Beatrice touched the cool purple stones.
She had worn it when she first came out, back when she had still believed being noticed was a simple pleasure.
Since then, it had remained tucked away.
Too French. Too bold. Too full of the girl she had once been.
But today, against her lavender gown, it felt right.
Respectful, but not invisible.
She pinned it to her bodice.
Then, catching sight of the bouquet of lilacs her maid had placed near the window, she hesitated only a moment before pulling free a few tiny sprigs and tucking them into her hair.
When she looked again, the woman in the mirror still wore mourning, but she looked a little less erased by it.
A little more like herself.
Satisfied, Beatrice drew on her gloves, took up her reticule, and went downstairs before courage could give way to excessive thinking.
She did not ask Drake to call for the carriage, but walked.
It was well past noon now, and Mayfair had settled into its usual polished busyness. Carriages rolled by. Footmen opened doors. A pair of ladies strolled beneath parasols, their heads bent together in confidential conversation.
Beatrice barely saw any of it.
With every step, she rehearsed her request.
Practical. Sensible.
Necessary.
And yet her thoughts kept sliding backward.
To Gideon standing too close to her beside the carriage. To the way he had looked at her mouth. To the slow brush of his thumb across the back of her hand.
Her stomach gave a traitorous little flutter.
But no, this was not the time.
She was going to speak with him about the lessons.
A practical matter.
His practical matter, actually, since he had been the one to decide she required instruction in the art of handling scoundrels. If such knowledge was important for her, then surely it was important for other ladies as well.
In fact, by Gideon’s own logic, he ought to agree at once.
Her request was perfectly justified.
Perfectly reasonable.
By the time Beatrice stood upon the front step of Hawk’s Nest, Gideon Rothmore’s townhouse on Park Street, she was ready.
Mostly.
She had always known where he lived, of course. One did not know a man for most of one’s life without knowing such things. She had even called here once or twice with Dash, years ago, for some mundane purpose she could no longer recall.
