“You know,” he repeated.
“Of course I know.” She looked faintly offended now. “I never said all gentlemen have ill intentions.”
Beatrice looked out over the water, her grip adjusting on the oar. “Sometimes two people remove themselves from a crowd to speak freely. Or to have a moment’s quiet. Or because the room has become too loud and everyone in it too pleased with themselves.”
Despite himself, his mouth twitched.
“And sometimes,” she added, more softly, “they are simply friends.”
Gideon watched the lowered sweep of her lashes, the stubborn set of her chin, the faint color touching her cheeks.
And against all better judgment—indeed, with no judgment whatsoever—he found himself wanting to push.
“Do you believe me harmless, Beatrice?”
“Not entirely.” She glanced at him then, her gaze sharpening. “But Dash trusts you.”
Something shifted in his chest.
Unexpected.
Unwelcome.
Her oar dipped into the water.
“Blasted Dash,” Gideon said lightly, though the words came out rougher than he intended.
“Yes,” she said.
And held his gaze a moment too long.
Gideon cleared his throat and looked away.
Which was when he noticed the narrow strip of sand along Mrs. Shaw’s little island.
A dinghy had been drawn ashore there. A parasol lay draped across its side, a shawl abandoned over one seat—and beneath them both, protruding at a particularly guilty angle, was a very recognizable walking cane.
Beatrice followed his gaze.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The evidence suggested romance.
Not at all proper. But…
“We shall assume everything is… innocent here,” Gideon said mildly. “Unless you feel compelled to confirm the lady’s safety personally.”
Beatrice straightened slightly.
“No.”
Her oars dipped back into the water with renewed purpose as she looked firmly away from the island.
So she had seen them.
Earl of Grimstead—Grimm—one of Gideon’s more incorrigible friends—and a fashionable married lady who was widely known to be neglected by her husband.
“I am not that unsophisticated, Gideon.”
