But Lark’s letter… had been different.
It had made her feel, for the first time, not improper, but… unwanted.
Beatrice looked down at the pale gold of her champagne.
Lark was her friend.
And the idea, however unlikely, that she might find herself once again on the outside of something… something she had only just begun to enjoy?—
Beatrice lifted her chin.
To allow this to affect her so… It was absurd.
Except—
If she meant to continue in her self-assigned task, she would require invitations. Access. Not to be quietly set aside.
“You needn’t worry,” Gideon said after a few more steps. “After today, no one will be discussing anything but your marksmanship.”
She glanced at him sideways, studying him. Had he planned… all of this?
“What if I had lost?” she asked. “What if I had stepped up to the line and sent my arrow sailing into the sky out of an abundance of nerves?”
A faint smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth. “The potential benefits outweighed the risks. Which,” he added mildly, “were negligible.”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or terrified by your confidence.”
Gideon simply turned to meet her eyes.
For a moment, he was familiar to her—of course he was. Gideon. Hawk. Her brother’s friend.
And yet, the look that passed between them belonged to neither childhood nor friendship.
It was something else entirely.
“Well,” Beatrice said, touching the medal that rested against her collarbone, “if you dare try a stunt like this again…” She scowled threateningly. “Then I’ll be forced to—” She faltered.
The threat she had intended to deliver abruptly vanished from her mind.
Because Gideon had turned fully toward her, the gold flecks in his hazel eyes all but blazing.
“What will you do to me, Beatrice Beckman?” he asked softly.
Her eyes dropped to his mouth. A mouth that was?—
“I’ll use you for target practice.”
She turned and marched ahead along the path. Because, for a fleeting and mortifying instant, she had wondered what it might be like to be kissed by him.
Gideon kept up with her, of course, and she’d nearly dismissed the thought by the time the trees opened onto the river’s edge. Not the full width of the Thames, but a narrow branch that wandered lazily away from the main current.
“It loops around the island,” he said from right behind her.
Reaching around, brushing her arm just barely, Gideon pointed toward a row of small wooden boats tied to a tidy little dock. “Shall we?” he asked.
“As long as I get to row.”
EXERCISE
