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He took a half-step toward her, then stopped himself, as though afraid she might vanish if he moved too quickly.

His hand lifted, hovering in the space between them, trembling slightly with barely contained emotion.

In that suspended moment, Beatrice saw the boy he had been and the man he had become – both equally vulnerable before her.

When he finally spoke, his voice emerged rough with feeling, stripped of all aristocratic polish. "I am sorry. The light that went out of your eyes... I've seen it in my dreams for many years."

The raw honesty in his voice made her heart constrict. "Not your war nightmares?" she asked.

"Sometimes those are easier to bear," he acknowledged.

"At least in my war nightmares, the enemy is clear.

But what I did to you... I am sorry. I regret my actions so very deeply.

" His words hung in the air between them.

"I was a coward, Beatrice. It was easier to mock what I didn't understand than admit I envied it. "

The weight of his confession settled around her like a shawl, both heavy and comforting.

She studied the planked floor of the tower room, tracing the worn grain with her eyes as she gathered her thoughts.

When she looked up again, she found him watching her with an intensity that made her feel both exposed and treasured.

"I believed I'd put that day behind me," Beatrice said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"But memory is a stubborn thing, isn't it?

I am quite proud of my accomplishments, yet somehow that moment at the fair remained my measure of failure.

" She glanced up at him, her expression unguarded.

"How peculiar that it was yours as well. "

Ira couldn't help but study Beatrice in the fading light, the shadows playing across her face.

The war had taught him the weight of regret. How many nights in blood-soaked fields had he lain awake, wondering if he'd ever get the chance to undo that moment of cruelty?

Now at four-and-twenty, an elegant confidence showed in the assured tilt of her chin, the graceful curve of her shoulders.

Time had transformed her, adding layers of quiet confidence that made her more captivating than any debutante who'd ever batted her eyelashes in his direction.

His base desire stirred, and he desperately needed a distraction.

"It's strange to be trapped here of all places," he said, gazing up at the ancient stones. "Where we used to meet as children."

"Before our families fell out over property lines," she replied with a hint of regret.

He shook his head, recalling the dispute. "My ancestor who built this during Elizabeth's reign claimed it was for watching Spanish ships..."

"While smuggling French brandy," she finished, a smile playing at her lips.

"Unfortunately, your father seems to think the property line runs through the tower's foundation." His statement held an edge.

Her cheeks flushed in the dim light. "Papa can be rather stubborn about boundary disputes."

"As can mine," Ira conceded. "Though I suspect neither of them anticipated their children becoming hostages to their legal stubbornness." He gestured at the walls surrounding them. "It's rather a coincidence that their feud began right after the fair, isn't it?"

"And effectively ensured we never crossed paths afterward, despite living side by side," Beatrice added quietly. "I didn't get to say goodbye before you joined the army."

"Probably for the better," Ira murmured.

The silence that followed was electric, charged with confessions and understandings.

He found himself stealing glances at her profile in the moonlight, wondering about the life she'd built during their years apart. The question that had burned in him since her come out rose unbidden to his lips.

"Why haven't you married?" he asked, surprising himself with his directness. "Surely you've had offers."

Her eyebrows rose behind her spectacles. "That's rather forward of you."

"We're locked in a tower at midnight," he countered. "I think we've moved beyond drawing room conversation."

She adjusted her glasses, gathering her thoughts.

"I've received offers," she said carefully, her eyes fixed on her notebook as she fidgeted with it.

"But each time, something felt... missing.

I would try to imagine a life with these gentlemen, and my mind would simply refuse to conjure the picture.

" She slowly squared her shoulders and cleared her throat.

"And you?" she asked, voice stronger now.

"At five and twenty, you remain unattached despite half the debutantes in London apparently pining for your attention. "

"They're all perfectly lovely, I'm sure. Accomplished and utterly predictable..."

"Dull?" she supplied, a hint of amusement in her voice.

"Monumentally." He stared up at the ceiling, choosing his next words carefully. "I've been waiting for someone who makes me want to be better than I am. Someone who tries to save pigs from the breakfast table."

Her round eyes stared at him, her guard completely lowered, breath caught in her throat at the unexpected confession.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, struggling to compose herself. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve as she gathered her scattered thoughts.

"Careful, my lord," she finally managed, her voice unsteady despite her apparent effort at poise. "That almost sounded like a declaration."

"Perhaps it was." He turned to face her. "Would that be so terrible?"

"Coming from you? Probably dangerous." But the unmistakable tremor in her voice betrayed her, revealing the fortress of her heart now vulnerable to collapse.

Ira stood abruptly, restless with unspoken needs. His gaze caught on the windowsill, triggering a long-buried memory.

"Do you remember," he asked quietly, "the summer we were twelve? When we met here before lessons?"

“Of course.”

Ira moved to the eastern wall, his fingers finding an unremarkable stone. "Our hiding place."

Beatrice's eyes brightened with recognition. "I'd almost forgotten."

The stone shifted with a familiar grind. From the cavity, his cobweb-covered hand emerged clutching a small wooden fox.

Beatrice gasped with delight. "You kept it."

"We kept it," he corrected gently. "In neutral territory, as agreed."

The wooden fox – once a peace offering between their fathers – had become their secret talisman.

"After the fair, my father forbade me from Harrison land," she confessed. "I tried to retrieve it once..."

The thought of her attempt to reach their childhood cache made his chest tighten. "I was at Oxford then. I should have written."

He ran his thumb across the fox's worn ears. "I'm not that foolish boy anymore."

"No," she agreed, studying him. "The war changed you."

"The war, yes. But regret too." He offered her the carving. "He was always more yours."

Their fingers brushed as she took it, her hand trembling slightly.

"I called him Reynard," she smiled. "You insisted on Eugene."

"Because he outsmarted both our fathers," Ira recalled.

He watched her cradling the fox as she had years ago. His gaze then dropped to her decolletage, her creamy, full breasts stirring his ardour. Their eyes met.

He looked away. "We should sleep."

"Yes, we should," she agreed hastily.

"You take the bed. I insist."

As Beatrice settled onto the narrow cot, Ira sat on the chair and stared up at the ceiling, acutely aware of her presence only a dozen feet away.

The memory of her had followed him across continents, surviving both battlefield chaos and quiet, lonely nights under foreign stars.

Since his return to England, he hadn’t had the courage to disobey his father, yet he found himself riding paths that might cross with hers, lingering at the edges of events she might attend.

How strange that fate had granted him the chance he'd longed for in blood-soaked battlefields – the chance to begin again.

"Ira?" Her whisper startled him from his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"I’m glad you are back."

Her tone communicated so much more than the words.

"Thank you," he managed. "It means more than you know."

In the darkness of the ancient tower, their confessions had laid bare not only regret but desire, not merely apology but admiration. The foundation they now stood upon wasn't merely of potential forgiveness or renewed friendship, but of possibilities neither had dared name aloud until tonight.

And for Ira, this newfound understanding felt like redemption. In Beatrice's acceptance of his vulnerable truth, he was truly seen and somehow still worthy.