No.
Well… yes.
But not only that.
Beatrice in his life.
The certainty came so quietly, so simply, that it nearly robbed him of breath.
When she came out here—because she would, she must—he would ask her.
Not demand. Not announce to her or to Dash or anyone else. Not present marriage as the only honorable solution to kisses and near-ruin.
Ask.
He would ask whether she might ever imagine a life with him. Whether he might earn a place in her plans instead of forcing one. Whether she could love him.
And if she said no?—
Gideon shoved both hands into his pockets and paced across the stone floor.
If she said no, he would accept it.
Eventually.
After some private agonizing and perhaps the end of his existence.
He turned back toward the garden path, rehearsing and discarding words with each step.
Beatrice, I wish to marry you.
Too abrupt.
Would you do me the honor?—
Too formal. She would laugh at him, and worse, she would be right.
My little archer, I have come to surrender.
Better.
Possibly insane.
The sound of footsteps on the path stilled him. His pulse kicked once, hard and foolish.
He turned.
Later, he would curse himself for not noticing at once.
The footfalls had been all wrong.
Too heavy. Too slow.
But he had been too caught up in imagining her there. Too busy planning romantic persuasion like some green youth in his first season.
The figure that emerged between the rose-covered columns was not Beatrice.
A man.
