Page 21 of The Duke that I Lost

A DETOUR

A mbrosia woke to birds singing, but the sound only seemed to sharpen the ache inside her. Last night’s humiliation rushed back whole and raw.

She had reached for him, offered him her heart in all her uncertainty, and he had turned away. The memory burned in her chest, tightening until it was hard to draw breath.

And this morning there was no reprieve.

She could not ignore the steady warmth at her back—the knowledge that Dash Beckman still lay on the other side of the quilt, close enough to touch, but impossibly out of reach.

“Ambrosia.” His voice carried the roughness of morning.

“How did you know I was awake?” She didn’t turn to look at him. She didn’t want him to see the disappointment on her face when he informed her he was going to abandon her and Mr. Daniels—and Mr. Dog! —and that he was going to make the rest of the journey on his own.

“Your breathing changed.”

There was a rustling, as though he had moved to touch her arm, but then changed his mind.

She swallowed hard. “I understand if you don’t want?—”

“Let’s put last night behind us, shall we? We only have a few more days together and I don’t want anything to ruin them.”

“But I?—”

“You did nothing wrong.” His voice was low, careful. “I… I was only—” he exhaled, a rueful sound colored by his French lilt, “— frustré , last night. Please, do not ask me to explain why.”

Ambrosia’s brow furrowed. What did he mean, she had done nothing wrong? If that were true, why had he turned her away? This was not at all what she had expected of this morning—of him. She rolled onto her side and found him propped on one elbow, studying her.

“So you aren’t angry with me? For kissing you?”

His lips curved into a smile, wide and unguarded. “Angry? Non . Not in the slightest.”

For a moment, all she could do was stare. His eyes seemed bluer than she had ever noticed before—dark and light, royal and storm, shot through with silver flecks that left her breathless.

“You were right, though,” he said, the smile fading. “When you first asked me not to.” His gaze slipped to the quilt between them. “ Alors … can we—perhaps—pretend it did not happen?”

Ambrosia blinked at his request and thought back to what she’d said when she’d asked him not to kiss her what felt like ages ago.

“If you kissed me, I could not allow you to escort me to London. It would not be proper… I am a widow… but… I would judge myself…”

He had taken her seriously. And she had meant it at the time, but now… well, perhaps it was for the best.

“You would reach London much faster on your own, given the pace we’ve managed.

” She forced a steadiness into her tone.

“I’m certain you could acquire a mount at any number of the posting stations along the road.

” Of course, she had known this for some time now.

His continued company was unnecessary. “You needn’t feel obliged to accompany me—if you do not wish it.

Mr. Daniels will see me safely to my destination… eventually.”

Her heart ached at the thought of separating from him, which was absurd, and yet… Over the last few days she’d felt as though she had a true friend.

Not that Mrs. Tuttle hadn’t been her friend, but Mrs. Tuttle was in her eighties. Mr. Beckman was close to her own age and he laughed, and he encouraged her, and he was willing to get wet bathing her dog on the bank of a stream…

“You wish to be rid of me, princesse?” She saw a little uncertainty in those blue eyes now.

“No.” Her heart leapt into her throat. “Never.” A bit dramatic, but it was the truth.

“Let’s finish this adventure together then, shall we? I’ve a week before I’m expected in Margate. Plenty of time.” His eyes grew dreadfully serious. “It’s nice to just… be. With you.”

Ambrosia nodded. She felt the same.

“Now.” He sat up suddenly. “Let’s get that fire going again.” Ambrosia barely heard what he said, her attention caught up in watching his bare arms and abdomen as he climbed out from beneath the quilts.

She’d touched that skin last night. She’d lain on top of him.

“ Princesse ? You are bien, oui ?”

She shook her head. “Yes. Of course. A fire. Best get moving.” It was difficult to focus on anything, however, but the way his muscles moved beneath his smooth skin and that dark brown hair, cinnamon, with just a hint of brown, growing in a perfect trail down to his?—

“I’ll gather the wood,” he said, and that glint of mischief was back in his eyes again.

Dratted man.

After struggling to change into a clean gown, Ambrosia emerged from the tent to find the fire already revived, Dash crouched over a small kettle, coaxing it into a gentle boil, with Mr. Dog stretched lazily at his side.

“Cannot begin the day properly without tea, eh?” he said, flashing her that grin—causing her stomach to flutter inconveniently.

Oh dear.

Perhaps—if she tried very hard—she could pretend their kiss had never happened.

Except she already knew that was going to be impossible.

There was no un-kissing a man like Dash Beckman. The memory was etched into her, as indelible as ink spilled across parchment. Irrevocable.

Worse, it had left her yearning for more.

By some small mercy, he stepped away, granting her a sliver of solitude—just enough to smooth her hair, lace her boots, and wrestle with the wholly improper thoughts swimming through her mind.

Harrison, Milton, Winifred… they had been right all along.

She was wicked. Truly wicked.

But this time, defiance won out over shame.

She didn’t feel damned. She felt… awakened .

When she joined Dash at the fire, the air between them felt oddly fragile, like too much had been said, but there was still more hovering just out of reach.

The kettle sat nestled among the stones, steam curling skyward. Beside it, a cloth had been spread with cheese, bread, and a small crock of jam laid out on its surface.

“I didn’t realize you’d purchased so much for this excursion,” she said, lowering herself to the ground. “Just tell me what you’ve spent and I’ll?—”

“It is your carriage I ride in, do you not remember?” His tone was light, almost teasing, though when he turned to offer her the mug of tea, his gaze slipped just shy of hers. “The least I can do, non ?”

She might have pushed back, but her stomach chose that moment to rumble audibly—providing her with the perfect excuse to look away. She laughed, embarrassed, and began assembling a plate, grateful for the distraction.

Then when she took her first bite, she let out a delighted groan, genuinely distracted from any talk of debts or traveling expenses. “Is it just me, or does this food taste better than it should?” she asked, licking a smear of jam from her finger with languid care.

She took a sip of the tea—hot, strong, exactly what she needed.

“I’m always hungrier when I travel,” he replied, already finished with his portion, pinning her with an approving stare—and then winking. “Apparently, so are you.”

Taking another generous bite of cheese, Ambrosia shrugged. Why contradict him when he was right?

She couldn’t remember the last time food had tasted quite so satisfying. It was as though she’d awakened from a long, strange slumber, and her body was yearning to enjoy all life had to offer.

“So, it’s typical?” she asked, brushing crumbs from her lap. “This is the first time I’ve ever traveled anywhere, so I wouldn’t know.”

He quirked a brow. “Anywhere?”

She nodded. “We took the occasional drive—my father liked packing us into the carriage and we’d go along the coast or through the farmland farther in. But beyond that? No. Rockford Beach has been my entire world.”

When Dash studied her, she had the sense that he saw not just who she was, but who she’d been.

“Tell me more about your world,” Ambrosia said, shifting restlessly as though the question itched inside her.

“What do you do when you aren’t making mysterious journeys across England?

” She tapped a finger against her chin, her eyes alight with mock speculation.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were an earl—no, a duke—idling on the income of vast ancestral holdings.

But as you’re merely the lowly Mister Beckman…

” She let the word linger, lips curving in a teasing smile, daring him to contradict her.

Dash’s mouth twitched, the faintest sign of amusement. He cast her a sidelong glance, equal parts indulgent and wary. “I do a little of this… and a little of that,” he said smoothly, his French lilt softening the evasion. He was not so easily beguiled.

She laughed softly to hide the twinge of disappointment—a twinge that really ought not to be there. Of course he would sidestep such a question. Over the entire course of their short acquaintance, he hadn’t given her any reason to think otherwise.

Still, she was reluctant to give up on the matter entirely. Perhaps a different tactic. “Are you… happy, at least? With the way your life has turned out?”

At this, Dash actually paused to consider his answer. “For the most part, oui … I am most fortunate. I am never in want. I take pleasure in running my estate, and most important, I have good people in my life who keep me company.”

“Your sister?” Ambrosia guessed. “And your friends?” The ones who would be at his mysterious birthday party. A party which he was apparently dreading for reasons he did not see fit to share.

Dash simply nodded.

“You mentioned your father had passed, but is your mother…?” Ambrosia could’ve slapped herself for being so indelicate, but Dash replied easily enough.

“Alive and well. Waiting for me at home.”

“Not…?”

“Not at the party, no.”

“Oh.”

She sensed she was nearing the edge of what he would allow her to ask, so she let the questions fade and drifted instead into her own recollections. “You are lucky to have your mother. Both of my parents have been gone for a while now.”

Dash nodded. “I am sorry.”