Page 1 of The Duke that I Lost

D ashwood Beckman had done the unthinkable, and for that, he must make amends.

He would have gone to his mother’s family in France, or the Americas, or perhaps simply vanished into the Cotswolds never to be seen again.

But even if he could have dodged it—and he’d considered every route, from reasonable to ridiculous—he wouldn’t have.

Because for all his charm and reputation for idle mischief, Dash was dutiful.

Painfully, infuriatingly, tiresomely dutiful.

It had been ironed onto him at Eton, polished at Oxford, and sealed with the burden of the title handed down from his father. In spite of that one disastrous summer at Harrowgate Hall.

But he refused to dwell on that time.

He’d embarked on this unfortunate journey from his country estate in the southernmost part of Devonshire, to London and eventually Margate, two days earlier. And once again, he had stopped early.

Partly for Gwennie’s sake—he wouldn’t push her, not when she’d carried him so far without complaint—but mostly because he wasn’t in any particular hurry to arrive. The Fainting Goat Inn had served him well before. The rooms were clean, the food tolerable.

And most importantly, the innkeeper didn’t water down the ale. Much .

“ Personne ne me blamerait, hein, ma fille ?” he murmured in his native tongue, tossing his hat and then his jacket onto the ground. No one would blame me, eh? My girl?

Dash rolled up his sleeves and then went to work, dragging a brush over his horse’s smooth back, each stroke for his benefit as much as hers. The repetitive motion grounded him, gave his hands something to do while his mind did what it always did—wander places it oughtn’t.

Apparently sensing his mood, the mare dipped her chin and nudged the side of his neck with surprising gentleness for a creature of her size.

“You coddle me, ma fille ,” he continued, scratching beneath her mane. “Even though it’s undignified.”

She blinked slowly, as if to say she’d never found him particularly dignified to begin with.

Dash rested both hands along her face, pressing a kiss just above her snout. “I can always count on you, can’t I, ma chérie ?” Then moved around to her flank, resuming the firm, even brushstrokes.

Gwennie was a Shire-cross—massive, steady, and uncannily intuitive.

Over seventeen hands high and built like she could pull a cart out of the sea if required, she was the only female in his life who’d never demanded more than he wanted to give.

Her coat was the color of old bronze, dappled and weather-worn, and her gaze more knowing than his own mother’s.

Gwennie didn’t mind if he brooded. Didn’t press for answers. Didn’t care that the silence between them was thick with the kind of thoughts he tried not to think.

She let him be exactly who he was—restless, impulsive, and occasionally ridiculous.

His best friend, right above Hawk, which was why he’d dismissed the groom to care for her himself.

Loyalty and dedication deserved the same in return.

Dash crouched to check her front left hoof, brushing away a bit of mud with his thumb.

“Bonne fille,” he murmured.

That was the moment when he spotted something shifting behind the nearby window, a flicker of color. Dash stilled. He didn’t look directly—no need to be obvious—but he knew when he was being watched.

And not just watched.

Admired .

A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he bent over again, his fingers skimming Gwennie’s front leg, checking for warmth.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Let la fille look.

Upon rising, he caught a flash of bright green—eyes, unguarded, set in a heart-shaped face framed by curling tendrils of blondish hair with a hint of red. Like autumn leaves, he thought absently. All warm light and fire at once.

Pretty thing. Curious. A touch bold, maybe.

She sat at a window table inside the inn’s dining room, teacup in hand, and she watched him with eyes too intense to pass off as casual curiosity.

Dash chuckled under his breath.

“Voyeurisme, ma chérie?” he murmured, patting Gwennie’s flank. “ Bon . I was starting to worry this day would be dull.”

* * *

Mrs. Ambrosia Bloomington leaned forward but held back an appreciative gasp as she caught sight of the creature just outside the window. Sleek, muscular… and such a powerful-looking behind.

The magnificent horse turned its head, allowing a glimpse of its chiseled profile, and in that moment, she wished more than anything that she had learned how to ride. Perhaps after she arrived in London, if funds allowed, she could purchase a horse and pay someone to teach her.

Not that she’d be able to ride through the streets of London. That would no doubt be more than a little unnerving to maneuver something so unpredictable through all the traffic.

But perhaps she could ride in the park.

She pondered… It was one more thing amongst many that she would have to learn about living in the city where her future awaited.

She lowered her cup onto its saucer and, with a sigh, rested her chin on her hand. At the age of six and twenty, she was leaving everything familiar behind and, in but a few days, would begin her new life in London.

She would miss the familiar countryside of Rockford Beach—the cliffs along the ocean and, although tedious, the comfort of her strict routine.

As for the people, however, aside from her neighbor, Mrs. Tuttle, there was not one that she would miss.

Movement outside captured her attention once again.

A man stepped out from behind the giant horse, and Ambrosia jerked her spine so that she sat up straight. With one hand, he smoothed a brush along the beast’s back and side while the other rubbed it in a soothing circular motion. He must be the horse’s rider.

Taller than average, the rider’s lean physique appeared just as honed and athletic as his mount.

Ambrosia licked her lips. The man had dark brown hair with just a hint of copper, just long enough to stay put in the que behind his head, and an errant lock dangled along his cheek.

Ambrosia slid her gaze up to study his strong, determined features.

He was a little scruffy, as though he’d not been shaven for a few days, and he smiled as he spoke to the horse.

It was a smile that stirred something unfamiliar inside of Ambrosia.

A fine-looking creature indeed.

He wore nothing over his unbuttoned waistcoat and although the sleeves of his linen shirt were spotted with a few smudges of dirt, the shirt itself remained perfectly tucked into tight–fitting breeches. The black Hessians he wore seemed worn but also well cared for.

Unable to drag her eyes away from him, she couldn’t help but compare the rider to the animal she’d been admiring.

Both exuded unleashed strengths.

She could easily imagine the two of them in battle, chain mesh protecting the horse, the rider wearing knight’s armor, his stormy eyes peering out from beneath a steel helmet.

Although frightfully dangerous to his enemies, he would be charming to everyone else—but not too charming—and he would be honorable.

A knight in shining armor must always be honorable.

Her heart melted further when her knight kissed the giant horse just above his snout.

She exhaled a deep sigh.

A heartbreaker, most certainly.

Ambrosia tilted her head. Such a man would not be captured by anything but true love.

His scruffy chin and untamed hair made him appear wild and fierce, much like his horse. Although well worn, the apparel he wore so casually appeared to have been well made. And those breeches… they fit him perfectly.

When she realized her eyes had settled on the man’s firm and muscular behind, she chastised herself and forced her gaze upward to his broad shoulders instead.

Perhaps he was some second son of an aristocrat, or perhaps a professional man of business. The splendid horse was obviously valuable, and its rider moved confidently, as though he owned the ground upon which he stood.

“More tea, ma’am?” The question, posed gently by the innkeeper’s wife—Mrs. Neskers, if Ambrosia recalled—startled her enough to nearly slosh her cup.

Upon Ambrosia’s arrival, Mrs. Neskers had kindly informed her that they would have a room readied shortly but that they were still waiting for the current occupants to check out.

As Ambrosia was a lady traveling alone, Mrs. Neskers had led her through the public area and into one of the private dining rooms where she could take her tea without fear of harassment.

“Yes, please.” She presented her cup.

“Milk? Sugar? And are you certain you won’t try a pastry?”

“Yes, please, and I am certain, thank you.” She refused mostly out of habit. Her figure leaned toward the fashionable hourglass, though if left unchecked, it had a tendency to err on the generous side. Her mother had long drilled into her the importance of remaining neat and trim for her husband.

…Who was now dead.

The image of Harrison’s pale, cold, and inert form, laid out in the parlor, came to mind.

Ambrosia tapped her chin, realizing that for the first time in her life, she had no one to please except herself.

“On second thought…I think I would like to try one of your pastries, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The gray-haired woman smiled. “I’ll return shortly then, madam.”

Ambrosia smiled. A new adventure laid out before her like a second chance at life.

Exhaling a peaceful sigh, she once again stared outside at her handsome knight—er, at the fine-looking horse—in time to see a groom approaching them.

The rider shook his head, spoke with the groom for a few minutes, then turned and lifted a saddle off a fence and handed it over.

Apparently, her knight would tend to his horse himself.

With the brush still in hand, the man continued stroking the horse with a practiced ease, drawing Ambrosia’s gaze to the steadiness of his hands.

His shirtsleeves were neatly rolled to the elbow, revealing lean forearms, slim wrists, and long, elegant fingers.

More refined than she would have expected, given the rest of his appearance.

It rather dashed any notion that he labored for his living.

Following the direction of the horse’s hair, he lovingly brushed off pieces of dirt and mud that must have splashed onto the mighty beast over the course of their journey.

What would that feel like, she wondered, to be cherished so lovingly? And then nearly snorted when she realized that she was now comparing herself to an animal, wishing to be petted and groomed. Foolishness!

And now, unless she was mistaken, he was murmuring to the creature.

She tilted her head, trying to catch the words. They came soft and low, almost musical.

French. He was speaking in French.

Holding her breath, Ambrosia leaned closer to the glass, straining to hear.

“Tu me sers toujours bien, belle créature. Tu mérites un repas délicieux et une bonne nuit de repos, ma douce.”

A smile tugged at her lips.

You serve me well, beautiful creature . You deserve a good meal and a good night’s rest… my sweet?

She leaned in further, nearly pressing her ear to the pane.

“Peut-être se coucher avec un beau cheval male hein?”

Her brows rose. Was he truly suggesting the mare might enjoy the company of a handsome stallion?

And then?—

“Peut-être que la belle princesse à la fenêtre voudrait un baiser de l'étranger qu'elle a observé, non?”

She jerked upright, heat blooming in her cheeks. And when she dared glance back out the window—mortified, breath caught in her throat—she found herself staring directly into a pair of glinting, steel-blue eyes.

Her imaginary knight had not only seen her gawking, but now stood grinning like the rogue he clearly was.

Knowing full well her face had turned an alarming shade of red, Ambrosia hastily drew the curtain closed, her heart hammering beneath her stays.

A moment later, the door opened and in swept Mrs. Neskers, bearing a mouthwatering tray laden with biscuits and tarts.

Avoiding eye contact and resisting the urge to fan her cheeks, Ambrosia reached out and selected one of each—because dignity, apparently, had already fled.

“I won’t be needing anything else,” she managed. “You may take the rest away.”

The last thing she needed was to be left alone with a tray full of sinful indulgences—especially when the most tempting one had knowing eyes and a wicked grin.

And yet Mrs. Neskers did not leave.

The woman took her time. Adjusted a fork. Repositioned a serviette. Straightened the sugar bowl, though it had been perfectly aligned to begin with.

Ambrosia sat frozen, cheeks blazing, praying the floor might develop a crack wide enough to swallow her whole.

Only when the tray was finally gathered—slowly, so very slowly—and the door closed behind her with a soft click, did Ambrosia dare to move.

She pressed both hands to her face and squeezed her eyes shut.

He’d known. He’d known she was watching him all along.

And to say what he did! How positively horrid. How absolutely reprehensible.

The wicked thrill he’d sent spiraling through her entire body ought to have dissolved her into a tingling puddle of shame. Because to suggest such a thing— to a lady! —was beyond the pale.

Yes, she may have been entertaining one or two inappropriate thoughts. But that did not give him leave to speak them aloud.

It was… it was unconscionable.

And yet.

The words echoed through her mind, low and mocking, as she played them back again.

“ Perhaps the beautiful princess at the window would like a kiss from the stranger she has been watching, no ?”

She took a single bite of a pastry—flaky, sweet, and suddenly tasting like dust in her mouth.

She set it down.

The arrogant rake had managed to ruin this small, stolen pleasure.

Not just the treat. The moment. The quiet indulgence she hadn’t dared allow herself in years.

What had she expected?

She rose, brushing nonexistent crumbs from her skirts, her appetite—and her appetite for foolishness—thoroughly extinguished.