Beatrice’s breath caught faintly at the memory.
She’d held herself perfectly still.
Utterly still.
As though any movement might break the moment.
Beatrice pressed the towel more firmly to her hair.
Had he wanted to… kiss her?
No! It had been nothing.
Only Gideon being far too handsome in the fading light and herself being… unsettled.
That was all.
Beatrice shifted in her chair, the heat of the fire no longer entirely to blame for the warmth rising along her throat.
He was Gideon. Dash’s closest friend. A man she had known as long as she’d been in England—almost a brother, even.
Beatrice drew her hair forward again, more firmly this time.
There were other, far more interesting subjects to think about. Dash and Mrs. Bloomington. Lady Calliope’s unfortunate tendency to gossip. And Lark, whom she hadn’t spoken to since Lady Longstaffe’s party.
Her chest squeezed a little at the possibility of a rift.
She had not attended the Middletons’ ball that evening. Instead, she had sent her apologies to Lady Barrington—and to Lark—without explanation.
Not because she’d been angry or resentful.
No—the discomfort lay elsewhere.
In the thought of being discussed. Observed. Interpreted by people whose opinions she did not respect and yet could not entirely ignore.
Even though Gideon had assured her more than once that it would be forgotten.
Her hand slowed in her hair.
Why did her thoughts constantly circle to Gideon?
To his voice. His nearness. The moment at the carriage, when he had not stepped away at once.
Slowly, almost without meaning to, Beatrice lowered the brush.
He had bowed over her hand, not releasing it right away, and when his gaze lifted again, it had not gone to her eyes.
It had gone to her mouth.
Her fingertips rose to her lips.
And then his thumb had moved. One slow brush across the back of her glove. Barely even a caress.
And yet Beatrice had felt it everywhere.
In her breath.
In her stomach.
