And each small movement, it seemed, only worsened the damage.
Lord Longstaffe was, indeed, holding the fabric. But not for nefarious purposes, it seemed, but … to help.
Heat flooded Beatrice’s face.
“I assure you,” Lord Longstaffe said, “my intentions are entirely honorable.”
“He is being perfectly gentlemanly,” Lady Calliope rushed to add, her voice trembling. “It is only this dreadful bush. I did not see it—oh, dear! Did you cut him?”
Beatrice took a small step back, her heart racing.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said, closing his hand before Lady Calliope could see more of the blood. “Do not distress yourself.”
Then his gaze shifted to Beatrice. For one brief moment, the gentlemanly blandness gave way to something drier. “Just a scratch,” he added.
Calliope shifted, then gave a small, irritated gasp as the roses caught again at her gown.
“Oh, bother.” Her blue eyes flashed toward the offending bush. “Of all the spiteful, ill-placed things.”
Calliope made another attempt to free herself and only succeeded in drawing the roses more firmly into her skirts.
Beatrice shoved the bodkin back into her hair.
A rescue was required after all—but not the one she had anticipated.
“Hold still,” she said, stepping forward.
Calliope’s chin lifted. “I am trying. You try holding still when there are a hundred blasted thorns pricking you from every direction! Ah!” Another wince as she flinched from whatever the viscount was trying to do with her sleeve.
Lord Longstaffe retreated at once, both hands raised in quiet surrender. “My apologies. I fear I’ve only managed to make it worse. The lady is well and truly claimed by the shrubbery.”
Lady Calliope’s gown had caught in multiple places. One sleeve was torn, and the skirt had been tugged indecently high by a particularly vicious cluster of thorns.
Beatrice assessed the damage.
Hmm. This required precision.
She reached to retrieve the bodkin again, but before her fingers closed around it, a hand settled lightly on her arm.
Lord Longstaffe was looming beside her, near enough that she could feel the warning coming off him. His gaze moved from the bodkin to Lady Calliope, then back to Beatrice.
“For the dress,” Beatrice said, lifting her brows. “Unless you have another idea.”
A beat passed.
Then—
“Of course,” he said, and released her arm. After another moment, he dipped his chin and stepped back. “Carry on, then.”
Beatrice bent to the task, working carefully at first, then with less delicacy when the silk refused to surrender. At last, with a small, expensive tearing sound, the fabric yielded.
Lady Calliope sprang free.
Unfortunately, the roses retained a sizeable portion of her gown.
“Oh,” Beatrice said.
Calliope looked down. “Oh, dear.”
