She smoothed her gown, drew one steadying breath, and walked the final few steps at a more respectable pace.
UNINVITED
Gideon watched Beatrice disappear toward the supper room, and for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to breathe.
She had not forgiven him, not yet. But she had not turned away when he took her hand. She had not ordered him back to London. She had agreed to meet him on the terrace in a quarter of an hour.
A quarter of an hour.
After twenty-eight days, he could endure fifteen more minutes.
Probably.
He stepped out onto the terrace rather than remaining in the ballroom. The night air was warm, fragrant with roses and cut grass, and the music softened behind him as he moved down the stone steps.
It struck him, vaguely, how easy it was for him to do this.
Walk alone into darkness.
Choose solitude.
Exist in the shadows.
No chaperone. No fear whatsoever of who might follow, who might notice, what explanation he might require afterward.
A man’s freedom was a thoughtless thing.
He had known before, but Beatrice had shown him that he hadn’t really.
And yet, even that thought could not hold him for long. Because mostly, damn him, he was thinking of her.
The silver fox mask. Her mouth beneath it. The wary hope in her eyes when he had told her he was wrong.
He wanted to kiss her.
God, he wanted to kiss her.
Not in Dasborough’s drawing room, half-mad with hunger and guilt. Not against a tree, all desperation and restraint. But properly. Taking his time. Certain she’d have no regrets.
He crossed the lawn toward the folly at the edge of the formal gardens.
It was a pretty little thing, set upon a low rise, its pale columns gleaming beneath the moonlight. Climbing roses wound up one side, heavy with fresh blooms. Beyond it, a pair of stone nymphs guarded a narrow path leading deeper into the garden, and urns of summer flowers spilled color even in the dimness.
Dash had done well with the place.
Or more likely his mother. Perhaps Beatrice as well. Eventually, Ambrosia would add her touch.
Gideon mounted the shallow steps and entered the folly. The floor was paved in cool stone, patterned in a circle beneath the roof. From here, the house glowed through the trees, music drifting across the lawn in faint, graceful fragments.
The west garden at Rothmore Manor could use something like this. A proper stone path lined with shrubs and flowers, a folly to offer shade in the summer or shelter from the rain. His mother would call it frivolous and then sit in it every afternoon.
A place where a woman might walk in the evening and feel both private and safe.
He saw it before he could stop himself.
Beatrice at Rothmore Manor.
Beatrice arguing with his gardener about where the lavender ought to go. Beatrice striding across his study with a book in one hand and a list of grievances in the other. Beatrice in his morning room, at his table, in his bed?—
