The Apology
Even from behind a mask, the blue of her eyes struck him clean in the chest.
Gideon forgot the music. The room full of guests. The fact that he had arrived without the faintest notion whether she would even speak to him.
None of it mattered.
His feet were moving before he’d made the decision. He cut through the crowd with single-minded purpose, around dancers, past a startled footman carrying champagne, between two gentlemen who broke off their conversation as he passed.
He did not take his eyes from Beatrice.
Who watched him approach without moving.
No smile.
No welcome.
Only that steady, guarded gaze that made him feel every inch of distance he had allowed between them.
He stopped directly before her.
Closer than was strictly proper, but not nearly close enough.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The waltz swept around them, violins bright and insistent, laughter rising from somewhere near the supper room. Someone brushed past his shoulder. A lady’s fan snapped open nearby.
Gideon had rehearsed this moment for days.
He had assembled his speech with care–sensible and humble words. Words that explained without excusing, apologized without pleading, promised without commanding.
Now that he stood before her, he couldn’t remember a single one.
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.
Instead, he inclined his head.
“Very well,” he said with more patience than he felt.
But when she began to turn, he caught her hand, his touch light enough that she could shake him off if she wanted to.
She didn’t.
“If you are not there in ten minutes,” he said, “I am coming to find you.”
He knew the words were too possessive the instant they left his mouth. Overbearing. Heavy handed.
Precisely the sort of thing he had ridden five days to promise he would no longer do.
Beatrice looked down at his hand around hers. Then back up.
“A quarter of an hour,” she said.
Gideon’s thumb moved once over her gloved knuckles before he released her.
Her mouth curved.
Only slightly.
Barely enough to count.
But Gideon, who had spent four weeks starving for the smallest sign of her, took that almost-smile like a feast.