Page 13 of The Duke that I Lost

DIGNITY’S TAKEN A BLOW

W hatever odorous concoction clung to Mr. Dog’s fur, for all his curious charm, did not improve in the close confines of the coach.

At first, Ambrosia had been too distracted—by the unexpected joy of having rescued something, by the hum of Mr. Beckman’s presence beside her, by the sheer novelty of it all.

But after half an hour of riding, with the scent growing riper and the dog sprawled shamelessly on the floor, she could bear it no longer.

She spotted a brook glinting just off the road. “Would you be terribly upset if we stopped to?—”

“Not in the slightest.” Mr. Beckman was already sliding open the window. “Pull over, Daniels! We’ve got to get that stench off this dog.”

Had he simply endured it for her?

For all his teasing and flamboyance, Mr. Beckman could also be oddly… endearing.

As the carriage slowed and bumped to a halt, hearing the cheerful gurgle of water nearby, she began making a mental list of the supplies she had brought that might come in handy.

“There is soap in one of my trunks,” she said as Mr. Beckman helped her down, her gloved fingers pressing into his steady palm. “And linens to dry him. The water will be cold—I don’t want him catching a chill.”

“He’ll be fine,” Mr. Beckman promised. “I’ve got him,” he added, lifting the dog down from the carriage. Then, eyeing the distance from the steps down to the ground and comparing that with Mr. Dog’s tiny little legs, “I don’t know how the hell he got in to begin with…”

“Sheer determination, I imagine. So have a care not to let go. I don’t think he would do well on his own in the wilds…” She grimaced.

Placing Mr. Dog on the ground, Mr. Beckman bent to secure the length of his cravat around the pup’s neck. “This should do the trick.”

He straightened and extended one end of the fabric toward her. She accepted it, the improvised leading string warm from his body heat. For one foolish instant she longed to lift it to her face, to breathe him in—but instead she wound it carefully around her fingers.

“Which trunk do you need?” Mr. Beckman asked.

“The large one.” But before she could instruct him to wait for her before opening it, Mr. Dog tugged insistently at the cravat, nose to the ground, likely seeking out a proper spot to lift a leg.

As she followed the pup’s meandering path, her mind turned uneasily to what she had packed in that particular trunk.

She was right to be embarrassed, of course—that a man was rummaging through her belongings.

Her shoes, her stockings, her night rail—oh, heavens.

Her personal things. Her private things.

That alone was enough to make her cheeks heat.

But then… her stomach dipped.

There was something else. Something she had nearly forgotten. That ridiculous bit of silk and lace—the negligee Mrs. Tuttle had gifted her in the end. The one she’d hidden away at the very bottom. Mortification prickled along her skin.

She whirled just in time to see Mr. Beckman flip the latch and reach inside.

“Oh, please—wait—just?—”

“You’ll have to show me which linen you’re willing to sacrifice for Mr. Dog. I can’t imagine you’ll want to keep it once we?—”

Ambrosia’s stomach dropped, and she just… froze. Of course he would find it.

Mr. Beckman stood with one hand still in the trunk, the other lifted slightly… holding it between loose fingers .

The one garment she would rather have flung into the sea than have it be seen—by him or anyone else. Sapphire blue, sheer, with lace so delicate it… shimmered.

Merciful heavens, she should have simply flung it into the sea back at Rockford Beach. What had she been thinking, humoring Mrs. Tuttle like this when the woman wouldn’t have ever even needed to know?

His expression was unreadable. Not mocking. Not lewd. Just… still. Intently, devastatingly still.

“It isn’t mine,” she rushed to say. “Mrs. Tuttle insisted I take it. I told her I’d never wear it. That I had no use for such a thing, but she swore there might come a time?—”

Thankfully, she cut herself off there—before she could say anything even more embarrassing.

Mr. Beckman lifted his gaze to meet hers, not saying a word. She did not even want to try to imagine what he must be thinking, whether he found the idea of her with a negligee—her wearing a negligee—merely absurd, evidence of unchecked vanity…

Ambrosia strode forward and snatched the offending scrap from his hands, jamming it beneath a very sensible white cotton night rail until not even a glimmer of blue could be seen.

Only then did she search for supplies she needed for Mr. Dog’s bath.

She tugged free an old apron and then fished out the jar of cherished lemon and lavender soap from her ablutions satchel.

Still, he said nothing.

“A real gentleman would not invade a lady’s privacy like that,” Ambrosia ground out, scooping up Mr. Dog and marching toward the sound of the brook.

She didn’t care what might be clinging to the dog’s fur, she simply needed a moment.

A moment to collect herself.

To breathe.

Of all the items Mr. Beckman could have uncovered, it had to be that—the negligee.

The most scandalous thing Ambrosia had ever owned.

She would have left it behind, but, ultimately, it was a gift from her one true friend, and—if she were being honest—she’d held onto it because of what it represented.

Possibility. Hope.

The wild notion that if the right gentleman did happen to come along…

Only, she didn’t really believe he would.

A strip of sandy shoreline appeared between the grass, and she dropped to her knees. Still clutching the cravat, she dipped her free hand into the brook and lifted the cold water to her cheeks, her neck, her brow—anywhere to soothe the heat of her mortification.

“I said he’d be fine—and he will be, but that doesn’t mean bathing him will be easy.”

But of course Mr. Beckman had followed.

“I can do it.” Determined, she tucked one arm around Mr. Dog’s belly and began to lower the squirming little sausage into the stream.

The moment his paws grazed the water, however, he went rigid with panic, clawing frantically, scrambling back up her chest with wide, terrified eyes and an expression of sheer betrayal.

“Let me help, princesse .” Mr. Beckman, who had crouched down beside her, reached out and wrapped his hands firmly around belly of the wriggling pup.

His arms brushed against her chest.

His coat grazed her cheek as he leaned in.

“The soap—you have it?” he asked, not looking at her, holding Mr. Dog over the water.

“I do.”

“Do not fear, petit bonhomme .” His voice was low and coaxing. “No one will hurt you . We only need wash away that odeur terrible, oui ? If you are to belong to a princesse , you must at least smell like a prince.”

His words were almost a lullaby, laced with fondness and that gentle teasing of his.

As he lowered the dog into the stream, cradling the trembling creature securely, he cupped water over its back in slow, steady motions, careful not to startle him.

And watching him, it brought Ambrosia straight back to the moment she’d spotted him stroking Guinevere’s neck at the inn—the same quiet tenderness in his hands, the same ease in his posture.

“ Allez, princesse. Tout de suite —before he wriggles away.” Mr. Beckman glanced over, the corner of his mouth quirking, spurring her into action.

Ambrosia swallowed and reached for the small jar of soap, her fingers not quite steady. She worked up a lather in her palms, then looked up just as Mr. Beckman shifted the dog, presenting his muddied underbelly with a resigned sort of patience.

“Careful,” she warned. “He may not have teeth, but he does have opinions.”

“I think he’s sulking.” Mr. Beckman studied Mr. Dog, who was no longer kicking. “Dignity’s taken a blow.”

He did indeed look as if he was sulking, something like a pout managing to come across loud and clear even on his little dog face.

Ambrosia leaned forward and gently began scrubbing the short legs, the lightly furred belly, and round chest. “He and I have something in common, then.”

The words slipped out before she could think better of them, but Mr. Beckman didn’t tease. Instead, he held the dog steady, his expression unreadable but soft around the eyes.

They worked in tandem, her hands dipping into the brook to build up the suds, his grip shifting to let her reach every scruffy inch of the dog’s back and neck.

Now and then, her fingers brushed against Mr. Beckman’s—or her bosom inadvertently grazed his arm—and each accidental contact sent a flutter through her chest.

At one such moment, their hands met and lingered...

“Careful, princesse ,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “We’ll have to bathe you next if you keep leaning in like that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” But her voice didn’t sound firm as she’d intended.

He really, really needed to stop saying such things.

She cleared her throat. “There now,” she murmured as she rinsed away the last of the suds.

Mr. Beckman let out a low whistle. “Handsome dog under all that mud.”

“He is rather, isn’t he?”

“A good lesson for the day.”

She looked up sharply, surprised by the note of something sincere in his voice.

Their eyes met.

And held.

But Mr. Dog had had enough. He gave a vigorous shake from nose to tail, flinging cold water in all directions.

Ambrosia gasped as the droplets hit her everywhere, soaking through her gown. But when she glanced at Mr. Beckman—just as drenched, a single strand of hair plastered along his jaw—laughter burst from her lips.

It wasn’t the polite sort of laugh she usually permitted herself. It came bubbling out of her chest, bright and delighted and utterly unladylike.

In her mirth, she leaned back on her heels, unintentionally pulling on Mr. Dog’s lead, which caused the little beast to lurch—and pulled Mr. Beckman off balance with her.

He landed beside her with an indignant grunt.