“Of course?”
“Of course you would decide Dash’s permission is required in both directions.” His eyes warmed. “And dash it all, you may have a point.”
“Of course I do.”
She smiled then.
She could not help it.
And for the first time all evening, the future did not feel like a thing waiting to trap her.
It felt like a door she might open herself.
FACING DASH
Gideon’s belongings, unfortunately, remained at the inn.
Which meant that he had no choice but to dress again in his torn and bloodied shirt.
Beatrice had done her best to make it presentable. The linen was damp now from her efforts, and the worst of the blood had been blotted away. His black coat hid most of the damage, provided one did not examine his left arm too closely.
Altogether, he looked almost like any other guest at the ball. Though he still refused to put on the mask.
Which should not make a difference anyway, seeing as he and Beatrice were not planning on returning to the ball at the moment. No, together they strode toward Dash’s study with solemn purpose.
Or tried to.
Because beneath the silence, something brilliant and promising moved between them.
Her sleeve brushed his. Then his hand grazed hers.
Small touches. Small enough that they could have been seen as accidental, if one wished to perceive them that way.
Gideon kept his gaze forward, but he was aware of every inch of her beside him—the whisper of her skirts, the scent of her skin beneath lavender and candle smoke, the quiet echo of her steps matching his.
After what felt like an eternity of circling the possibility, they had finally found their way to one another.
At last.
And now they would face Dash.
Not that he could keep them apart.
Nothing could.
But Dash mattered. To Beatrice, certainly. To Gideon as well. He was brother, friend, family in every way that counted to both of them, and their happiness would feel unfinished if Dash felt betrayed by it.
Behind them, music and laughter drifted from the ballroom, but as they continued on their way, the corridor grew quiet, lit by wall sconces and thin shafts of moonlight.
Gideon gathered himself. For Beatrice’s sake—and his own—he needed this conversation to go well.
He had faced Dash angry. Dash grieving. Dash drunk. Dash reckless. Dash in possession of a pistol, once, though that had been years ago and largely Grimstead’s fault.
Surely marital bliss would have improved the man’s temperament.
And if Dash objected—which he likely would, at first, well…
Gideon would answer him.
