But that was the least of his regrets.
He had spent the day with Burleson, informing the solicitor that Ambrosia must finally be told the truth of her accounts. She deserved that much, at least. He had also placed a last order for bulbs to be delivered to her garden after his departure—one final indulgence.
He shouldn’t have. He ought to give her the clean break he’d promised, but it would be the last thing he’d do.
But the last-minute errands meant they would not quit London until the next morning. He’d sent word to Hawk, cancelling their evening at White’s. He wasn’t up to enduring the fellow’s smug jeers tonight. Not when his feelings were this raw.
After dismissing his impertinent valet, who would no doubt trot downstairs and regale the rest of the staff with tales of their love-sick master, Dash stared, unseeing, down at the carpet.
Every curse he knew tore through his thoughts, directed at himself. None of his intentions had panned out, good or otherwise.
He’d left without saying goodbye to protect her.
He’d involved himself in her affairs in order to pave her way in London.
He’d returned to London with the hope that she might still love him.
With a growl, he stripped off his waistcoat and flung it aside.
None of it had mattered.
On impulse he twisted the silver ring from his finger—the ring he had worn on his left hand that summer in Joseph’s Well, then shifted to his right on his wedding day, never once removed since. He hurled it into the corner. The pathetic thud it made only deepened the emptiness inside him.
He pressed his forehead to the bedpost, once, twice—harder the second time, as though pain might knock sense into him.
A knock at the door broke through his brooding.
“What is it?” he rasped, the words rough as gravel.
The door creaked open, and Beatrice slipped inside.
“Mr. Edwards says we’re leaving?” She tilted her head, her eyes asking all her unspoken questions.
Dash did his best to be civil. “I’m sorry, Bea. I should have asked you first. I’ve been a horrid brother the past few months, haven’t I? I should have taken you about this Season, given you the attention you deserve.”
She shrugged, her expression filled with more kindness than he deserved. “Did you really think that was why I came? I only wish you had let me help you. That you would have let me go to her?—”
“Non. I appreciate it, ma sœur. Truly. But it should not fall to you to rectify my mistakes. Besides, I’ve disrupted her life too much already. I cannot undo that, but… I can respect her wishes going forward.”
Beatrice studied him for a moment, her brow creasing.
“You’re sure?”
Dash could only nod.
And then… “Very well. I’ll pack. Mrs. Hargrave will be glad to have her ballroom back, I’m sure. She complains that the straw finds its way into every room.” She forced a smile then, for him. “I far prefer hunting in the country, anyway. These Mayfair gentlemen make such a fuss when one little arrow goes astray.”
Dash tried to laugh, because his sister never missed her mark, but his humor eluded him.
“Go on, then. We’ll leave at sunup.”
Beatrice lingered in the doorway a heartbeat longer, her eyes filled with worry.
“I’m fine, Bea.” Even if he didn’t sound fine.
He would be.
Someday.
