Page 27 of The Duke that I Lost

When he reached for her, pulling her into his arms, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. This was where she belonged. She didn’t understand what awaited him in London, but she was no longer angry with him. Whatever it was, he had no control over it.

She placed her hands atop his, and he moved so that their fingers entwined. He seemed to need this comfort as much as she did.

Neither of them said much of anything for the next few hours. This silence wasn’t filled with tension, however; it seemed he’d released all of that for both of them. This silence was peaceful, almost, in an odd sort of way.

Nothing more could be said, really, to change anything, and yet there were no misunderstandings between them.

The crack came like a gunshot.

A sudden jolt—violent, unforgiving—pitched the carriage sideways.

Ambrosia cried out as her shoulder slammed into the window frame, the force knocking the breath from her chest. She would have tumbled from the bench entirely had Dash not caught her in time, one strong arm banding around her waist and yanking her hard against him.

The shock of his hold stole what little breath she had left, his strength and warmth searing through the chaos.

Mr. Dog yelped from the floor, skidding helplessly against the wall at her feet.

The carriage groaned, shuddered, then lurched to a bone-jarring halt.

When the chaos stilled, the floor remained slanted, the entire left side sagging heavily toward the earth.

Her pulse thundered, and she became acutely aware of how firmly she was pressed to Dash’s chest, of the rise and fall of his breath against her cheek.

For one wild instant she did not move, did not want to move, but remained caught in the cocoon of his strength.

Only when Mr. Dog scrambled into her lap did the spell break.

Above them came Mr. Daniels’s voice, sharp and unmistakably profane.

“What happened?” Her voice sounded higher-pitched than usual.

Dash’s hand tightened around hers. “Easy, princesse,” he said under his breath, his voice rough. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, though she could not be certain—her teeth were still rattling in her skull.

With a grimace, he carefully released her, then shoved the door open and stepped out before turning back to help her down. As she shifted to rise, Mr. Dog clamped his little paws around her arm, clutching so tightly she felt his claws through her sleeve. Poor creature—he must have been terrified.

Tucking him against her chest with one hand, she accepted Dash’s arm with the other and stepped cautiously from the tilted carriage. Her boots sank into the soft, uneven turf, and she stumbled before regaining her balance.

Mr. Daniels’ curse-laden tirade drifted from the front of the carriage, clearer now.

“Cracked clean through the bloody hub this time! Splintered like firewood. Nearest village is back the way we came, and a good hour’s walk, at least. I told you we should’ve stayed on the main road, but nooo —the widow needed to see a bloody circle of rocks?—”

Ambrosia winced, setting Mr. Dog down on the ground and tying his leading string once again around his neck, looping it behind his front legs for good measure after Dash’s story about him running off the night before.

Dash was rubbing the back of his neck, looking every bit the man caught between a rock and a very inconvenient place.

This road had seemed less traveled. She couldn’t remember the last time they’d seen another vehicle.

Ambrosia stretched and glanced around at their surroundings.

At some point while they’d been traveling, clouds had gathered and now hovered low in the sky, though they didn’t look quite dark enough to threaten something like a thunderstorm—not yet, anyway.

Smoke rose from the chimney of a farmhouse that wasn’t far off, and she felt encouraged to see two people approaching.

“Hello!” She waved across the field.

At her call, Mr. Daniels and Mr. Beckman caught sight of the farmers as well, a man and a woman who were lumbering toward them. The woman was waving.

“Heard that wheel snap clear up by the house,” called the man. He was dressed in work clothing, his weathered face making it difficult to tell his age, which Ambrosia guessed could be anywhere between forty and sixty.

A heavyset woman wearing an apron followed him at a slower pace. Ambrosia guessed the couple didn’t get many visitors, situated in such an isolated location.

“Halloo!” the short, ungainly woman waved again, appearing even more cheerful than the farmer. “Welcome!”

“I’m Bart Wooten.” The man extended his hand to Dash and then to Mr. Daniels. “And this here is the missus.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir, ma’am.” This from Dash. Mr. Daniels shook the farmer’s hand grudgingly. “We’ve run into a bit of trouble, as I’m sure you’ve guessed.”

The farmer stepped back to inspect the wheel, all the while chewing on a piece of straw. “That you have indeed. That you have. It looks like you’re gonna need a new one, too. No repairing something far gone as all that.”

Ambrosia peered around at it herself. The wheel didn’t even look like a wheel at this point.

“Not to worry,” Mrs. Wooten spoke up. “My husband can give your driver a lift into Joseph’s Well to find a replacement.”

“Joseph’s Well?” Ambrosia asked.

Mrs. Wooten laughed. “It’s what we call our little village. It’s not much. We have a church, a mercantile, and of course, a tap room.”

“If anyone can help you get that coach rolling again, it will be Mr. Finch. He owns the mill. We’ll have to track him down, though,” Mr. Wooten added.

“And if we can’t get on the road again today? There is an inn?” Ambrosia asked.

Although their night outside hadn’t been nearly as uncomfortable as she would have imagined, she didn’t relish the notion of sleeping outside again, especially if it could rain.

“No inn for miles.” But the woman smiled. “Not to worry, dear. Mr. Wooten and I have an extra room for you and your husband, don’t we, Bart?”

Husband? Ambrosia’s heart tripped up at the thought, her mind going first to Harrison, dead and buried back in Rockford Beach, before she realized that they must have been referring to Dash.

“We sure do. Good thing too, I doubt you’ll be able to get on the road until tomorrow at the earliest, especially with the festival going on.”

“Oh, but—” Ambrosia began.

“I’m Dash Beckman, and my princesse, my missus. She is Ambrosia. We appreciate your hospitality.” Dash placed one arm around her waist, speaking over her attempt to correct their assumption. “Don’t we, princesse ?”

Ambrosia glanced over to where Mr. Daniels was grousing about the wheel, oblivious to their conversation, and then back to Mrs. Wooten. Of course, this provincial couple wouldn’t be nearly as hospitable to a woman traveling alone with a gentleman who was not her husband, brother, or father.

“Er, yes. Thank you.”

“Why don’t you collect your valise, dearie, and come up for a spot of tea while our gents fiddle with the carriage. And bring your darling little dog along too.”

Ambrosia stepped out of Dash’s hold with a questioning glance over her shoulder.

“I’ll bring our belongings, princesse . You go have tea. Mr. Dog will be wanting a drink as well, I imagine.”

“You are sure?” she asked Mrs. Wooten, her gaze drifting toward the squat stone cottage nestled beyond the hedgerow. It sat quietly in the distance, small on the horizon, the late sun gilding its windows.

“Oh yes, just through the grass here,” the woman replied, gesturing ahead with a warm smile. “Not far at all.”

Behind them, Dash remained by the carriage, arms folded, his expression unreadable. The wheel lay in the dirt, appearing as little more than a pile of scrap wood, a casualty of the rutted road.

Ambrosia cleared her throat and tugged gently on Mr. Dog’s leading string. “Come along, Mr. Dog.”

They started forward at a gentle pace, the tall grass whispering against her skirts. Mrs. Wooten walked beside her, both of them adjusting their stride to match the short-legged gait of the dachshund, who paused every few steps to investigate some invisible excitement in the grass.

“I’m always happy to have a bit of company,” the older woman said brightly. “My niece and her husband visited last spring—such a sweet pair. No children yet, but they’ve only just started. What about the two of you? Any young’uns?”

Ambrosia hesitated, then raised her voice just enough to carry back across the field. “Mr. Beckman and I haven’t any children either. We’re only recently married.”

She felt, rather than saw, the shift in Dash’s attention behind her. Let him hear it.

“Is that so?” Mrs. Wooten beamed. “Newlyweds!”

Ambrosia nodded, warmth rising in her cheeks. Had she imagined this scenario?

“Just over a week ago. We wed in the church where I was christened—St. Mark’s in Rockford Beach.

The pews were filled with family, flowers everywhere…

” Her voice softened, painting this dream.

“Afterward, my mother hosted a wedding breakfast in the town assembly hall. There was music, sugared cakes, and everyone danced until the candles burned low.”

It wasn’t true, of course. Not the flowers or the music or the dancing. Her real wedding had been stiff and silent, her mother in black, the parlor airless with dread.

Beside her, Mr. Dog gave a happy bark, sniffing at a butterfly. The cottage was close enough now that she could smell bread baking.

“I will come to you soon, ma chère ! Try not to miss me too much.”

Ambrosia turned just enough to catch his gaze over her shoulder. He stood there, tousled and…precious, a grin dancing on those lips…

She gave him a little wave. Nothing grand. Just enough.

Mrs. Wooten sighed. “Your fellow reminds me of Mr. Wooten, back in the day. They’re always more romantic in the beginning, when everything is fresh and exciting. You enjoy it while you can, darling.”

Ambrosia laughed politely, but her heart ached.

She had never played the part of beloved before.

Never been someone’s “love,” even in jest. She’d thought she had accepted that Mr. Beckman couldn’t give her anything more once their journey to London was through, but now—even acting as though they were husband and wife, she wasn’t sure how she’d ever let this go.

“Isn’t he handsome, though?” Mrs. Wooten chuckled. “Ah, to be young again.”