Precise.
His gaze caught there before he could stop it. At her waist. The curve of her hips. The clean line of her thighs beneath the snug cloth.
They covered everything that ought to be covered.
They simply did so with a degree of honesty no gentleman was meant to survive.
His gaze moved lower, over the line of her legs, then stopped at her bare feet.
Delicate toes. Fine ankles. One foot angled slightly outward in a stance of such casual defiance that…
Good God.
“Do you approve?” she asked.
His gaze snapped back to her face.
She stood with her fists on her hips, watching him with bright, challenging eyes.
Gideon cleared his throat.
“It will do.”
The apparel was, in fact, practical. The fact that it was also… distracting was his own problem.
Clearing his throat, he forced himself to properly examine the room.
Mattresses, carpets, all arranged inelegantly, but… the space was functional.
“Well?” Beatrice all but demanded. “Are you here to teach me how to fight,” she continued, “or shall I have the servants bring tea?”
There was a glint in her eyes.
Gideon exhaled a quiet laugh.
Yes.
This was Beatrice.
He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto a nearby chair.
“We might begin with the assumption,” he said, rolling his sleeves once, “that although boiling tea can be an effective weapon, it’s doubtful you’ll have any on hand while skulking around various Mayfair gardens.”
She folded her arms. “Noted.”
When he stepped closer, her gaze dropped briefly to his boots.
“What about those?” she asked.
For half a second Gideon saw the scenario with a brother’s eye?—
Dash walking into the ballroom.
Seeing his sister dressed like this.
Mattresses absurdly arranged where there ought to be a dance floor.
Gideon with half his clothing removed.
