Behind her knees.
Everywhere.
With that one simple touch, he had awakened feelings she had believed gone from her forever.
Want.
The word itself felt dangerous. Impossible.
Kiss me, she had thought.
The realization stole the breath from her now as surely as it had then.
Kiss me.
Touch me.
She’d tilted her head back, very nearly closed the distance between them.
But then one of the horses had whinnied, impatient with the delay, stamping against the stones.
Gideon had stepped back.
The moment had broken.
Now, sitting alone before the fire with her hair unbound and the heat licking over her skin, that awareness returned.
Worse. It deepened.
Beatrice pressed her palm into her lap.
Yes, today had been different. But…
Perhaps Gideon Rothmore had not changed at all.
Perhaps it was merely London. Mayfair in springtime. Not to mention the fact that Dash was not constantly at Gideon’s side.
At Dasborough Park, Gideon had always been Dash’s friend. But here, he had become more defined.
Here, she noticed him as a gentleman.
A devastatingly handsome one.
Beatrice pulled the brush through her damp hair and frowned at the fire.
It was proximity, perhaps, in addition to the change of scenery.
Or perhaps somewhere between Hannah’s death and this return to London, something inside Beatrice had altered as well. Come away, maybe.
How inconvenient.
Still, there seemed little point in denying it.
She had a tendre for Gideon Rothmore.
She’d taken a fancy to him. Nothing more. Nothing that could not be managed with a little sense and a firm refusal to make a ninny of herself.
And so, having made that embarrassing admission, Beatrice finished drying her hair, twisted it into a loose braid, wrapped herself in a comfortable gown, and settled beside the fire.
