Page 11 of The Duke that I Lost

MR. DOG

T he creature—a dog, unmistakably—stretched, shook itself, then meandered in a clumsy circle, pumping legs that were far too short for the length of its body. After one precarious turn, it returned directly to the blanket, dropped again, and began to snore.

Ambrosia blinked. “Is it okay?”

The dog’s eyes were half-lidded, his tongue lolling lazily from the side of his graying muzzle, as if he’d long since given up on keeping it tucked inside.

Instead of curling into a neat ball like any self-respecting creature, he wriggled about until he was flat on his back—front paws folded to his chest, hind legs splayed wide— exposing everything .

Mr. Beckman chuckled and bent to scratch the dog’s large barreled chest. “I think it walks in its sleep.”

“ He ,” she clarified, her voice a little high. Like this, there was no mistaking the animal’s gender.

“Quite right.” Mr. Beckman’s French lilt momentarily edged with the clipped precision of an English gentleman. A wry grin hooked up one corner of his mouth. “A modest creature, clearly.”

Ambrosia pressed her gloved fingers to her lips, torn between laughter and a small pang of pity. “What’s the matter with him?”

The dog, without bothering to move, shifted his gaze toward them with one squinty eye, as if suspicious of their intent.

“We ought to return him to the inn,” she said gently. “His owner will be worried.”

There was a pause.

“I don’t know about that, princesse .”

She looked again at the little beast—his sides too lean, his coat smeared with mud, his ribs faintly visible beneath the stretch of skin. “You don’t think someone is missing him?”

“Not likely, no.” There was a slight drop in his voice, and Ambrosia thought perhaps it was not only horses this man had a soft spot for. “If they are, they haven’t been feeding him.” He frowned. “Or bathing him. Or claiming any sort of responsibility for him at all, really.”

The dog let out a snuffling wheeze, tongue lolling further sideways, and one paw twitched upward as if it was waving at them.

Mr. Beckman opened the window to the driver’s seat. “Daniels? Do you know anything about this dog in here?”

“Blasted mongrel!” Mr. Daniels grumbled as he brought the carriage to a halt. “Just put him down here. He’s a stray—been hanging around the stables all night begging for food.”

Ambrosia’s breath caught. “No!” The word burst out before she could stop it, and out of the corner of her vision, she saw both its dark brown eyes open wide, a sliver of white showing around the edges.

Her heart thudded painfully, panic rising absurdly strong for the situation.

The thought of simply casting him aside, leaving him behind like a piece of forgotten baggage?—

She reached down instinctively to soothe him, her gloved hand met by a flick of a tongue. The creature hadn’t done anything but exist in the wrong place. “We cannot just leave him,” she said more quietly, struggling to keep her voice even. “He cannot manage on his own.”

“Damnedest looking stray I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Beckman muttered, scooping the animal onto his lap with a mix of curiosity and caution. The dog sprawled bonelessly, all long body and absurd little legs.

“But he is adorable,” Ambrosia insisted. “Like a little sausage. It’s very fashionable, you know, for proper ladies to keep little dogs for company. Perhaps I’ll clean him, fatten him up a bit… and he can be my stylish pet.”

She sniffed delicately. “Though a bath is certainly in order.” As soon as possible.

“Hmm…” Mr. Beckman grimaced, but then, as though he realized he needed to pass muster, the dog pushed himself up and balanced on his hindquarters—while still atop Mr. Beckman’s legs.

His back was straight and proud, and he was swaying only slightly, paws flicking out now and again, apparently helping to maintain his center of gravity.

It was magnificent.

“Oh, look at him! He’s perfect,” Ambrosia said. “If we truly think he’s alone in the world, I’m going to keep him—but he needs a name.”

There was no missing the amoosement in Mr. Beckman’s eyes. “I’ve no doubt you’ll come up with something suitable. He does have rather impressive balance. With enough soap and some training, I imagine he’ll take the ton by storm. Just like his mistress.”

The dog chose that moment to twist around and lick the underside of Mr. Beckman’s chin.

Ambrosia laughed. “He likes you.”

“He smells,” Mr. Beckman said dryly, lowering the dog back to the floor.

“What do you want to do with him?” Mr. Daniels’ face appeared upside down in the small opening.

“Madame Bloomington is going to keep him,” Mr. Beckman said, his gaze warm with laughter as it found hers. “For now, at least.”

Ambrosia had half expected him to object—to insist the dog be let out, that keeping him was highly impractical. For as long as she could remember, she’d always waited for permission before acting, weighed her choices against someone else’s preferences. But no one objected now. Not even Mr. Beckman.

And that—oddly—left her feeling both pleased and a little untethered.

Perhaps this, too, was something she would need to grow accustomed to. Making decisions for herself. Taking ownership of her choices.

“If you say so,” Daniels muttered. “Let me know if he starts sniffing around. Mr. Bloomington’ll have my hide if I return the carriage smelling like piss?—”

“We’ll be certain to alert you,” Mr. Beckman cut in smoothly, sliding the door shut and effectively ending that line of conversation.

“Mr. Daniels is employed by your… brother-in-law?” he asked, brow furrowing.

“He’s on loan to me, actually. Milton insisted it wouldn’t look proper for me to travel alone in the mail coach.”

Mr. Beckman nodded slowly, as if that explained something he’d been wondering about.

“And the carriage?”

“Milton’s as well. Both will return to Rockford Beach after Mr. Daniels has delivered me to London. My husband’s solicitor—Mr. Moyers—assured me the townhouse is still staffed. He even said he was fairly certain that, perhaps, there is a driver attached to the household.”

“Fairly certain, princesse ?”

“Relatively certain,” she amended, her tone more confident than she felt.

But now that he’d voiced it, a whisper of doubt crept in. Still, there was no use worrying yet. Whatever awaited her in London, she would face it. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? To learn to stand on her own. Even if it meant pretending she was not, in fact, afraid.

Ambrosia smoothed her skirt yet again, aware of the tightness in her chest as silence settled between them. She didn’t want to think about sending the coach back to Milton and Winifred, or what it would feel like to say goodbye to Mr. Daniels, the only familiar face from home. Not until she had to.

So she cleared her throat and said, a little too brightly, “You never said if your sister and mother would attend your party?”

Mr. Beckman turned his head slowly, one brow rising.

He knew exactly what she was doing. “No, Beatrice prefers to reside in the country.” He narrowed his eyes.

“There’s something I still don’t understand—Why did you marry Monsieur Bloomington?

You obviously didn’t love him. Every time, I imagine some old geezer…

” But then he shook his head. “Why not wait for a proper husband, princesse ?”

Every time he called her that— princesse —it made her feel set apart, as though she mattered to him in some meaningful way.

But that was only an illusion. A trick of tone and charm.

And yet, Madame Bloomington felt far too formal…

“You may call me Ambrosia, if you’d like,” she said quietly.

She shouldn’t invite such familiarity—but truly, what was more intimate? Her Christian name, or the pet name he used with such disarming ease?

And though widowhood had granted her a measure of independence, she still wished she could shed Harrison’s name as easily as she’d cast off her mourning.

“Ambrosia,” he repeated, but instead of adding distance as she’d intended, the way Mr. Beckman stretched out the syllables, savoring each sound, did quite the opposite. Then, even worse, “ Princesse Ambrosia .”

Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Right, ah. Thank you.” Gah! This proved it—it was his voice that was the problem, of that, she was now certain.

But she couldn’t afford to get lost in it like this, not in the middle of a conversation. No matter how sensual and almost musical his— No.

He’d just asked about her marriage to Monsieur Bloomington, what ought to be the least titillating subject in existence.

“How old were you when you married?” Mr. Beckman asked.

And it did, indeed, cut through that hot sensation like an ice-cold knife.

“Seven and ten.” The words landed softly. “My father died that year, leaving me and Mother alone—and without means. Mr. Bloomington was my father’s heir, a second cousin. He offered to let us remain in our home… if I became his wife.”

His eyes sharpened. “You have no siblings, then?”

“No. It was just Mother and I.” She remembered the days leading up to her wedding. “At the time, I saw no other way. So I agreed. But for some reason, I’d believed that nothing would change. I was hopelessly na?ve. After the wedding, I did not imagine that he would want to…” She swallowed hard.

“And this Milton fellow, your brother-in-law, is he going to allow your mother to remain now that you’re no longer at home?”

Oh.

She ought to have expected the question. “Mother passed three years ago.” Ambrosia blinked away tears. She didn’t speak of her mother often.

She hadn’t felt comfortable sharing her memory with people who couldn’t appreciate it.

But with this man… It was oddly different.

“Ah, I’m sorry, princesse . That must have been a difficult time for you.”

Ambrosia wiped at her eyes and nodded.