Page 20 of The Duke that I Lost

TEMPTATION

R ather than look at Dash, Ambrosia walked past and ducked straight into the tent, Mr. Dog following at her heels.

She didn’t say a word.

Dash exhaled slowly. It certainly hadn’t taken long for her to realize…

He'd expected a blush. Hoped for a shy smile. A whispered joke about the fickleness of firelight, and how it had caught them both.

Instead? Silence. Retreat.

She was burning with embarrassment.

L’enfer… .

He didn’t blame her. He’d meant to offer her privacy—had believed he’d done just that—and still, somehow, he’d caught sight of her. Soft limbs in the starlight. The fall of her hair. That brief moment she’d stood so still…

He ran a hand through his hair and walked a slow lap around the fire, muttering to himself.

By the time he returned to the tent, he had pushed as much of the memory as possible out of his head.

And yet, still, the moment his hand touched the canvas flap, he felt the weight of her awareness like a charge in the air. She lay curled beneath the quilt, too still to be sleeping.

He crawled in as carefully as he could, but of course, Mr. Dog chose that precise moment to betray him.

The dog gave a happy little grunt and wriggled his long body up and over the space between them. Dash let out a low laugh.

“Your son is escaping,” he said gently, hoping to coax her back into a better mood.

Nothing.

Mr. Dog, thoroughly uninterested in keeping the peace, walked three full circles before collapsing beside him like a sack of flour.

Dash reached out to stroke the mutt’s soft ears, but his eyes were trained on the shadowed lump of Ambrosia’s body—turned firmly away from him.

“Ah, princesse ,” he murmured, “don’t be embarrassed.”

She didn’t answer.

He shifted slightly and touched her arm. Her breath caught—and then a sound, soft and aching, escaped her throat. “…I’m wicked,” she said, her voice catching.

His chest squeezed. “ Non, princesse .” A rueful smile tugged at his mouth—he could not help it. If there was a devil in this moment, it was him, not her.

At the soft urging of his hand, she turned toward him, only to bury her face in her palms. “I’ve never… I’m not…”

Dash leaned close, his voice no more than a breath. “If you are wicked, then so is all the world.”

“But a l-l-lady would never…”

“Ladies too,” he murmured, gently coaxing her fingers away from her cheeks. Their faces were close now, so close he could breathe the sweetness of her skin, feel the tremor running through her hands.

She was staring into his eyes now. “I feel different,” she whispered.

“What kind of different?”

Her answer came on a shiver. “Prickly. Achy. Different.”

He shut his eyes, dragging in a sharp breath. Mon Dieu .

“Ambrosia,” he groaned, his voice rough with restraint. “You are killing me.”

He pulled back and sat up. It was that or…

Deep breath. “I won’t break my promise.” A reassurance for himself or for her?

Silence stretched for one long heartbeat… then another.

“What if I want you to?”

His fingers curled into the edge of the folded quilt between them.

It would be so easy. One kiss. One slide of her soft, pink mouth against his.

“You don’t. Trust me,” he said, though it nearly choked him. “You were right before.”

“…Oh. Of course.” Her voice was smaller, and he knew that she’d mistaken his restraint for rejection. “You must know plenty of ladies—ladies with more experience—ones who already know how to kiss.”

His heart cracked. “It’s not that…”

“You are certain you are not married?” she asked.

He almost wanted to laugh at that, bitter though it may be, despite the seriousness of the moment. “I am quite certain. It’s just…” Merde. How to explain?

“There is someone, then,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”

“No.” His voice was hoarse, but gentle. “Non, princesse . It isn’t that.”

He exhaled sharply, the truth clawing at his throat, begging to be freed.

“If I kiss you now…” His voice roughened. “I won’t want to stop at just a kiss. When I watched you changing behind the tent— mon Dieu —even before that. Since the window. Since that first moment. I’ve wanted you.”

A pause. He looked away, as if the night might shield him from all the things he couldn’t tell her.

“But if I were honest with you now…” His jaw tightened. “If you knew everything, you’d never look at me the same again. You’d hate me. And I—” He cut himself off, swallowing whatever words had threatened to escape. How had this become so complicated? “I won’t risk that. Not tonight.”

She tilted her head. “So, you do wish to kiss me.”

* * *

Ambrosia stared at him, watching the struggle that was occurring so clearly behind his sharp blue eyes.

“Of course,” he growled, collapsing onto his back, one arm flung over his forehead. “But…”

“I’ve no expectations,” Ambrosia said, her voice quiet but steady.

And she didn’t.

She didn’t want a vow or a future or a fairy tale.

She only wanted this—one moment, one kiss. One memory that belonged entirely to her.

She was a widow, not a wife. Not some fresh, trembling debutante waiting to be chosen. Never again would she surrender legal ownership of her body or her choices to a man. But she had needs. She had wants. And if that made her bold tonight—then so be it.

He had said that she would hate him if she knew his truth.

That whatever he carried, it would ruin everything.

But she didn’t believe it—not fully. Because in the short time she’d known Mr. Beckman, she’d seen him show genuine compassion and affection—love for his horse, kindness towards Mr. Daniels and Mr. Dog.

He had protected her.

Respected her.

Ambrosia absolutely could not believe that he would ever hurt her.

She shifted onto her knees, moving across the folded quilt until she was hovering over him. Her pulse raced, her skin prickling in the cool air.

His breath reached up to meet her—wine, spice, and something wholly… Dash.

Familiar now. Comforting.

With one careful shift of her shoulder, her braid slid forward. In the faint wash of moonlight filtering through the canvas, she saw it fall against his lips, exactly as she intended. He went still, and in the hush of the tent she could almost imagine he was kissing her hair.

She tilted her head slightly, giving the smallest shake, and the plait dragged down the line of his jaw. Across the stubble-dusted skin of his chin, then lower—skimming the strong column of his throat—until it reached his chest.

Her breath caught as her gaze followed it, tracing the shadows on his torso. His shirt was gone, leaving her mesmerized by the smattering of dark hair that crossed his chest—not too much, thicker in the center and then tapering down into a line that vanished beneath the band of his breeches.

She licked her lips.

It was ridiculous, how much she wanted to touch him. To know if the warmth of his skin matched hers. To feel those muscles she’d only glimpsed when he’d rolled up his sleeves or tugged his coat tight across his back.

Still, he didn’t move.

His arm remained thrown across his forehead as if shielding his eyes—or bracing himself.

Was he waiting? Letting her decide?

She hadn’t expected him to be so… passive. She had thought he’d kiss her. Had thought he would take control the moment she made her intent clear.

But he didn’t.

Trembling, Ambrosia set her hand against the center of his chest. His skin was, in fact, warm, firm beneath her touch, his heartbeat steady and strong. When her fingers curled ever so slightly, that steady rhythm faltered.

She lifted her gaze.

He was no longer hiding behind his arm. His eyes were open. Fixed on hers.

Watching.

Waiting.

And then he breathed her name. “Ambrosia.” The relief in his voice was all she needed.

Instead of waiting for him, she lowered her face so that less than an inch separated their mouths.

“You will make this good for me? Make this a most excellent first kiss.” She felt exposed as she asked the question, needy. But tonight, his kiss, might very well be the only one she’d ever experience.

“It will be the kiss of a lifetime.” His words, sounding like a vow, would somehow always bind her to this man—no other promises needed.

His hands reached up behind her neck and he lifted his head, closing the gap between them.

Hot tears formed behind her eyes.

His lips moved softly against hers, asking, seeking. It was the most natural thing in the world for her to welcome him inside. His tongue teased along the tender skin behind her lips and then around her teeth. Ambrosia tasted him back, afraid to move, afraid to break this tenuous connection.

“Ambrosia,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers. “ Parfaite… Mon Dieu . you taste like heaven.”

One of his hands was curved around her neck, while the other cradled her jaw, his thumb brushing back and forth over the hollow just above her collarbone.

Right where her pulse thundered, wild and wanting.

The kiss deepened and she understood what he’d meant about not wanting to stop.

Her weight sank onto him, their bodies barely separated by the thin layer of her nightrail. She lifted one trembling hand to his hair, finally letting herself feel it—thick, dark, and just as silky as she’d imagined. She wound her fingers through it, held him close.

Her other hand traced the edge of his jaw. Solid. Rough. Real.

She wanted to dissolve into him. To be undone. To know all of his desire, to let it crash into hers and drown out everything else—every memory, every wound, every ache.

And for a few blissful moments, it felt as if she could.

But then…

He didn’t push her away. Didn’t break the kiss with a gasp or a plea for restraint. No. It was quieter than that.

His body stilled.

His mouth went lax against hers, no longer urgent or exploring. His hand, the one on her neck, went still too—resting there like other promises he couldn’t make.

She noticed the shift before she understood it. A subtle withdrawal. Not physical, not yet. But emotional.

Gone was the man who’d admitted to wanting her.

What remained was… restraint. Held breath.

An invisible wall that had slowly risen between them.

Ambrosia moved away.

Her limbs felt too heavy. Her heart, empty. Hollowed out by something that had only just begun.

He didn’t meet her gaze.

With a ragged exhale, Dash sat up. One hand ran through his hair, then clutched at the back of his neck like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

The warmth of a moment ago had evaporated. In its place—regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. It felt ridiculous now. Everything did.

He’d told her no. She’d pressed anyway. She’d kissed him. She couldn’t blame the wine or the stars. She’d wanted it. Wanted him.

“Please, don’t apologize.” His voice was hoarse. “I just… I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you.”

That stung. Why couldn’t he just tell her? She thought that she deserved to know. Especially after… well, all of this.

“Are you in some sort of trouble?” Her voice was tentative, quiet. He’d said he wasn’t running from the law—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t running from something else.

He took her hand. “Not to worry, princesse.”

Just tell me!

He didn’t, and this time she was the one who turned away, pulling the blanket around her like armor.

Behind her, his voice was low. “Are you all right?”

No.

“I’m fine,” she said anyway. “I’m going to sleep.”

Mr. Dog wandered over and nestled along her front, a soft, comforting weight, and she buried her face in his scruffy fur. Dogs didn’t go hot and then cold. They certainly didn’t stir up feelings only to retreat the moment those feelings became real.

A moment later, she heard Dash slip from the tent. Heard the fire stir. The dull thud of stones kicked.

Eventually, sleep came. But it did not come easily.