Page 16 of The Duke that I Lost

Ambrosia just stared at her drink thoughtfully, her pulse still catching up to the moment.

“That was…” she began, unsure how to name it. “What you did out there. I mean, thank you.” She forced the words out, even as—was that resentment? —coiled in her chest.

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

“I just—” She hesitated, then sat up straighter. “He spoke to me like I was nothing. Until you came in. Then suddenly I was someone to respect? It’s infuriating.”

Mr. Beckman gave a faint smile and reached for his napkin, unfolding it with a careless elegance that somehow irritated her. “I suspect,” he said lightly, “it had something to do with the fact that I am a man, princesse .”

“Yes. I know that.” She didn’t mean to snap. Not truly. But the feeling she’d managed to swallow for years surged up now, and she simply didn’t have the strength to shove it back down.

“ I know it ,” she said again, more evenly. “But still I find myself asking why. Why should that matter so much? Why should it be so easy for you?”

He blinked, but didn’t look surprised. “It shouldn’t.” His tone softened. “But it is.”

The honesty of his answer struck her harder than any excuse could have.

“I need to learn how to deal with men like that on my own.” She lifted the tankard and took a long sip, intentionally not grimacing at the bitterness. “I hate that I didn’t know what to do. That I froze.”

“You didn’t freeze,” he said. “You handled him. You lied through your teeth and called me your husband. Nothing wrong with that.”

She looked over at him. “Only because you were there. I knew—somehow—that you’d take care of it.”

His gaze was steady. “And I did.”

Ambrosia looked away.

“But that isn’t fair!” She’d known this inequity existed. She’d experienced an abundance of it within her marriage, and yet somehow, a part of her had imagined she’d escaped such disparities when she’d left Rockford Beach as an independent woman.

Apparently, she hadn’t.

“It absolutely is not.” Mr. Beckman’s usual charm returned when the same maid returned carrying a basket of bread. “Thank you, luv.” How was it he could make an English endearment sound so incredibly French?

Ambrosia felt utterly deflated. Was every woman either luv or princesse or cherie to him? And was that all any woman ever was? Somebody to be charmed at will and then ignored when she was no longer convenient?

She oughtn’t to be angry with Mr. Beckman, of all people. He owed her nothing. In exchange for a ride to London, he’d been helpful and courteous. Having him along, in fact, had been… useful.

She stared into the amber depths of her ale, watching the way the light caught the rim of the glass.

And then she exhaled, a long, quiet sigh.

It wasn’t Mr. Beckman’s fault that she’d never learned how to deal with men like Mr. Jeffries.

Men who wielded their power like cudgels.

Men who seemed to relish in making women feel small.

“Ah, come now, Madame Beckman,” he said, with a teasing lilt. “Nothing can be all that bad.”

Madame Beckman . He would continue the charade just in case…

Ambrosia forced a smile—but it felt brittle. “I just—” She hesitated, then pushed on. “I wish I knew what to say in moments like that. Something that would put a man like him in his place. That would make him see that simply being a woman doesn’t mean I’m inferior.”

She didn’t add what she was truly thinking—that no matter how fiercely she wanted her independence, society rarely allowed women to hold it without a man’s approval.

As a widow, would she break free in London?

Was that even possible?

Mr. Beckman didn’t rush to fill the silence, and when she finally looked up, he was watching her, elbows on the table, his tumbler forgotten in front of him.

“You don’t need a man to establish your authority,” he said. No trace of teasing now—just calm conviction. “You have it in spades. You just haven’t figured out how to use it yet.”

Ambrosia stilled, wanting to believe him.

But… how?

Her gaze dropped to his hands. A faint scar crossed the back of his wrist, and his fingers, roughened by some kind of labor, tapped against the table without thought.

This man…

His accent was French, but polished—like his bearing. He walked into rooms like a man accustomed to being obeyed.

And yet, he hadn’t dismissed her. Hadn’t tried to explain the world to her.

Maybe… he wasn’t like other men she’d known.

“Can you give me a hint, then—what this hidden strength of mine is?” she asked dryly. “Because I was failing rather spectacularly before you came to my rescue.” She glanced down at her muddy hem. “I suppose my attire must not have done me any favors.”

“It matters not if you’re covered in mud or dressed for court.

” His voice was certain. “The je ne sais quoi —that essence —it is already yours. Your strength. You have endured marriage to un homme sans ame .” A soulless man.

“What carried you through? What kept you from surrendering to despair? Find that, princesse, and the world is yours.”

She wanted to argue, but… his words stirred a flame inside her, one she’d long thought extinguished.

In the quiet that followed, she studied him.

The fine lines near his eyes—the ones at the outer corners may have come from laughter alone, but there was also a rather pronounced indentation between his brows, the kind that came from expressions of consternation or deep thought.

The tired elegance of his coat. The way his fingers fidgeted unconsciously, tapping the table, folding his napkin, then smoothing it flat again. Little signs of a restless mind.

He was not simply charming. He was not simply beautiful. He was a man who had been tested.

“When did you learn it?” she asked. “Your je ne sais quoi .”

He tilted his head, gaze drifting toward the window as though he could see the past in his reflection.

“I couldn’t say, exactly.” His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Although, I didn’t really know I had it… until I lost it for a while.”

“What do you mean?” Ambrosia asked.

“In France, with my mother, my sister, my grandmother—I had my place. School, books, friends who shared their secrets and their sweets. I knew who I was. I liked who I was.”

His twisted his napkin. “But when I was summoned to England, my father expected me to become” —he made a small, dismissive gesture— “a proper little Englishman. Of course, I resisted. I was wild. I was… too much. And I was French , after all.”

Ambrosia’s brows drew together.

“So he sent me to school. Where the boys were bigger, the air colder, and my accent… not so charming.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I was small. Easily distracted. I didn’t belong. It was…” Another shrug. “A miserable time.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

But he just chuckled, waving away her pity.

“Don’t be. I found myself again.” He chuckled. “One of my tormentors—solid devil with fists like bricks—called me a p’tit connard .”

She shook her head, not recognizing the phrase. “And that means…?”

“Something between little bastard and insufferable peacock.” He lifted one brow, eyes glittering with mischief.

He rolled one shoulder. “When he threw his punch, I caught it—and then returned the favor with all the fury of a Provencal storm.”

Ambrosia’s lips twitched despite herself.

“We spent the next day side by side in the infirmary—bruised, bloodied, and suddenly… inseparable. Hawk… ah, he was a godsend. I could finally practice my damn English. And I realized being underestimated was not a bad thing. But from that day on, I have never let anyone make me forget who I am. No one.”

Ambrosia swallowed hard. Then, leaning in, she asked, “And who is that?”

He dropped his gaze to his ale. “Dashwood Cochran étienne Philippe Jean-Baptiste Louis Beckman.”

Her eyes widened. “Pardon?”

There was a twinkle in his eyes when he looked up. “Dashwood. Cochran. étienne. Philippe. Jean-Baptiste. Louis. Beckman.”

A stunned silence. Then?—

Ambrosia burst into laughter. “That’s not a name, that’s a family history!”

“What can I say? My parents had high hopes for me.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

She attempted it—badly. “Dashwood Cochran … étien? Philip—Jean Baptiste?” She threw up her hands. “No wonder you had difficulty making friends.”

He laughed then, a rich, full sound that curled in her chest.

“Dash,” he said, the amusement softening into something warmer. “My friends call me Dash.”

“Dash,” she repeated, letting it settle on her tongue. “And you are still friends with this Hawk fellow?”

Mr. Beckman nodded with an affectionate smile.

“And will he be at your… party?”

“But of course.”

That was good. Whatever was to go on at this supposed party, Ambrosia felt that Mr. Be— Dash could do with the support.

“Perhaps he can help you find Guinevere… After your visit to London.” She knew she was pushing, perhaps unfairly, but she couldn’t help it. There was a certain look that always crossed his face whenever she mentioned the party. Not quite despair, but something close. Why, though?

“Perhaps,” he said at last.

Before she could press further, the door opened and not one, but two maids bustled in carrying large trays, thwarting her opportunity to hear more.

For now.

Mr. Jeffries was doing his best to make up for his earlier behavior, it seemed, by sending them a banquet fit for a king.

Or… rather, for Dashwood Cochran Louis St. Something Something Beckman.

Dash .

There were at least three kinds of cheese, cold ham, sausage, and bread. There was also a plate for Mr. Dog, who’d been napping at her feet but promptly came to life at the prospect of a good meal.

Ambrosia would’ve liked to continue hearing Dash’s plans—anything about his life, really—but after the maids had left, the moment was gone…

Then for no reason at all, Ambrosia blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“I’ve never worn the sapphire negligee.”

It had bothered her. That he hadn’t questioned her about it.

It shouldn’t. He was merely being a gentleman.

But she didn’t want for him to think that she had a lover waiting for her in London… or that she’d left one at home…

It shouldn’t matter. All of this was very personal information… and yet…

It did matter.

“That’s a shame,” Mr. Beckman said as he shoved a bite of food into his mouth, and then, once he had finished chewing, murmured, “Perhaps you can wear it for me.”

Ambrosia nearly choked. “Pardon?” Surely she’d misheard him.

But he simply gave her a confused look, lifting a rather large piece of the ham. “Perhaps you can share this with me?”

Oh.

Oh! The ham.

She had loaded her plate with mostly vegetables—a deep-rooted habit formed over her years with Harrison, and then later, under the watchful eyes of Winifred.

But she needn’t please any of them now.

Ambrosia reached across the table and stabbed a plump piece of sausage with her own fork. “I believe I will.” She held his gaze this time, trying to channel some of her own je ne sais quoi.

The corner of his mouth quirked, but his eyes darkened.

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, princesse .”