Epilogue
Gideon had expected, perhaps foolishly, that after being shot, bandaged, interrogated, forgiven, and betrothed, he might be permitted a few short minutes to collect himself.
He ought to have known better.
Ambrosia had other plans.
“We should announce it tonight,” the new Duchess of Dasborough said, looking far too pleased for a woman whose wedding ball had very nearly included murder in the gardens.
Beatrice’s eyes widened. “Tonight? Ambrosia, no. This is your celebration.”
“And announcing the betrothal between my sister and my husband’s dearest friend shall only improve it.” Ambrosia’s smile deepened. “Happiness is not a finite resource. When shared, it does not shrink—it grows.”
Dash, standing with a glass in one hand and his other arm around his wife’s waist, looked as though he had no objection whatsoever to any plan Ambrosia devised.
Besotted fool.
Gideon could hardly judge him.
Not when Beatrice stood at his side, her hand tucked through his arm as though she belonged there.
Because she did.
“There is also the matter of Lord Hawkins’ wardrobe and belongings,” Ambrosia continued briskly. “They must be fetched from the inn at once.”
“The inn is perfectly adequate,” Gideon said.
Dash stared at him. “You were staying at an inn?”
“I arrived late.”
“You will not stay at an inn.”
“So I am gathering.”
“One of the south rooms can be made up,” Ambrosia said. “The blue one, I think, ought to be available.”
“And in the meantime,” Dash said, eyeing Gideon’s torn shirt and blood-stained sleeve with faint disapproval, “you will permit Edwards to make you fit for public view.”
Gideon glanced down at himself. “I am not certain your valet will thank you for that.”
“My valet has survived worse.”
“From you, certainly.”
Dash’s mouth twitched.
A quarter of an hour later, Gideon had been transformed from bloodied baron into a respectable guest. The fit of Dash’s coat was not perfect, but it was close enough. His arm ached, his shirt felt strange, and the borrowed cravat had been tied more loosely than he preferred.
Somehow, Beatrice had recovered his mask—that of a bear, fierce-browed and broad-muzzled, with dark fur glued to its edges. She pressed it into his hand when she’d met him on the landing.
He wore it now.
Only because, when she looked at him from behind her fox’s face, there was no fear in her eyes. Only that dancing light, that spark of rebellion, and a softness that made him feel, with absolute certainty, like the man she loved.
By the time they rejoined the festivities, supper had ended and the guests were already returned to the ballroom. The room seemed to glow brighter than before, candles flickering over silk and jewels and painted masks. Laughter hummed beneath the music.
Beyond the French doors, the garden might as well have belonged to another world.
Gideon glanced across the masked faces.
A wolf. A fox. A devil. A harlequin.
Some old instinct tightened in him.
He would keep looking.
Not tonight. Not in a way that would steal this moment from Beatrice or from Dash and Ambrosia. Not in a way that would let the past swallow the future they had only just claimed. But one day, he would find the man who had hurt her.
If she wished it.
If she chose it.
And if she did not—
Gideon looked down at her.
Then he would learn to live with that too.
Beatrice glanced up, catching him watching her. “You are doing it again.”
“What?”
“Brooding.”
“I was not brooding.”
“You were absolutely brooding.”
“I was thinking.”
“Darkly.”
He bent his head closer. “I was thinking that you are beautiful.”
Her lips parted, then closed again, her cheeks flushing a rosy pink.
A very satisfying victory.
Then the music fell silent, and an expectant hush settled over the room. As arranged earlier, the two of them moved to the front beside Dash and his duchess.
It was Beatrice who lifted her glass for the first toast.
“To my brother,” she said, her voice carrying clearly. “Who has found his way home at last. And to Ambrosia, who had the great wisdom, courage, and questionable judgment to marry him.”
Laughter swept through the crowd.
Dash narrowed his eyes at his sister, but his smile betrayed him.
“To the Duke and Duchess of Dasborough,” Beatrice finished.
Glasses lifted.
“To Dasborough!”
Dash then raised his own glass.
“To my wife,” he said simply.
The ballroom quieted at once.
Dash looked at Ambrosia with such open devotion that Gideon thought Beatrice might melt beside him.
“To the woman who found me when I had done everything possible to remain lost.”
Ambrosia’s eyes shone.
More glasses lifted.
“To Her Grace.”
Dash kissed his wife’s hand, then turned to the room.
“Nearly every person who matters to us is here tonight, which makes this an ideal occasion for another announcement.” He paused, his expression turning suspiciously solemn. “I have agreed to allow my sister to marry.”
A ripple of surprise passed through the room.
“Provided,” Dash added, with the grave air of a man setting out treaty terms, “that she doesn’t monopolize him entirely. I knew the fellow first, after all.”
Dash looked directly at them.
“To my sister, Lady Beatrice Beckman, who’s agreed to marry Lord Hawkins.”
The murmur became a delighted roar.
Dash waited until the laughter crested, then lifted his glass again.
“I confess,” he said, his gaze moving first to Beatrice and then to Gideon, “when this was first put before me, I had some doubts as to the notion.”
Beatrice’s smile softened.
“But I have had time to consider it. And I find I could not have chosen better for my sister if I had searched all of England.” His expression tightened briefly, the sentiment clearly costing him something.
“Hawk is one of the finest men I know. He is loyal, honorable, and stubborn enough to keep pace with her—which may be the greatest recommendation in his favor.”
A warm murmur moved through the room.
Dash raised his glass. “So I surrender both a sister and a best friend. But I do so knowing they have found exactly what they deserve in one another.”
Gideon did not trust himself to speak.
Glasses rose again.
“To Lady Beatrice and Lord Hawkins!”
Gideon looked down at her, and for a moment, the noise, the masks, the candlelight, all of it receded.
There was only Beatrice.
His fierce, brilliant, impossible Beatrice.
Around them, the toasts gave way to laughter, music, and the soft swell of conversation as the guests returned to their dancing.
“When will you marry me?” he asked.
Her eyes widened. “We have only just secured Dash’s blessing.”
“Then we should not waste it.”
“Gideon.”
He smiled. “Soon?”
“Soon,” she said softly.
His pulse warmed.
“Though I hardly think Dash will appreciate you carrying me off tonight,” she added.
“No,” Gideon said, drawing her into the first steps of a dance as the musicians began again. “I’ll agree that your brother’s been tested enough.”
“How considerate of you.”
“I am a considerate man.”
“You are an impatient man.”
“Also that.”
He spun her gently, careful of his injury, though not nearly careful enough judging by the look she gave him. Her skirts flared silver beneath the candlelight, and when returned to his embrace, he held her a little closer than was strictly proper.
“Careful,” she murmured. “People are watching.”
“Let them.”
“You are becoming reckless, my lord.”
“I appear to be acquiring your habits.”
She slipped away from him with a laugh, turning beneath his hand, but instead of gliding back to him, she retreated just out of reach.
Gideon’s brows lifted. “Get back in my arms, woman.”
Her smile flashed, brilliant and wicked.
“I’ll never stray far from them,” she said.
Then she stepped close again, placing her hand in his.
“My arms?” he asked softly.
Her gaze warmed.
“Your open arms,” she said.
Something in Gideon’s chest gave way.
As he drew her into the dance, he knew the future would not be simple.
Beatrice would still chase danger. He would still fear for her. They would argue, stumble, and learn—again and again—how to stand together, protecting their love more than anything else.
And he would never ask her to make herself smaller for his peace of mind.
And she would never have to choose between freedom and him.
She came willingly into his arms.
Not because they held her captive.
But because they were open.
—The End—
If you haven’t lived Dash and Ambrosia’s story, be sure to read “The Duke that I Lost”
And Coming in 2027, Don’t Stop Believing in the Viscount. Lord Longstaffe and Lady Persephone’s journey to happily ever after… Don’t Stop Believing in the Viscount.