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.
Every question. Every concern. Every brotherly suspicion. He would stand there until Dash exhausted them all, and then he would answer whatever remained.
He was not leaving that study with anything less than his oldest friend’s agreement.
He regretted not speaking with Dash sooner. He regretted the secrecy, the delay, the many ways he had stumbled into this.
But not the rest.
Not… loving Beatrice.
Gideon had always known Beatrice was remarkable.
Even years ago, when she had been Dash’s little sister with too many opinions and eyes that missed nothing, Gideon had known there was something singular about her.
But this spring, everything had changed.
This spring, he had watched her across Mayfair’s ballrooms and seen not a girl from his past, not merely Dash’s sister, but a woman of nerve and heart and impossible courage.
A woman so infuriatingly alive, so frustratingly beautiful, that he had begun looking for her in every room before he knew he was doing it.
Perhaps it had begun with that waltz. Her hand in his, the first faint resistance in her step, and then the moment she had decided he was worthy of her trust. Not yielding to his lead so much as choosing to meet it.
He had told himself it was only a dance. Only music. Only the natural consequence of holding a beautiful woman in his arms.
He had been a fool.
Because then had come the lessons.
Beatrice beneath him on the mattress. Beatrice above him, eyes flashing, triumph in her eyes when she managed to throw him.
He hadn’t stood a chance.
Admiration had caught fire. Desire followed like dry kindling, and after that, every sensible instinct that ought to have warned him away only seemed to drive him nearer.
And then, something deeper. More consuming. Completely out of his control.
Love.
For all the mistakes he had made in his life, loving Beatrice was the one thing he had gotten right.
That, he knew he would never regret.
He glanced sideways at her, walking beside him still in her silver gown, though her fox mask was now absent. Determined. Lovely. A little pale, perhaps, as they came to a stop outside of Dash’s study.
But not wavering.
He rapped sharply on the study door.
Once.
Twice.
Gideon caught Beatrice’s eye—steady, bright, impossibly blue.
If anything, Dash owed him a bit of indulgence. Gideon had spent no small amount of time keeping tabs on his affairs in London, dragging him from brothels, and preventing him from drinking himself into an early grave.
Not that they tallied favors. Under normal circumstances.
But if they were, in fact, to tally them, Gideon felt the current ledger might allow him one sister.
It was, admittedly, not an argument he intended to present to Dash.
Before he could refine the thought, Dash’s voice called for them to enter.
Beatrice, of course, opened the door and marched straight inside. Gideon followed right behind her.
Dash’s study bore no hint of the ball taking place elsewhere in the house.
No flowers. No masks. And once the door closed behind Gideon, there wasn’t even a whisper of music.
Only dark paneling, shelves of leather-bound books, a low fire burning in the grate despite the summer night, and a decanter sitting untouched on a side table.
Dash was pacing before his desk, his coat thrown open, one hand shoved through his hair as though he had already been at it for some time.
Behind him, the new duchess sat at her husband’s desk, mask removed, blonde hair swept into an elaborate arrangement above her heart-shaped face. Her emerald gown was almost the exact shade of her eyes.
She looked Gideon over once—his damp shirt, bloodied sleeve, and stiff left arm—then turned her gaze to Beatrice.
What exactly did they know?
“Hawk.” Dash stopped when he saw him and then swiftly crossed the room. Gideon did not retreat.
If his friend meant to swing at him, so be it. A man ought to be permitted one blow under the circumstances.
But Dash did not strike him.
His hand landed on Gideon’s uninjured shoulder and gripped hard.
“I got a note that you’d been shot.” Dash quickly looked him over, immediately snagging on the tear in his jacket. “Said Groby sent someone. Here. To my wedding ball.”
“It was Hatherleigh,” Gideon said. “Blackwell and Longstaffe have taken him to the magistrate.”
Dash’s jaw tightened. “Hatherleigh?” He bit out a low French curse. “How the devil did that villain get into my house?”
Behind him, the duchess had gone very still.
“The masks,” she said softly.
Dash turned at once.
Her face had paled. “I thought they would be festive. Amusing. I never considered that someone might simply…”
“Ambrosia.” Dash crossed to her in two strides. “No.”
“But—”
“No.” His voice softened, but did not lose its firmness. “You did not invite a man with a pistol into our gardens.”
Gideon almost smiled despite himself.
Our gardens. Dash was well and truly smitten.
The duchess pressed her lips together. “Still, if I had not chosen a masquerade—”
“You chose a ball,” Dash said. “For our friends. Our neighbors. The village. You made this house happy tonight.” His jaw hardened. “You have every right to assume safety within our home.”
Her eyes glistened faintly, but she nodded.
“Until tonight,” Gideon said. “Groby had given no indication he would resort to this,” he added. “Forged evidence perhaps—but not putting a pistol in another man’s hand to warn off anyone looking to challenge his claim.” His mouth tightened. “Not until tonight.”
Dash turned back, his expression darkening again. “You were shot.”
“Just a graze.” It didn’t signify. “Beatrice has seen to it.”
Dash’s gaze snapped to his sister.
And then his eyes narrowed.
Not merely at the fact that Beatrice stood beside Gideon. But how she stood beside him.
Closer than propriety allowed. Unapologetic.
Gideon felt the room alter.
They’d thought Dash knew. Apparently, he had not.
Gideon drew a breath. “Dash—”
“I am in love with Gideon,” Beatrice said.
Gideon’s mouth closed.
He had come prepared to say it himself. He had known Beatrice intended to stand beside him.
He had not expected her to fire the first shot.
Which, given the events of the evening, was rather foolish of him.
Dash had gone utterly still.
Ambrosia’s brows lifted.
Beatrice raised her chin. “And I am going to marry him.”
Silence.
When Dash finally turned to Gideon, he met his gaze. Calm. Certain. Unashamed.
“Did you know about this?” Dash said at last.
“I had begun to suspect,” Gideon said.
Ambrosia made a small sound behind the desk, but Dash did not look amused.
“How long?” he asked.
“Long enough,” Gideon said. “I should have spoken to you sooner.”
“Yes,” Dash said coldly. “You should have. When did you decide she was no longer off-limits?”
Gideon glanced at Beatrice.
It had not been a decision. Not truly.
It had been a succession of moments—each one chipping away at what he’d believed to be loyalty.
When she had tossed him onto a mattress.
When she had climbed into his lap.
When she had let him back her against a tree in the middle of Hyde Park.
Most of them, admittedly, not fit for her brother’s consideration.
But more than any of those…
Once he had seen his world with her in it—brighter, vividly colorful and endlessly more alive—he had understood he couldn’t return to the gray existence he’d lived in before.
He did not merely want her.
He wanted to spend the rest of his life beside her. And, when she needed it, a step behind her—steady enough to let her lead.
He looked back at Dash.
“You asked me to see that she was properly accompanied,” Gideon said. “Which involved spending a good deal of time in her company while you were otherwise occupied.”
Dash’s eyes narrowed.
Gideon continued anyway. “And somewhere in the midst of that, she stopped being merely your sister and became Beatrice. The woman whose smile I found myself trying to earn. Whose laughter put me on top of the world. Whose good opinion began to matter far more than was sensible.”
Beatrice went very still beside him.
Gideon kept his gaze on Dash.
“By the time I understood what was happening,” he said, “it was too late to overcome.”
“And you thought to keep this from me?”
“I meant to speak with you weeks ago. But you were rather occupied with your own… difficulties.”
His eyes flicked toward Ambrosia before he could stop them.
Dash went still.
The silence sharpened.
“My difficulties?” Dash repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.
Gideon held his ground. “You had one objective this spring. There was scarcely room for anything else.”
Color rose along Dash’s cheekbones. For an instant, guilt crossed his expression—just a flash—before anger won out.
“You have the audacity,” he said, taking one measured step forward, “to stand before me and suggest I neglected my sister simply because I–”
“No.” Gideon interrupted, still keeping his voice level. “I am saying I judged the timing poorly. I should have found a way to tell you regardless.”
Dash’s jaw worked.
Gideon did not look away. “That is not an excuse. Only the truth.”
Dash’s nostrils flared.
“So what happened tonight?”
“Tonight Hatherleigh tried to shoot me, Beatrice saved my life, and matters between the two of us… clarified.”
Dash blinked once.
“Beatrice saved your life?”
“She did.”
Dash turned slowly to his sister.
Beatrice smiled faintly. “Gideon taught me how.”
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.
He wisely said nothing more.
For a moment, Dash only stared at them.
Then, slowly, the last of the fight left his shoulders.
“I suppose,” he said, dragging the words out as though each one cost him dearly, “there may be a few benefits to having one’s best friend marry one’s sister.”
Beatrice’s eyes brightened.
Dash pointed at Gideon, apparently seeing something similar in his own expression. “Do not look so relieved. I haven’t finished.”
“By all means.”
“You will make her happy.”
Gideon held his gaze. “Yes.”
“You will treat her with respect.”
“Of course.”
“And you will protect her from harm.”
“To the extent that she permits it, yes.”
Dash looked at Beatrice then. Whatever he saw in her face seemed to answer any remaining questions he still had.
His expression changed.
Softened.
“Then yes,” Dash said quietly. “You have my blessing.”
Beatrice drew in a quick breath.
Dash looked back at him, and now there was something almost rueful in his eyes. “And God help me, Hawk, I suppose I am glad of it.”
That, more than the blessing, nearly undid him.