“What happened?” she asked more quietly.
Her brother didn’t answer, but just stood there, looking horribly defeated.
“Mrs. Bloomington will come around,” Beatrice said softly. “You have always had a way of?—”
“No.”
The word was quiet.
Final.
“Not this time, Beatrice.”
He touched her arm—briefly, almost absently—as though even that small gesture cost him something.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “But for now… just go back to bed.”
Did he really think he could boss her around so easily?
She tilted her head, searching for some trace of the man who had arrived in London with purpose, with hope.
“I will be fine,” he repeated.
And because he was Dash—and because he would shut her out entirely if she pressed—Beatrice drew in a slow breath, gave a single nod, and turned back toward her chamber.
He would win the lady over. And if he didn't, it would be Mrs. Bloomington’s loss.
NOT ENOUGH
Early the next morning, just as Beatrice pushed her empty plate aside, Mr. Drake appeared in the doorway.
“Miss Montague is here to see you, my lady. Shall I?—”
“Yes.” Beatrice was already on her feet, and she reached the drawing room just as Lark was shown in.
An unexpected wave of relief came first, followed just as quickly by sheer pleasure.
“Lark,” she said, crossing the room at once. “You’re out early.”
Lark gave her a small smile. “I knew you’d be awake.”
Beatrice took her hands briefly, then released them. “You must sit. Drake?” She turned to the butler. “Will you be so kind as to bring in some fresh tea?”
Drake bowed and withdrew.
Beatrice gestured toward the settee, watching as Lark removed her gloves. There was something… not quite right. Not in any obvious way. But Lark, who wasn’t easily unsettled, seemed to lack her usual calm.
Beatrice hesitated.
Ordinarily, she would have launched at once into an account of the previous day—the garden party, the archery, her triumph over a field of overconfident gentlemen. Perhaps even her wayward thoughts about Gideon. It would have amused Lark.
Instead, she said, “Have you not slept?”
Lark gave a small, humorless smile. “A few hours.”
A quiet unease began to gather.
“What is it?” Beatrice asked at last. “Has something happened?”
