Dash blinked. “Gideon taught you how to fight?”
“Yes.” Her smile turned brilliant. “And how to love, which proved the more difficult lesson.”
Gideon allowed himself the smallest satisfaction.
Then Dash looked back at him, his expression darkening again. “You love her?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. No flourish.
Dash studied him for a long moment.
“You understand that if you hurt her, being my oldest friend will not save you?”
Gideon’s gaze did not move from his. “If I hurt her, I would expect nothing less.”
The room went very still.
Then Ambrosia stepped forward, calm as ever. “Perhaps, before anyone threatens violence at our wedding ball—or well, more violence—Lord Hawkins might ask the actual question.”
Gideon turned to Beatrice.
She looked back at him, eyes bright.
Then he faced Dash fully.
“Dasborough,” he said, formal now, because some moments deserved formality, “I love your sister. I’m asking for your blessing. To marry her.”
Dash stared at him.
Then at Beatrice.
Then Dash dragged a hand over his face, looking like a man who had finally exhausted his objections—and perhaps realized he no longer wished to make them.
“Damn it, Hawk.”
Gideon waited.
Beatrice, who was apparently running out of patience, took hold of Gideon’s arm. “So. Are you willing to give his hand to me?” Her voice had a teasing lilt to it, but her eyes were intent.
Dash blinked and Gideon turned his head slowly to look at her.
Beatrice lifted her chin. “What? It is a fair question.”
Gideon’s mouth twitched once. “My hand?”
She licked her lips. “Yes, please.”
“I am being asked,” Dash said, looking between them, “to give up my best friend?”
“And your sister,” Beatrice reminded him.
“Yes, but you have been trying to escape my management for years. He is the greater loss.”
“Dash.” Ambrosia gave her husband an admonishing look.
“It is true,” Gideon murmured.
Beatrice shot Gideon an equally admonishing one.
