The man said something else, but Dash didn’t hear.
She’d done it. She’d left with Grimm.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir.”
Dash removed his foot, and the door slammed shut.
How many times had he told himself this was over? How many times had he convinced himself his efforts were useless? And then found hope in some meaningless gesture…
At last, it seemed, he had no choice but to believe she was lost to him.
Disgusted with himself for being foolish enough to grasp at yet another false glimmer of hope, Dash returned to Beckman House, collected the pack Edwards had prepared for him, and just as he was about to exit through one of the back doors to the mews, his housekeeper rushed outside to catch him.
“Your Grace! Your Grace! But you are here! I thought you left for Dasborough Park yesterday!”
Dash halted but didn’t have the energy to turn around. “I am leaving now, Mrs. Nichols.”
“There was a lady who came to the door this morning.”
Slowly, he turned. “A lady? Did she give her name?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Mrs. Bloomington.” Color rose in her cheeks, as if she suddenly realized who Mrs. Bloomington truly was. Flustered, she rushed to explain. “Lady Beatrice had already left, and so did Mr. Edwards. And with your horse not in the stable, I just assumed—oh, I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
Dash ignored the clenching in his chest. “What did she say?”
“She asked where you’d gone. I told her you’d left now that the Season’s nearly done. That you were on your way to Dasborough Park.” Mrs. Nichols winced. “I thought you were, Your Grace. I thought you were long gone.”
Dash drew a deep breath.
Perhaps Ambrosia had come, after all, to deliver her answer in person. At least she esteemed him enough to do that.
She’d come to tell him goodbye.
Because goodbyes mattered. And what must she have thought, thinking he had already left? Another repeat of what may have been the worst mistake he ever made.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
“All is well, Mrs. Nichols. You had no way of knowing I’d been delayed.” He turned back toward the mews, craving the isolation of the road.
“Is there anything I ought to tell her, should she return, Your Grace?”
Dash paused. Was there anything left to say between them?
“Tell her…” He faltered, then shook his head. She would not return. She had made her choice. “Tell her I wish her well.”
And with that, he saddled Guinevere, strapped on his pack, and turned his horse toward home.
FATE
Not quite a week later, as darkness fell, Dash rode into a village that was all too familiar—the village that was home to the Fainting Goat.
Since he was unwilling to change out his horse, he stopped for longer periods than usual so that Guinevere could rest.
He really didn’t care how long the journey took.
Most nights, he had slept under the stars. Tonight, however, Dash looked forward to a warm bed and perhaps a bath.
He’d best eat too.
