Page 19 of The Duke that I Lost

As the fire crackled low, they lingered—at first in a pleasant hush, then in conversation that began lightly and grew in depth. Favorite authors, books they had loved, others not so much.

Ambrosia found herself recalling the volumes she had devoured as a girl before her marriage, tucked into corners with her governess looking on, and later, the well-worn novels she had stolen hours with in Mrs. Tuttle’s library.

Those stories had been her solace, her escape, and now—here she was, speaking of them with a man who seemed to understand.

When she mentioned Paul et Virginie, Dash’s eyes lit with surprise.

“Bernardin de Saint-Pierre?” he asked. “You’ve read him?”

She laughed. “Of course. My governess was a dreadful romantic. She wept so hard at the end she had to abandon the lesson altogether.”

Dash smiled. “ Et moi , I remember thinking no one would ever love me as purely as Virginie loved Paul.”

“Really?”

He gave one of his Gallic shrugs, the barest smile tugging at his mouth. “But of course.” His voice was velvety-smooth. Then, after a beat, his gaze still locked on hers, “ Un jour, peut-être .”

One day.

Her breath caught. Perhaps it was the wine, or the hour, or the intimacy of the firelight—but her pulse tripped all the same. All those books she had read in solitude, imagining what love might be—yet not one had prepared her for the weight of that look, or the tremor it sent through her now.

She reached for her wineglass, if only to busy her hands while she searched for another topic to bring her back to earth.

“So,” she said, swirling the last of her wine, “you’re a bibliophile… Tell me, do you have a fondness for the other arts as well, or is it only poets who capture your heart?”

He chuckled, but let the moment stretch between them—quiet, companionable.

“Why choose just one?” Then he reached for the bottle to pour the last of the wine into her cup. “You must visit the Dulwich Picture Gallery,” he said, as though plucking the next thought from the air. “They have a few Watteaus. Fêtes galantes . The brushwork… it's like breathing in silk.”

“I have heard about him. He was one of Mrs. Tuttle’s favorites. She always said she adored his women—that they seemed like they were trying not to smile, as if they knew something they shouldn’t.”

Dash chuckled. “Like you, then.”

“Ha!” Ambrosia scoffed.

He was flirting again.

He only lifted his brows, amusement still dancing in his eyes, but then turned back to the fire, stirring up the embers. It was as though he was purposefully giving her time to catch up to a truth he had no intention of arguing aloud.

Night had fully fallen, the moon veiled behind drifting clouds.

On the plate, the bread was torn, the ham picked over, only a smear of soft cheese left in the corner. Nearby, Mr. Dog lay curled in sleep, snoring contentedly.

And within the small circle of firelight, there seemed no world beyond the two of them. They sat close, shoulders brushing, the bottle of wine empty, and a warmth between them that had little to do with the flames.

But then, because all good things must come to an end, Dash rose and began refilling the basket with what was left of their dinner.

Ambrosia moved and stretched. “What of Mr. Daniels?” she asked.

Mr. Beckman gestured toward the other side of the carriage where the horse had been tied off. When he lifted a finger to his lips, she silenced herself enough that she could hear the loud snoring coming from the other side.

“I believe he located another bottle of gin.”

Which meant that she and Dash might just as well be alone. Except for Mr. Dog of course, though he wasn’t much of a chaperone at all.

“If you prefer, you may change behind the tent. It will afford you a measure of privacy. I’ll fetch water for you to wash.” He extended his hand, and when she placed hers in his, he drew her gently to her feet.

Ambrosia swayed, and at once his grip shifted, steadying her with a hand at her elbow.

“Steady there,” he murmured.

She thanked him, struggling to find her feet as she leaned heavily against his supporting arm.

Merciful heavens, she hadn’t drunk spirits since before Harrison’s passing. The good food, the night air, the fire, the wine, and his company all combined to leave her in a fuzzy state of… contentment, but also something that felt like anticipation.

He didn’t let go until she nodded and stepped away.

Since he’d already placed her trunk beside the tent, she didn’t have to go far to retrieve her night rail and dressing gown.

It would feel good to get out of the dress she’d worn all day.

Not only had she gotten specks of mud on it when they’d given Mr. Dog his bath, but smoke from the fire clung to it now as well.

“Here’s some water.”

Ambrosia startled at Mr. Beckman’s voice coming from behind her, much closer than she’d expected. He’d hardly made a sound moving through the darkness.

Holding out a bowl, he raised one of his dark eyebrows. “To wash with? And soap as well. Luckily, we managed not to use all of it on Mr. Dog.”

Ambrosia couldn’t help but smile at that. She had to admit, bathing her “son” that morning had been… fun.

When was the last time she’d felt like that?

“You promise not to look?” she asked.

“ Mais oui . Cross my heart,” Dash said, holding out his hand. “Give me the mutt—I’ll walk him in the meadow while you change. That way you’ll have the firelight to yourself.”

Ambrosia passed him the leading string and watched as he disappeared once more into the dark.

Was it possible not every man was like her late husband? That not every man was like the innkeeper back at the Happy Pig?

“But don’t take all night, princesse !” Dash called over his shoulder. “ Je ne suis pas un saint .” I am no saint.

She blinked, startled out of her reverie, then slipped behind the tent. “Not even with saint tucked right there in your name?” she called back, her tone teasing.

“Lost my halo years ago.” His chuckle was softer now, more distant.

There wasn’t enough room to change inside, and so—heart fluttering at the ridiculousness of it all—hidden behind the canvas wall, she hastily began to unfasten the buttons down the front of her dress.

She would take him at his word.

She’d never disrobed outdoors before. Not once. Not even as a child. And although she ought to feel unnerved, a wave of unexpected freedom washed over her instead.

Off came her gown, which she folded carefully and laid atop her trunk. Her chemise should have been fine for sleeping, but after a cautious sniff, she grimaced. It and her corset had to go. She untied the laces with fingers that were slower than usual, and peeled the garments off with a soft sigh.

Cool air whispered along her newly bared skin. The sensation teased along her collarbone, down the curve of her arm—like the imagined touch of a gentle lover.

She shivered but quickly attributed such wandering thoughts to wine and starlight and that ridiculous moment beside the fire when he’d said she had magic.

And yet…

Was it so outlandish to wonder about romance?

She lifted her hands to her hair, fingers seeking the pins she’d shoved in that morning. One by one, she removed them, letting the weight of her curls fall down her back.

Ambrosia had determined never to marry again. It wasn’t worth the loss of her agency…but she hadn’t met Mr. Beckman yet.

She drew her fingers through her hair, and then the brush that used to be her mother’s.

Not that Mr. Beckman would ever wish to marry her, but he’d made her wonder if, sometime in the future, there might be something more for her.

A lover?

The thought brought a wave… equal parts intrigue and shame.

After weaving her hair into a single long braid, she poured a few drops of lavender-scented oil into the water, wet a cloth, and then lazily wiped her face and neck. An indolent and sensual feeling had taken a hold of her. It was the wine making her feel this way. Of course, it had to be the wine.

She skimmed the cloth along her chest, lazily lavishing more attention to her breasts than normal.

What if…

What if she were to release him from his promise? Take back her words of caution?

Would he find it all dreadfully amoosing …

Or…

Would he kiss her?

She moved the cloth to the undersides of her breasts, imagining for a moment that it was his hands that touched her.

“Are you decent yet?”

“Not yet.” She nervously scrubbed the cloth over her legs and between her thighs before rinsing it out and placing it beside her soiled gown to dry. Then, unwilling to push her luck, Ambrosia slipped her arms into her nightrail.

“I’m ready.” And for some reason these words had her blushing in the dark. She sounded like a bride who’d prepared for her groom.

Ridiculous.

She’d obviously been reading too many romantic stories lately.

Or perhaps it was the influence of Mrs. Tuttle, who had shared everything about her own wedding night, which had apparently been “absolutely wonderful”, going into far more detail than Ambrosia had ever heard or read about before.

Not even her own mother had explained so much the night before Ambrosia was to wed Harrison.

Mr. Beckman walked around the tent, seeming, for the first time since she’d known him, slightly uncomfortable. “He refuses to lift a leg,” he said, his voice a touch hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’ll have more luck?”

Ambrosia blinked, then realized he was offering her more than just the lead for Mr. Dog. He was allowing her the opportunity to find a more personal type of privacy, without saying so outright. She appreciated that more than she could express.

“I can try,” she said. Then, wearing nothing but the simple cotton gown and her half boots, took the leash and led Mr. Dog to the far side of the clearing, stopping when she found a patch of brush that offered enough cover for her needs.

Before crouching, she glanced back toward the tent—and paused.

Backlit by the fire, from behind the same canvas where she had changed, Dash’s silhouette moved in slow, unhurried gestures. Although the wall offered modest concealment, she saw enough to make her breath catch.

He was undressing. Shirt first, then a stretch, revealing all the length of his frame. The graceful sweep of his arm. The curve of his backside…

She blinked and looked away quickly, cheeks warming even in the cool night air as she finished her business, stood, and then waited for Mr. Dog to do the same. When he finally obliged, she looped the string loosely around her fingers and made her way back toward camp.

But halfway there, a thought struck.

He could’ve seen her too.

The fire had been behind her as well.

Her steps faltered.

She remembered the look on his face when he’d returned—flushed, his voice low, his eyes avoiding hers.

He’d seen.

He’d definitely seen.

Her heart gave a traitorous, breathless thump.