Page 12 of The Duke that I Lost

“She was in pain for quite some time.” Her chest squeezed at the memory.

“But at least I was able to be with her at the end. Mr. Bloomington did everything he could to keep me away—brought in ladies from the church to sit with her and help care for her in my stead. He said it would offend my sensibilities. He said it wasn’t proper. That grief would make me hysterical.”

She stared out the window, jaw tightening. And perhaps it was too much to share with a person she barely knew, but… she had to talk about it to someone , had to purge this poison from her heart and mind.

Back in Rockford, she’d shared some of these thoughts with Mrs. Tuttle, but even then, she’d had to be cautious. Now, though, it didn’t matter. There was no one, really, who would monitor her conversations.

So, it was okay, wasn’t it? To talk about it?

“He—he tried to control everything,” she said. “What I wore. What I ate. Even…” Her voice faltered. “Where I slept…”

The admission felt like a thread pulled loose, unraveling something deep and hidden. But where her mother was concerned, she’d fought him.

“No matter what he tried, though, I refused to leave her. I stayed. I sat beside her day and night until it was done.”

A beat passed. Then Mr. Beckman said, without ceremony, “Monsieur Bloomington sounds like a right royal ass.”

A startled laugh burst from her lips. Milton and Winifred still spoke of her husband in reverent tones. As though grief had polished him into something he never was.

Another quiet moment stretched between them, Mr. Beckman’s expression unreadable—but close enough to pity that Ambrosia instinctively bristled. She opened her mouth, prepared to change the subject, but was spared the effort.

The dog sneezed.

Ambrosia startled, another laugh catching in her throat as the poor creature blinked and sneezed again, his entire body involved in the effort.

“God bless you,” she said automatically. The dog resettled beside her, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. “Why do you think he does that with his tongue?”

Mr. Beckman leaned closer and gently lifted the dog’s lip. “This little fellow has lost most of his teeth.” He sat back, shaking his head in disbelief. “Are you certain you want to keep him, princesse ? I’m not sure how he’ll eat without any teeth.”

“I am positive.” If anything, his little issues only increased her determination to care for him. “I’ll soak his food in milk.”

“You’re going to spoil him.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it? Everyone deserves to be spoiled at some point in their life.

I mean, just look at him! He’s obviously had a rough go of it before now.

The last thing he needs is to be abandoned another time.

” Ambrosia arranged her shawl around the little dog, tucking it in so as to keep her new pet warm.

When she looked up again, she caught Mr. Beckman studying her with that baffled, curious, and somewhat… heated glance that made her squirm.

“What?” she asked, reaching up self-consciously to make sure there wasn’t anything on her face for him to be staring at.

“You, I think, are in need of spoiling.” His voice as much as his words sent her heart racing. And butterflies. Butterflies which fluttered around and then took flight into all of her limbs.

Ambrosia forced herself to breathe normally, glancing at—well, perhaps she would simply call him Mr. Dog for now, until she could come up with a more dignified name. “I do hope no one is missing him.”

Mr. Beckman nodded, but then glanced away with a grimace. Of course, he must be missing his horse.

“You’ll find Guinevere, after your party.” She spoke with confidence. Somehow, she couldn’t see Mr. Beckman failing to achieve any goal he set his mind to.

“I likely won’t have to. She knows where home is.”

Well, that was something of a relief. But then it set her to thinking. “Where exactly is your home, Mr. Beckman?”

He’d told her he was born in France, then later raised in England, and that he had a sister, but she didn’t know much more than that. She had no real idea what his life looked like currently—when he wasn’t traveling, that was.

He hesitated a moment before answering, as though weighing what he should tell her—which she thought was a bit odd. It was a simple enough question, wasn’t it?

“Devonshire,” he eventually said. “In the southwest.”

Ambrosia could easily picture Mr. Beckman riding that giant mare along a sandy beach with cliffs looming on one side, ocean waves crashing on the other. He would have stared across the channel, knowing his childhood home was in the distance…

“A long way from your mother’s home.” And then she added, “In France.”

“It is.”

“You miss it?”

He nodded, and the sun shining through the windows showed a few tiny wrinkles at the corners of his oh, so lovely eyes. She would not press him to discuss memories of the place where he was born… His father’s country had gone to war with that of his mother.

That would have brought anyone tremendous sorrow.

“There must be something you’ll miss about Rockford Beach?” he asked.

“I’ll miss the sound of the gulls in the morning, even when they were dreadfully noisy,” she said after a moment, her voice softening.

“And the blue of the skies—on the rare days the rain finally cleared.” She lifted her chin then, almost daring him to contradict her.

“But I am quite looking forward to my new beginning.”

He smiled and, shifting his tone, asked, “You’ve said you will host salons in your new home, princesse . Do you have any particular talents you’ll be showcasing?”

“Oh, none at all,” she said cheerfully. “Not personally. But I do have a great love for the arts.”

“Ah. A patroness.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed with a smile. “One of our neighbors, Mrs. Mary Tuttle, planted the idea in my head. Whenever I had a chance to visit, I devoured the books in her library. Her collection was… fantastic.” Books that featured scandalous stories, artwork, histories she’d never imagined…

Ambrosia bit her lip, wondering how much she ought to admit to this man who she barely knew, realizing that once again he had her talking about herself.

And yet she continued. If he did not wish to hear it, he wouldn’t ask, now would he?

“I lied to Harrison. Told him Mrs. Tuttle and I were reading scripture, but instead she shared her books with me, mythology, travel journals, and even some modern fiction.” But in case that made her sound ungodly—which she wasn’t!

—she hurried to clarify, “I’d already read the scriptures he assigned me hundreds of times, you see?—”

“No need to explain yourself to me, princesse ,” he soothed, raising a calming hand. “And so, you developed your thirst for knowledge outside of that which can be found in King James?”

Ambrosia nodded with a grimace. “I did.” But, reassured now that he did not judge her, she went on.

“Mrs. Tuttle is the most interesting person. Before moving to Rockford Beach, she lived in London. She is the person who told me about salons—because she’d hosted many of them herself.

I think hosting them must be an excellent pursuit for a widowed woman, for a woman who does not plan to marry, nor have any children or family. ”

“It is, indeed, a worthy endeavor.”

This was one of the things she was coming to quite appreciate about Mr. Beckman. Although he’d laughed at her a great deal upon their initial acquaintance, in things that mattered to her, he took her seriously.

He did not try to persuade her to give up Mr. Dog, and now he had, most surprisingly, expressed confidence in her plans for the future.

“I… Thank you, Mr. Beckman.” Mr. Dog chose that moment to rise up on his hind legs to look out the window in that same peculiar pose he’d used when sitting on Mr. Beckman’s lap earlier.

Ambrosia reached a hand out to steady him, but he didn’t need it, swaying occasionally with the movement of the carriage but maintaining his own balance perfectly well.

“Oh, goodness! Would you look at that. He truly is magnificent,” Ambrosia announced. “I do believe you’re right, Mr. Beckman. This dog is going to make quite the splash in London.”

“Like you.” Mr. Beckman grinned, and Ambrosia grinned back.

“Like me.”