And with all those nerves suddenly returned, Beatrice’s gaze slipped past Gideon.
The room came into focus.
Orderly. Spare. Dark wood, clean lines, a single window admitting the afternoon light. Aside from the papers scattered across his desk, everything appeared to be in its proper place.
Just like the foyer, it suited him.
And Gideon—standing before her in shirtsleeves, his coat discarded, cuffs rolled to his forearms—suited it even more.
A faint smear of ink marked one of his fingers. He had been working, not idling. She had interrupted something that mattered, and he was looking at her as though she mattered too.
Beatrice realized, a moment too late, that she had not spoken.
That she was staring.
And that she had quite forgotten why she had come.
“Won’t you have a seat?” His eyes were laughing. At her? Perhaps. And it was just what she needed to jerk her thoughts back to the task at hand.
“Thank you.” And then, since she was here on business, she added, “My lord.”
Smoothing her hands down her skirt, she lowered herself onto the small sofa he indicated, facing the hearth.
Gideon took the spot beside her. Closer, even, than he’d been while they’d rowed the boat together.
And when she turned to face him… their knees touched.
Gideon’s gaze flicked briefly to the flowers tucked into her hair.
“Very pretty,” he said.
Beatrice’s hand lifted halfway before she caught herself and lowered it again. “They were in a vase.”
A corner of his mouth moved.
“I don’t think they’re improper,” she said, because apparently her mouth had decided to defend itself without being asked. “The flowers, I mean. I am still in mourning.”
His expression softened. “I did not think otherwise.”
“No. Of course not.” She straightened. “I only meant?—”
“I know what you meant.”
That ought to have helped.
It did not.
Because she was still painfully aware of how close he sat. Of the place where his knee brushed hers, so lightly it might have been accidental, except…
Neither of them moved away.
His heat reached her by degrees, through the fabric of his trousers, through her gown, through every sensible layer that ought to have prevented it.
The words she had prepared deserted her entirely.
Gideon, who appeared far less disconcerted than she felt—which was unfair, really—moved the conversation forward with appalling ease.
“I was surprised,” he said, “when I learned how fond you had grown of the duchess.”
