So he said, quite simply, “I’m sorry.”
Beatrice blinked.
Gideon leaned closer, because the music was too loud and his pride, apparently, had left him somewhere between London and Devonshire.
“I was wrong,” he said again. “And you have to forgive me.”
Her brows lifted behind the fox mask.
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
It came out with far too much conviction.
Damn it.
He tried again.
“No. That is—” He exhaled sharply. “You do not have to do anything. Obviously. That was rather the point I failed to grasp before.”
Her expression did not soften. If anything, suspicion sharpened in those blue eyes.
Good. Fine. He deserved that.
He opened his mouth, but for the first time in ages, nothing clever emerged.
Before he could make another attempt, a maid appeared at Beatrice’s elbow and dipped a quick curtsy.
“My lady, Her Grace asked if you would take a look at the supper room before we send the guests in.”
Beatrice blinked, and then efficiency swept in, replacing the confusion and suspicion from a few seconds before.
Then she nodded. “Of course.”
The maid bobbed another curtsy and hurried away.
Beatrice turned as though to follow but Gideon stepped with her before he could stop himself.
Not in front of her.
Not blocking her path.
But close enough that she paused and looked back at him.
He forced his hands to remain at his sides.
“Beatrice.”
Her mouth tightened, but she leaned a fraction closer, lowering her voice beneath the music. “Being a duchess is new to Ambrosia. I promised she could rely on me to prevent any unfortunate gaffes. I mean to keep that promise.”
She glanced toward the supper room, then back at him.
“Will you meet me at the folly?” she asked. “This should only take a few minutes.”
For one wild instant, Gideon considered sweeping her out of the ballroom himself.
Never mind the musicians. The footmen. The maids. The curious neighbors, the entire blasted village, and whatever other obstacles Providence had seen fit to arrange between them.
