No. Far too mild for his present condition.
I wish to pay my addresses to Lady Beatrice.
Better.
Except Dash might expect some sort of explanation, and Gideon would then be forced either to lie, evade, or say something unforgivably stupid such as, Because she has become essential to my breathing.
Absolutely not.
My regard for your sister has changed.
Too vague.
I have not behaved toward Beatrice with the detachment expected of your friend.
Accurate, but also… damning.
Gideon exhaled hard through his nose.
Perhaps simpler was best.
I care for her.
There. That, at least, was true.
Not the whole truth. That he couldn’t shake the feel of her skin beneath his hands, nor the echoing memory of her breathless little sighs that he caught against his mouth.
But true enough to begin.
And if Dash demanded more?
Gideon’s jaw tightened.
He would tell him only what honor required.
That he cared for Beatrice. That his intentions were serious. That he meant to court her properly if she allowed it.
If she allowed it.
Regardless of Dash’s answer, Gideon would no longer pretend he was protecting her merely because of a promise made between friends.
Then, after Dash had either given Gideon his blessing, or challenged him to a duel, Gideon would turn his focus and energy to the equally impossible task of getting back into Beatrice’s good graces.
He would apologize—admit where he had erred.
He would listen. He would be patient.
He would do whatever was required.
Everything, except, of course, allowing her to place herself in danger again.
Not ten seconds after he rapped on the door at Beckman House, it opened.
Mr. Drake stood on the other side, every inch the proper Mayfair butler, though today his posture seemed a degree too rigid. Shadows marked the skin beneath his eyes.
“Afternoon, Drake.” Gideon handed over his hat. “Is Dasborough still in his study?”
“His Grace is not home at present, my lord.”
