She opened Byron’s Don Juan—a book she would never admit to owning—and attempted to continue where she had left off.
She’d reached the part where Haidée realized that love had ruined her. She had given Juan everything and still could not wish him away.
Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart,
’Tis woman’s whole existence.
Beatrice frowned at the page.
As though a woman could hold no ambitions of her own. No interests beyond the orbit of some gentleman’s attentions.
The idea was absurd. Dangerous. Reckless.
Beatrice turned the page rather sharply, focusing her eyes on the printed words.
And yet…
The house was quiet. The fire crackled softly. The words began to blur.
She might have drifted off, had a door not closed somewhere below. A moment later, footsteps sounded in the corridor outside her chamber.
Dash.
Setting the book aside, Beatrice stretched then rose, seizing upon the excuse to look in on her brother.
Not that Dash was likely to welcome being looked in on.
They had never been the prying sort of siblings. Not in any serious way. And if Dash preferred to keep his troubles tucked out of sight, Beatrice could hardly object.
She had done the same with hers.
Still… she was awake.
“Dash,” she called from her doorway, careful to keep her tone light. “I wondered where you’d been.”
He muttered something she couldn’t make out.
Barefoot, she crossed the corridor toward him. “Not that I worry, of course. I assumed you’d gone off to sulk somewhere” —her mouth curved faintly— “or to moon about in Madam Bloomington’s hothouse.”
But Dash did not smile at her teasing as he usually would.
Oh, this Mrs. Bloomington was beginning to irritate Beatrice, even if part of her understood why Mrs. Bloomington was so angry. Still… given the circumstances… the woman would be a fool not to forgive Dash eventually.
“You missed a very fine garden party today,” she went on lightly, deciding it best to change the subject. “They held an archery contest. I entered, naturally. And, mon frère…” Her eyes sparkled with mock triumph. “I beat everyone. Everyone. Even Lord Hawkins—and you know how highly he thinks of himself.”
Dash’s mouth curved, but only just.
The expression vanished almost as soon as it appeared.
Beatrice slowed.
Dash stood half-turned in the corridor, the lamplight catching in his dark hair. He dragged a hand through the already-messy strands as though he could not stop himself.
His eyes were not merely shadowed or tired.
They were hollow.
Her chest tightened.
