggested rather than plainly declared.
Instead, she wore a loose linen shirt tucked into a pair of breeches.
Borrowed, he assumed.
Though, if so, the original owner had been an unfortunate boy of narrow hips and improbably long legs, because the fit upon Beatrice was…
