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The implication hung in the air between them. Beatrice's mouth fell agape as the full reality of their situation crashed over her. Her reputation, her carefully cultivated scholarly image, her independence—all could be destroyed in an instant.

She drew a steadying breath. "Depending on who discovers us, we could bribe them to keep quiet, or you could tell them you're already betrothed."

"But I am not." His tone was sharp.

Beatrice's brows furrowed at his tone but ignored it. "It's certainly easier for you to offer for a lady than for me to wait for an offer."

Ira sighed then met her gaze. "Would you rather be ruined than to marry me?

" His voice was raw with vulnerability. Seeing her momentary hesitation, a flash of hurt crossed his features.

"Don't answer that. The truth might wound more than I'm prepared for right now.

" He straightened his shoulders, his expression closing like a book.

"Let us focus on practical solutions, shall we? That's safer ground for us both."

He gestured to her notebook. "I have no doubt your scientific approach to the situation is admirably thorough. Have you categorised all possible escape routes by probability of success?"

"Are you mocking me again?"

"No." His voice was unexpectedly soft. "I find I've rather lost my taste for mockery today."

Feeling awkward at his change in demeanour, she glanced up at him, but his expression was unreadable in the fading light.

"Whatever possessed you to charge through that door without discussing your plan with me?"

A ghost of his usual smile appeared. "An error in judgement, but then you'd be facing the prospect of a cold night alone rather than enjoying my charming company."

"I believe we have very different definitions of charming. Besides, I could have enjoyed your charming company outside this prison."

"We could both jump, with me landing on the bottom to achieve both of your objectives."

"Don't tempt me." But she was no longer angry. "Unfortunately, we must declare a temporary truce until we're free of this architectural predicament."

Ira pondered her for a long moment before muttering, "A truce… Have we been at war all these years?"

"Not exactly." She straightened up in the chair while staring down at her notebook. "More like an occupation."

As she spoke, Beatrice realised the truth in her words.

Since that day at the fair, thoughts of Ira had invaded her mind against her will, like an unwelcome army taking up residence in territory that should have been hers alone.

His mockery had wounded her so deeply precisely because she had once valued his good opinion above all others.

Ira tilted his head to one side with a gleam in his eyes. "Who occupied whom?"

The question struck too close to her private turmoil. How could she admit that his betrayal had claimed so much of her mental landscape over the years? That her anger toward him had been a futile defence against the hurt of losing the one person who had once understood her curious mind?

"No matter." She flipped the pages of her notebook to avoid meeting his eyes, afraid he might read the truth there. That in trying so hard to forget him, she had only ensured his constant presence in her thoughts.

As evening approached, Ira stood at the tower window, whistling sharply into the gathering dusk. His stallion, Achilles, grazed lazily below, occasionally glancing up before returning to the patch of sweet grass he'd discovered.

"That's the fourth whistle you've tried," Beatrice observed from where she sat cataloguing possible escape routes in her notebook. "I take it he's not responding as expected?"

"He's responding exactly as expected," Ira said with obvious frustration. "With complete disregard for my commands. Achilles is the finest hunting mount in three counties and the most obstinate creature ever bred."

"Perhaps if you used a different tone?" Beatrice suggested, rising to join him at the window. "Animals respond to pitch variations."

Ira gave her a sidelong glance. "By all means, Miss Winters, demonstrate your superior technique."

His words, though seemingly innocent, carried an echo of that day at the fair. Beatrice flinched visibly, her enthusiasm instantly dimming as the memory of his public mockery resurfaced. She took a half-step back, her lips pressed together in a tight line.

Ira's eyes widened as he registered her reaction. "Beatrice, I – " He ran a hand through his hair. "That was thoughtless of me. I didn't mean it as..."

"It's quite all right," she responded stiffly, though it clearly wasn't. She squared her shoulders and approached the window again. "It was merely a suggestion."

"No, it wasn't merely thoughtless – it was cruel," he acknowledged quietly. "An unfortunate habit I've yet to break entirely. I apologise."

Beatrice gave him a measured look, then shifted her attention to the window. "The horse, Lord Ira. Let's focus on the horse."

She cleared her throat and produced a surprisingly piercing whistle. The stallion's head jerked up momentarily, ears pricked forward, before he deliberately rotated his hindquarters toward the tower and continued grazing.

"Remarkable improvement," Ira commented, his tone carefully neutral.

"He's clearly well-trained," she retorted, her voice warming slightly.

Ira leaned out the window again. "Achilles!" he called sternly. "Home!"

The horse flicked his tail in what appeared to be deliberate insolence.

"Perhaps something more enticing..." Beatrice rummaged in her pocket and produced a somewhat squashed apple she'd packed for her research expedition. "Try this."

Ira took the apple and held it out the window. "Achilles! I have a treat for you!"

The stallion raised his head, nostrils flaring as he scented the fruit. He trotted forward with newfound enthusiasm and stopped directly beneath the window, looking up expectantly.

"Good boy," Ira called. "Now, take this home and – "

Before he could finish, the apple slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft thud before the horse. Achilles immediately snatched it up, crunching contentedly, then turned and ambled back to his patch of grass with an air of complete satisfaction.

"He's enjoying this," Ira exclaimed with disbelief, watching as his noble steed began rolling luxuriously in the grass, utterly unconcerned with his master's predicament.

Beatrice's lips twitched despite herself. A giggle escaped her lips before she could stop it.

"You find this entertaining?" Ira asked, but without rancour.

"I'm sorry," she managed between giggles, "but he seems so pleased with himself."

Ira watched her momentarily unguarded laughter, his expression softening at the rare sight. "The bond between a man and his horse is meant to be sacred," he declared with mock solemnity. "He has betrayed me for an apple and a patch of clover."

As her laughter subsided, Ira's eyes lingered on her face, his expression becoming thoughtful.

There it was again – that brightness in her eyes he'd extinguished years ago at the fair, now briefly restored.

And just as quickly as it had appeared, he watched her remember herself, her smile fading slightly as she stepped back from the window and adjusted her spectacles.