Page 10 of The Duke that I Lost

Having tidied her things and packed after breakfast, Ambrosia stepped out of the inn just as the sun broke through a low bank of clouds.

The air was brisk and bright, and might have felt invigorating were it not for the smell wafting over from the stables.

Wrinkling her nose, she descended the front steps, valise in hand, wearing the freshly polished boots she’d discovered waiting for her upstairs—a small service she hadn’t expected, but appreciated all the same.

Just then, the familiar creak and clatter of the carriage announced Mr. Daniels’ arrival.

Today, thankfully, he looked far more like the capable man who’d driven her out of Rockford Beach on the first day of her journey, his stout frame wedged confidently on the bench.

And although his skin had a lingering greenish tinge, his eyes were definitely sharper than they had been the night before.

“Good morning, Mr. Daniels,” she called as he climbed down.

Landing with a little thud, he turned and tipped his hat with a flourish. For a man who’d behaved so badly the day before—and who ought to have been suffering with the consequences of that bad behavior still—he looked ridiculously chipper. “Morning, ma’am.”

Ambrosia opened her mouth to reply, but caught herself when the inn’s door swung open and Mr. Beckman emerged.

He offered a lazy smile and clapped the driver on the shoulder. “See? I was right, no?”

“Right about what? What are you on about?” Ambrosia asked.

“My cure for La gueule de bois —raw egg whisked with black pepper, vinegar, and just a pinch of feverfew. Works every time.”

Daniels grimaced. “Aye, so long as it doesn’t kill you, it would seem it does. Damn near chucked it all up though.” A second later, apparently just realizing what he’d said and in front of whom, he turned to Ambrosia with a sheepish look. “My apologies, madam.”

Mr. Beckman waved the apology off, catching Ambrosia’s eye with a twinkle of mock solemnity.

“It will take more than a little bluntness to rattle Madame Bloomington’s fortitude.

” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I, on the other hand, am but a delicate flower and shall require far more than an apology to soothe my sensibilities.”

“A delicate flower, eh? I see how it is,” Daniels muttered, chuckling, leaving Ambrosia just standing there, not quite sure if she ought to be annoyed or pleased.

Mr. Beckman strode toward the horses, and as he’d done with Guinevere, he brushed a gloved hand along the nearest gelding’s neck.

“ Mon brave ,” he murmured, low and affectionate. “ Tu es prêt pour une autre aventure, n’est-ce pas? ” You’re ready for another adventure, aren’t you?

He moved to the second horse, adjusting the bridle with practiced hands.

“ Doucement, mon ami ,” he said, soothing the restless animal. “ On y va bient?t .” We’ll be off soon.

His voice held a kind of reverence, his posture relaxed, the corners of his mouth turned in a private smile. With the horses, he was unguarded, instinctively kind.

She remembered wondering the day before, while she’d been watching him with Guinevere, what it might feel like to experience that sort of quiet devotion.

The wondering returned, gentle but persistent.

Listening to Mr. Beckman murmur in that low, lyrical French, a disorienting hitch fluttered in Ambrosia’s chest. There was something unsettling—yet wholly mesmerizing—about watching a man that powerful soften with such ease.

She’d never known anyone like him.

A little off balance, but distantly aware of Mr. Daniels tightening the trunks at the rear, Ambrosia climbed into the carriage unassisted, her valise tucked securely in her gloved hand.

The interior was cool and familiar, but in addition to the scent of worn leather and dust, there was also a trace of gin.

Mr. Daniels, no doubt, had slept in the carriage the night before.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell, but she didn’t truly mind. Not when her thoughts were still tangled in the sound of Mr. Beckman’s voice. But also the sight of his black leather gloves, which did little to disguise the strength—and almost noble elegance—of hands she’d noticed more than once.

She sank onto the cushioned bench, smoothing her skirts—more from nervous habit than necessity—when her gaze caught on what appeared to be a folded blanket on the floor.

Only…the blanket moved.

What on earth?

Before she could decide if her eyes were playing tricks on her, the carriage door creaked open.

Mr. Beckman filled the doorway—and then, impossibly, seemed to fill the entire carriage itself as he ducked inside and settled beside her.

Not across from her, but beside her, his large frame consuming more than just space.

With him came the scent she now associated with him entirely: cedar and leather. It was both comforting and distracting in equal measure. His boot brushed hers as he stretched out, unbothered by the proximity, while she, on the other hand, could hardly remember how to breathe.

She cleared her throat and cast him a sidelong glance. “You didn’t truly tell Mr. Daniels to drink such a vile concoction, did you?”

“ Mais oui ,” Mr. Beckman replied solemnly, pressing a hand to his chest. “Every good English boy must—it’s practically a rite of passage.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “And besides, it works.”

“Your father taught you this?”

“Not my father.” Dash’s voice lost its levity. “One of my tutors.”

Her brows rose. “At Eton?”

He shook his head. “No. Harrowgate Academy.”

Her brow furrowed. “An academy? Is that a college of some sort?”

His mouth tightened, the playfulness gone. “No. Not a college. More of a… place they sent boys who needed a little… extra.”

“Extra?”

Something unreadable flickered across his face—gone before she could name it.

“Extra discipline. Extra… correction.”

Though he’d been relaxed when he’d climbed in, Ambrosia could feel the tension now—in the set of his shoulders, the stillness of his frame. Where their arms and thighs brushed, the air seemed to tighten.

And then, almost too quietly to catch, he said,

“ Que la mer le prenne enfin, et pour l’éternité… ”

Ambrosia turned to him slowly. “You wish the sea would take it,” she translated, her voice careful. “Forever.”

He looked at her then, startled—for a heartbeat—before offering a crooked smile. “Your understanding of French is better than I thought.”

“One of the teachers at our village school was French,” Ambrosia said, her voice calm, her gaze unwavering. “ Madame Martine . The town only kept her for two years, but she was brilliant. By the end, half the students were able to speak fluent French.”

Dash lifted a brow and made a low, amused sound. “And I imagine… not everyone saw that as a bonne idée, no ? French influence corrupting innocent minds. Quelle horreur .”

He wasn’t wrong, and few would understand this better than him.

But… “You’re changing the subject.”

He gave a shrug and a teasing smile, as if that settled things.

She was prevented from asking anything more, however, when the blanket at their feet twitched.

She had not imagined it, then.

But this time, something decidedly alive burrowed out from beneath it, and startled, Ambrosia gasped. “Merciful heavens—what do have we here?”