Sheepishness.
It looked unnatural on Dash.
“You were right,” Dash said.
Gideon was not surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised.
“About Ambrosia,” Dash continued, staring at some point near the carpet. “Apparently, she has thrown in her lot with our good friend Grimm.”
Ashebourne Covington, the Earl of Grimstead.
Damn it.
“Are you certain?”
Dash gave a short laugh. “No. But certainty has not been especially useful to me of late.”
He rubbed one hand over his face.
As there was nothing useful to say, Gideon kept silent.
Dash’s jaw tightened. “You told me to stop. You told me if she had not forgiven me by now, she likely never would.” His gaze lifted, bleak and raw. “So there. You were right.”
Gideon normally enjoyed being right. Not about this.
“Dash—”
“No.” Dash waved one hand, dismissing comfort before it could be offered. “Do not. I have had enough pity from my sister to last a lifetime.”
At the mention of Beatrice, Gideon’s chest tightened.
“She cares about you.” It was the safest thing to say.
“Yes, well. With that over, she’s taken leave of London. I’ll follow, of course. I must admit, I’d thought she’d taken a shine to it, but seeing her enthusiasm for home I’m just not sure Mayfair Society suits either of us.”
Gideon went still. “She’s left?”
“Edwards took her, along with some of the staff. She left this morning.”
“To Dasborough Park?”
“Home. Yes.”
Beatrice had left London.
Gideon stared at the carpet without seeing it.
Gone.
Relief should have been the whole of it.
At Dasborough Park, she would be away from the handful of gentlemen who resented her here, but perhaps most importantly, that villain from her past. She would be safer there.
That was what he wanted. Was it not?
But beneath the relief came an unexpected stab of loss. No scowls across ballrooms. No flash of blue eyes. No possibility—however remote—that he might find some way to repair what he had broken between them.
She had left.
