Beatrice objected only because he had done it without her.
And, admittedly, because he had done it in a manner likely to make her feel managed.
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
He could have handled that better.
But there had been no better way to keep her safe.
Therein lay the difficulty.
To protect her, he had to act.
He had known she would feel the walls of it, but had believed he could put them in place without making her despise him for them.
A spectacular miscalculation.
Still, he could not relent.
He had found the ball, hosted at the Ashcombe residence. A masquerade, five years past. Nothing else. Just the certainty that somewhere among those masked guests had been the man who had taught Beatrice how to fear.
He needed more from her.
God help him, he did not know how to ask without making her relive it.
And then there was Dash.
His oldest friend. His brother in every way that mattered.
The man to whom Gideon owed more loyalty than nearly anyone alive.
The man whose sister Gideon had touched with far less restraint than honor required.
Blast and damn.
Dash had not helped matters by becoming an ill-tempered ogre. If the gardening had been concerning earlier that spring, this new state of isolation was worse. He shut himself in his study, waited upon word from Mrs. Bloomington, and wore heartbreak with all the subtlety of a widow in full mourning.
More and more, it seemed possible Mrs. Bloomington did not mean to forgive him.
Which made Gideon’s present errand all the more abominable.
How was a man supposed to look his closest friend in the eye—his grieving, brooding, possibly half-mad closest friend—and confess that he had very nearly ruined the fellow’s sister against a tree in Hyde Park?
And that was only the latest of his transgressions.
Most of it, however, would remain his alone to carry. Beatrice’s history. Her fears. Every private moment she had trusted him with.
He owed Dash honesty.
But he owed Beatrice discretion.
The line between them was damned narrow.
Protecting her mattered more than easing his own guilt. More than Dash’s temper. More than Gideon’s urge to drag the entire wretched mess into the open and accept whatever punishment followed.
Gideon grimaced as he turned onto the square.
Dash, I have developed a tendre for your sister.
