For an instant, everything was noise.
The squeal of the wheel. The vendor’s muttered oath. A dowager’s offended gasp.
Then the cart was gone.
And yet… Gideon’s hand remained at her waist.
He meant to remove it. Truly, he did.
But his fingers had settled there too easily, curved around the narrow dip as though they belonged there.
Her gloved hand had caught his sleeve, her fingers curled tight in the fabric. Her hat tilted back as her face lifted to his.
The noise of Bond Street dulled around them.
“I cannot stop worrying about you,” he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher. “It’s impossible.”
She blinked, for a moment, stunned. He could practically see her mind turning, registering the hand at her shoulder and the one at her side, still unsure. “Because of Dash?”
As always, she was trying to manage her expectations, put up some sort of wall. He should let her. A better man would have.
“Not because of Dash,” he said quietly. “Don’t you know that?”
She licked her lips.
And that—God help him—was his undoing.
He should have stepped back. Should have released her. Should have remembered all the reasons this particular madness could come to nothing but ruin.
Instead, as though pulled by gravity itself, he leaned in.
Close enough now to feel the warmth of her breath.
Close enough to see her eyes darken.
“Hawkins, old boy!”
That particular voice cut clean through the moment better than a bucket of ice would have.
Gideon’s hand dropped from the wall, settling instead at the small of Beatrice’s back as he turned. Slowly, reluctantly.
“Groby.” Gideon did not offer his hand.
The man smiled as though they were old friends.
Though they had known each other in their younger years, Groby had been more bully than anything else—a jealous, bitter young man.
By all accounts, he had not improved with age.
If anything, time had sharpened him. He was leaner now. Almost elegantly so, though there was a faint drawn quality about him that fine tailoring could not entirely conceal. His expression was too controlled, his eyes carrying a cold, watchful intelligence that set Gideon instantly on edge.
“It’s been an age,” Groby drawled, rocking back on his heels. “Since you and I watched Dasborough marry my bride, if memory serves.” His smile widened. “I count it now among my narrow escapes.”
Gideon felt Beatrice stiffen beneath his hand.
He did not look at her.
“An interesting recollection,” he said mildly. “I remember it rather more as Lady Hannah’s escape.”
