The small dock was not entirely deserted. Several guests had wandered down from the lawns, some to admire the view of the river, others merely seeking a quieter place to talk, away from the noise of the garden party.
Gideon surveyed the row of little boats tied along the edge before selecting one that appeared reasonably dry and unlikely to sink beneath them.
Of course, Beatrice would insist on rowing.
“Here,” he said.
A servant—who seemed to materialize precisely when needed—stepped forward with a tray. Gideon handed over Beatrice’s champagne and his own untouched drink, then shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the narrow wooden bench inside the boat.
“For the lady,” he said.
A lady who was also his oldest friend’s little sister…
Her gown today was a clear blue. Not the muted lavender or grey she had worn so often these past weeks. He had noticed that immediately.
And it suited her. Perhaps a little too well.
Not hesitating for even a moment, Beatrice stepped confidently into the boat, balancing easily despite the slight rocking of the craft. Gideon offered a steadying hand, which she accepted only because he insisted, and followed her in.
He had not intended to bring her here.
Well—not here here. Not into a boat, on a quiet offshoot of the Thames, with hardly anyone else in sight.
The archery competition had been the plan. To smooth over the unfortunate business with Longstaffe and Lady Calliope. That much had been deliberate.
What he had not anticipated was the crush of attention that followed.
The moment it had begun—gentlemen pressing in, voices overlapping, her name repeated too often—something in him had tightened. He saw her fingers tapping away at her glass, her teeth catching her bottom lip. Subtle nervous gestures that betrayed her unease.
And before he’d had time to consider it, he was already moving.
Extracting her. For her brother, for his friend, of course.
Perhaps the version of Beatrice Dash had described would have welcomed the attention, but Gideon had known immediately, that wasn’t the case anymore.
So, he’d done the logical thing.
And now… now that he’d saved her, she was perfectly at ease across from him in a narrow boat, rowing with Beatrice-like confidence.
Sunlight picked out the red beneath her brown hair. The blue of her gown complemented the warmth of her skin and made her eyes seem deeper, stormier.
But it was not the gown that held his attention.
It was the line of her throat. The quiet rise and fall of her breath, drawing his gaze lower than it had any right to go. The soft shadow where the neckline of her gown curved over her breasts.
And the unhurried certainty of her movements—each stroke smooth, measured, inevitable—until his body began to register the rhythm in ways his mind very firmly refused to name.
Gideon dragged his gaze toward the riverbank.
Dash trusts you.
The thought struck with unwelcome clarity.
Gideon turned to study her again, and Beatrice, mercifully oblivious, was not looking at him at all.
Her gaze had shifted past him, toward the distant bank, where the servant who had taken their glasses bent to collect another abandoned drink in the wake of the festivities.
Her brow crinkled faintly. “You never drink champagne,” she said, the oars dipping once more into the water. “Or any other spirits.”
