Page 2 of The Duke that I Lost

NOT A PRINCESSE

K eeping her head down, Ambrosia headed for the innkeeper’s desk. Her chamber ought to be readied by now, and as a lady traveling alone, she would not test common wisdom to avoid the public rooms. The sounds drifting from the taproom were already growing boisterous.

Just as she reached the front parlor, a familiar voice curled around her like smoke.

“But you must have something available.”

That voice. Rough-edged, low-pitched, faintly accented.

Only now, there was no windowpane between them. No glass to dull its effect.

“I do not require much. Just a small room with a cot. I am not picky.”

Ambrosia paused.

The French lilt, though subtle, lent an enticing curl to each syllable. Seductive, almost. It was entirely unfair.

Which explained why it pleased her greatly to imagine the cocksure gentleman sleeping on a cot that night. Quite deserved after speaking to her with such familiarity.

Beyond familiarity, really.

Ambrosia stepped up behind him and let out a soft laugh— Cocky blighter .

He turned, glancing at her over his shoulder, and from the look in his eyes, he did not share her good humor.

“I am so pleased you find my situation amusing,” he said coolly, before returning his attention to the man behind the counter.

Amoosing.

A quiet thrill skimmed down her spine, but she refused to examine it.

He was a perfect stranger, not the knight from her imagination, for heaven’s sake.

“My sincere apologies, Mr. Beckman.” The innkeeper shrugged with a wince. “Perhaps the Cow and Cleaver will have a vacancy.”

“The Cow and Cleaver is five miles away.” Ambrosia’s knight… Mr. Beckman exhaled loudly and scrubbed one hand down his face. She couldn’t help but notice that even more of his reddish-brown hair had escaped its que.

Would it feel as soft and silky as it looked?

Ambrosia banished the thought at once. Entirely unseemly.

Steeling herself, she stepped up to the counter, careful not to glance in Mr. Beckman’s direction.

“I believe my chamber should be ready now?”

She offered the innkeeper a smile, aiming for gracious rather than smug.

“Mrs. Ambrosia Bloomington,” she added helpfully. “Mrs. Neskers asked me to wait earlier.”

The innkeeper paused. His fingers twitched slightly on the counter.

He did not quite meet her eyes.

“Well, Mrs. Bloomington…” He rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid that room isn’t going to be available after all.”

She blinked.

One, two, three counts of silence as she tried to make sense of his words.

And then—from her right—a low, unmistakable chuckle.

Ambrosia forced a less gracious smile. “But that’s impossible. Mrs. Neskers?— “

“—was unaware that the current occupants had decided to remain for an additional night.” Mr. Neskers cut her off, though not unapologetically.

She inhaled deeply. Her fingers curled slightly around her reticule.

“That is not acceptable,” she said, her voice tight but steady. “I was promised a room.”

She fought to keep her tone measured as visions of spending the night in her carriage flickered through her mind—cold, cramped, and frightening. And what of her driver?

Behind her, Mr. Beckman chuckled again.

She turned a sharp glare on him, which he met with an exaggerated cough and the most insufferably innocent expression she’d ever seen.

She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes.

“This is not amoosing ,” she said. Then, to the innkeeper: “I would not have wasted the better part of the day waiting had I known. It will be dark soon. I insist you make some accommodations available for me tonight.”

Her voice rang with every ounce of authority she could summon. She would not beg. But she would not sleep in a blasting carriage, either.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Bloomington, but there is nothing we can do. As I was telling Mr. Beckman, the Cow and Cleaver is not far, but I wouldn’t dawdle if I were you. I’d imagine they only have one or two chambers available, if that.”

Ambrosia was not a person who enjoyed confrontation. She supposed, too, that Mr. Neskers was making some attempt to be helpful. She would find her driver and they would simply travel to the next inn.

With her pride smarting from the entire ordeal and Mr. Beckman’s smug laughter echoing in her ears, she stepped outside with renewed determination.

She marched through the garden, past a trio of idle young men stretched out on overturned barrels, chewing on lengths of straw and watching her with thinly veiled interest.

A prickle crept up her spine, and she quickened her pace. She was a widow, not some green debutante on her way to London for the first time.

True, it had been some time since she’d done anything of the sort—walked alone in an unfamiliar place, made decisions without a man at her side to approve or correct. Harrison had always seen to that. She hadn’t been given a choice.

Relegating the reminders to the past, Ambrosia drew a steadying breath and pressed on toward the mews.

“Mr. Daniels?” she called out hesitantly.

No answer.

She stepped closer—and then spotted him. Sprawled inelegantly on a bale of hay, one arm dangling limply to the side, the other clutching a half-empty bottle.

Gin.

“My regards, hic … Mrs. Bloo—Mrs. Bloomin’ton.”

The evening was unravelling rather quickly.

“Mr. Daniels! Are you drunk?”

A pointless question, given the glassy look in his eyes.

She drew a tight breath. “There are no rooms available here, and if we’ve any hope of finding vacancies at the next inn, we need to get back on the road at once. You’ll need to sober up immediately.”

She did not relish the prospect of traveling in the dark.

“Not going anywhere tonight, missus.” The driver pointed toward their carriage, which she only just realized was listing to the side. “Hit a rut when I drove her round.”

This could not be happening. Ambrosia tamped down the frustration threatening to erupt at his words. “Well, you’re just going to have to fix it, then.” Her voice shook a little more than it had earlier.

Mr. Daniels dismissed her request with a wave of his hand, much as people had done for most of her life. When his eyes seemed to focus on something behind her, she turned to find that, but of course, Mr. Beckman had ambled in after her.

The gentleman took one look at the driver, the listing carriage, and comprehended her situation right off.

Gone was the smug amusement, the teasing sparkle in his eyes. In its place was something cool, assessing—serious.

Mr. Beckman looked directly at Mr. Daniels.

“Is this the manner in which you maintain your vehicle, monsieur …?”

He glanced to Ambrosia to fill in the name.

“Daniels,” she supplied.

He nodded once in acknowledgment, then turned his attention back to the driver, jaw tight.

“Is it, Monsieur Daniels?”

Her driver, a man employed by her brother-in-law, lacked the grace to look even a little ashamed. “Can’t do much tonight… Not by myself, that is.” Mr. Daniels made an attempt to get himself into a standing position, albeit not a very steady one.

Mr. Beckman’s mouth twisted for a moment, but then he merely nodded—like a man who had fulfilled his daily quota of gallantry—and then with wide eyes, grinned innocently.

“I would assist him myself, princesse , truly I would—but alas, Monsieur Neskers warned against lingering. And I should hate to lose the last available room to someone less… deserving.”

He glanced over at her swaying driver, and then back at her with mock regret.

“Priorities, you understand.” He shrugged, his shoulders moving in a way that was decidedly French.

She took a deep breath and reminded herself that assaulting a man with a reticule—even a tastefully embroidered one—was not the way to begin one’s new life.

Especially not over a smug comment. Or an absurdly symmetrical face.

Regardless, he was traveling on horseback and would cover ground far more quickly than she could, even if her driver was able to miraculously rouse himself and make the necessary repairs.

Ambrosia glanced to the open door and shivered. The sunlight, so deceptively cheerful all afternoon, had cooled to amber, casting long shadows across the yard. It was early April—England’s most fickle month—and though the day had been bright, the evening chill had already begun to creep in.

Handsome strangers aside, she faced a daunting dilemma.

What did one do in such circumstances?

She had known, when she chose to leave for London, that there would be challenges. She had welcomed the idea of them. Craved them , even. But it was difficult to recall that sense of courage now, when she felt perilously close to tears.

Mr. Beckman brushed past her, strolling deeper into the stable with an insufferably relaxed gait. No doubt he intended to saddle his magnificent horse and ride off to claim the last room—her room, truthfully, because she had arrived first.

She had actually reserved a room.

But she barely had time to stew in the injustice of it before he reappeared—this time, not smug, but storming.

Like a thunderclap, he rounded on Mr. Daniels.

“Where the hell is she?” he demanded, his accent heavier than before. “The mare I stabled not half an hour ago—where is she?”

Mr. Daniels blinked, clearly startled. “Some fellow rode off on her. I just assumed?—”

“Which way?”

Daniels threw up both hands, helpless and bleary.

Mr. Beckman stared at him for a moment, silent—then muttered, low and scathing, “Bon à rien.” Good for nothing .

He then turned on his heel and bolted from the stable, his coat whipping behind him.

Ambrosia stood frozen, watching the space where he’d been, stunned by the sudden shift in him. The man who had, mere minutes ago, grinned at her with annoying confidence now looked as though the earth had tilted beneath him.

When he returned a few minutes later, jaw clenched, he was accompanied by a young groom—the same one who had earlier taken his saddle.

“I put her in this stall, mister. Swear it,” the boy said, pale and wide-eyed. “She was right here. I don’t know what could’ve happened.”

“You didn’t see anyone unusual?”