Page 14 of The Duke that I Lost

“We’re all soaked!” she gasped, flopping back onto the damp grass and letting the sun warm her cheeks. “Mr. Daniels is going to have conniptions over Milton’s coach.”

But the thought didn’t trouble her. Not in this moment. She had a dog . A ridiculous, no-longer-stinky, noble beast.

She was not alone. And for once, she didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission.

Mr. Dog, for his part, gave another shake, then flopped smugly onto Ambrosia’s apron in a patch of sun, seemingly pleased with himself.

“Mr. Daniels can hang,” Mr. Beckman muttered, lying back beside her. “At least Mr. Dog no longer smells like shite.”

His words startled a final laugh from her, and when she turned her head, she found him already watching her.

The warmth in his expression, warmer even then the sun, made her heart stumble.

And in that moment, she couldn’t quite recall why she had, in fact, forbidden Mr. Beckman from kissing her.

Propriety. That was it.

Something that was already highly improper—traveling alone with a perfect stranger—would become even more improper, she reminded herself.

But aside from Mr. Daniels, who would even know?

Who would even care?

Her resolve wavered.

“I am pleased to have your company, Mr. Beckman, truly,” she said, staring back at him.

He didn’t look away. Instead, he reached over and brushed a damp curl from her cheek. “I am as well,” he murmured. And then, softer, “ Vraiment .”

They lay there in silence, the air between them just… humming.

Even though he seemed so familiar, he was also a bit of a mystery.

“Why aren’t you looking forward to your birthday party?” she asked.

It bothered her. Was he estranged from his family? She did not think that he was lying to her, but she was certain he wasn’t being entirely forthcoming either.

There was more to this man than charm and banter. In certain moments, he seemed almost haunted.

His gaze faltered, confirming her thoughts.

“Ah... Ambrosia .”

Not Madame Bloomington, not princesse— Ambrosia. The sound of it in his accent made her chest tighten.

She braced herself for whatever truth he might admit to.

“I have a particular obligation,” he said at last. “And the deadline happens to fall on my birthday.” He sat up. “Which reminds me—we must move, oui ? We will never reach our destinations if we lie in the sun all day.”

He assisted her to her feet and brushed at the mud on her gown in a most impersonal manner before stepping back and brushing at his own shirt and breeches.

While doing so, he seemed to distance himself from her both physically and emotionally.

It was as though he’d allowed her a glimpse inside, and then just as quickly slammed the door closed.

What did he mean… A particular obligation?

Just like that, the warmth between them receded.

“What aren’t you saying?” The words left her lips before she could think better of them. “Are you running from the law, Mr. Beckman?”

His head snapped up.

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud—not like that—but the suspicion had risen too fast for her to stop it.

“The law?” His eyes held laughter once again. “I thought we’d already established that, of the two of us, you were the person more likely to commit murder.”

That didn’t answer her question though, did it?

And yet. If he was running from the law, would he find so much amusement in her accusation?

“It’s just that… I know so little about you.”

“You’re wrong about that, princesse .” He was drying Mr. Dog’s short hair with her apron. “You know more about me than most, I’ll wager. Think about it and tell me what you know.”

Ambrosia watched his hands as he affectionately dried a dog that he’d not met until that morning and that he had no intentions of keeping. He cared for animals. That much was clear. And if he cared for animals, then he likely held life itself in high regard.

“You are not a murderer,” she decided. Even if he might still be running from the law.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “And?”

“You enjoy food,” she added. “You don’t take yourself too seriously—most of the time. You’ve kept your promise to me, so far. And…” She hesitated. “Despite what you pretend, I believe that you are, in fact, an honorable man.”

She was honest enough to admit that if he’d truly wanted to win the race the night before, he could have claimed that last chamber. He’d let her have it.

He’d retied his cravat around Mr. Dog and was standing now. “Isn’t that enough, princesse ?” he asked softly.

Her husband had once been considered upstanding. Honorable. Respected. He’d been well-known in their village, and because he’d been related to Ambrosia’s father, her mother had trusted him. And yet, he'd been cruel. Miserly. Controlling.

She nodded. “It’s enough… for now.”

In the silence that followed, they made their way back toward the road, picking carefully through the trees and brush. But Ambrosia’s thoughts were already several steps ahead. In just a few days, she and Mr. Beckman would go their separate ways. The idea left her with an unexpected ache.

Perhaps… once he’d fulfilled whatever obligation he was rushing toward, they might renew their acquaintance.

Formally.

Properly.

Possibly at one of the salons she intended to host…

And just as she’d expected, upon seeing their soaked garments, Mr. Daniels greeted them with a dark scowl.

He lifted a hand to halt them, then climbed into the coach, located Mr. Dog’s blanket and shook it violently.

With great ceremony, he then laid it across the cushions to protect the upholstery.

Mr. Beckman assisted Ambrosia inside then lifted Mr. Dog in, who promptly curled into a ball on the floor and fell fast asleep.

Ambrosia scooted over so that Mr. Beckman could have more space beside her.

When a soft breeze slipped through the open window, over her damp clothing, Ambrosia shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

Before she could answer, he slid an arm along the back of the seat and gently drew her close. His jacket was as damp as her gown, but she didn’t care.

She nodded and nestled against him without protest. All the while, Ambrosia knew she shouldn’t feel so at ease with her entire body pressed to his. And yet… she did. She felt alive.

Still holding her close, Mr. Beckman leaned back and slouched comfortably into the cushions. He closed his eyes.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him.

He cracked one eye open, mock irritation glinting there. “Some minx stole my chamber,” he growled. “Now hush.”

He tugged her closer, and Ambrosia marveled.

It was more comfortable than she could have imagined—more comforting than she ever expected from a man who unsettled her in all the right and wrong ways.

Before she could puzzle out her feelings—or question the ease with which she fit beside him—sleep claimed her.

She drifted off with a sense of contentment.

In the arms of a handsome, charming, mysterious stranger.