“Oh my.” Beatrice could barely keep her mouth from dropping open.
Gideon glanced at her. “Still want to do our lessons in your ballroom today?”
“No,” Beatrice said. “Definitely not.”
Coming to a halt beneath a large awning, they might as well have been visiting any aristocratic country estate. Footmen appeared at once to open the door, assisting Beatrice down. Gideon followed, but not without gathering the two cases. Hers, brown and rough from years of use, and the other polished and elegant.
“Are you any good?” Beatrice asked.
“I hold my own.”
His answer came as something of a surprise.
“You never did any shooting at Dasborough Park.” It came out as almost an accusation.
“Didn’t I?”
Beatrice didn’t get a chance to question that before a woman stepped forward, her hands outstretched.
“My darling Hawkins,” she said warmly. “You are late.”
She was breathtaking. Not youthful, but with the sort of beauty that had simply grown more assured with time. Her dark hair was arranged in an elegant twist, and the deep green silk of her gown set off eyes that were clear and bright.
She smiled with unmistakable delight when her darling Hawkins bowed over her hand.
“Fashionably so, of course.” Gideon’s voice was just as warm. Beatrice rolled her lips together to keep from frowning.
But then the woman’s gaze shifted to Beatrice.
“And you have brought me a mystery.”
“Arabella, may I present Lady Beatrice Beckman. Lady Beatrice, this is Mrs. Arabella Shaw.”
The woman’s eyes lit with recognition. “Dash’s sister.”
Beatrice smiled politely. “I hope that is not my sole distinction.”
“We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” Mrs. Shaw laughed. “But you’d best move along if you’re planning on entering.” She gestured inside. “The ballroom is open to the terrace. You may sign up for an entry slot at the table near the door.”
Gideon thanked her, and a few minutes later, the two of them were standing at an elegant but official-looking table.
“Easy enough, wouldn’t you agree?” Gideon handed over the pencil, having just put his name in one of the vacant time slots. Almost all of them were already filled in.
Beatrice glanced at the line of other guests standing nearby and just outside. A few seemed to stare at her curiously.
Gideon leaned slightly closer. “Unless…” His breath warmed her cheek. “You are afraid?”
Beatrice scoffed. “You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you?” Then she took the pencil and added her name in the last open slot. Just beneath his.
Gideon Rothmore.
Beatrice Beckman.
A brief perusal of the names above theirs showed not as many women as there were men, but more than Beatrice would have expected.
“I hope you don’t mind losing,” Beatrice teased.
“I’m counting on it, actually.” He handed over her case and then, touching her elbow, led her outside. He kept his hand there until they arrived at the line where contestants were taking some practice shots.
