Page 28 of The Duke that I Lost

THE FESTIVAL

A mbrosia was torn between enjoying Mrs. Wooten’s company and feeling guilty over the lie she and Dash were perpetuating.

In the end, she didn’t really have to worry one way or the other as it took all her concentration to keep up with the woman’s ongoing conversation…

about the weather, about the festival they must all attend together that evening, and how she was certain her jam would win the contest this year because, although a Mrs. Flanders had won last year, that had been only “—because one of the judges carried a torch for that hussy!”

“Mrs. Wooten, ma’am?” Dash peeked into the kitchen, interrupting what was sure to be a long and detailed rant.

“Mr. Wooten is taking our driver into the village. He said you would show me the horse cart and that I could drive you two ladies in for the festival and meet him there?” He stood in the doorway holding Ambrosia’s valise and his own pack, looking dusty and…

yes, as Mrs. Wooten had noted… incredibly handsome.

“Oh, where are my manners? Of course, come in, Mr. Beckman. Right this way, both of you. I haven’t even given your poor wife a chance to clean up yet, I’ve been talking her ear off over tea.

” She paused. “Do you care for some tea, Mr. Beckman?” But when she went to turn back to the stove, he halted her.

“Later, perhaps.”

And then she laughed at herself and led them up a small staircase and into an attic room.

“I wish we had a grand chamber to put you both up, but you being newlyweds, I don’t imagine it matters much to either of you.

” She winked. “I’ll bring up some water but if you need more, you can always collect some from out back.

You can use this pitcher and wash bowl. Here’s a few towels, and you both just let me know if you need another quilt.

It may say April on the calendar, but it still feels like winter around here, at night especially. ”

Mr. Beckman grinned at Ambrosia and she couldn’t help but grin back. It was a wonder Mrs. Wooten got a breath in between sentences. Ambrosia had never known a person to talk so much, not even Winifred, and that was saying a lot.

After clucking at herself and pulling open the curtains at one end of the room, their hostess remembered she needed to finish packing up her jam and excused herself.

“Come down when you’re ready. Of course, Mr. Beckman, if you’d like that tea, you just holler and I’ll put the water back on for you. ”

And then she was gone.

“Comfortable lodgings, my lovely new wife. It is, I think, my lucky day.” He chuckled softly as he brushed the dust from his coat.

“What are we going to do?” Ambrosia bit her lip after a quick glance at the bed. She realized they’d slept beside one another on the ground two nights before, and yet the sight of only one bed, in one room, and his belongings right next to hers… “What if they find out? Mr. Daniels?—”

“Won’t say a word.” He answered her question.

Ambrosia walked over to the bed and smoothed the counterpane. “I understand why. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Wooten would think if she knew the truth—that I was traveling alone with a single gentleman. Even if I am a wid?—”

“Here’s that water for you!” Mrs. Wooten announced her presence at the bottom of the stairs.

Dash descended so that she wouldn’t have to carry it all the way up while Ambrosia tried to make sense of the situation she’d unwittingly placed herself into.

She was a widow, true, but it was possible that if some notable person in London got wind of her traveling arrangements, her dream of hosting readings and salons might be ruined before she even arrived there.

Scandal traveled as though on the wind. Even in Rockford Beach, they’d heard of the most hair-raising scandals that took place in London.

She listened as the door at the bottom of the stairs closed and Dash returned.

“I’ll make friends with the floor, princesse. You needn’t worry.” He placed the pitcher gently beside the washbasin, but when he turned around, his eyes found hers—and burned. “Despite what I told you earlier.”

I wanted nothing more than to keep kissing you—to taste every inch of your skin… and then bury myself deep inside you.

Ambrosia felt it like a lightning strike to the chest.

Her skin prickled. Her breath stuttered.

The air between them seemed to shimmer with the impossibility of all the… possibilities.

She swallowed hard.

He saw it—her flinch, her awareness—and took a single step forward before halting himself.

Then his tone shifted, softened.

“You are perfectly safe with me. Je te jure .” I swear. His voice was low, gentle, almost tender now. “You trust me, non ?”

Of course she trusted him. It was herself she doubted. From the very moment she first caught sight of this man, she’d acted out of character.

“So we simply…. pretend to be man and wife?” She stared up at him, imagining all the things that such playacting might entail.

It shouldn’t entail much—except for the fact that she’d gone and announced that they were newlyweds.

“It will not be so very difficult, will it?” He tilted his head in question. “To pretend we are wed?” A gravelly tone caught at his voice.

It wouldn’t be difficult at all. No, unfortunately, she’d imagined it too many times already. That was the problem!

But, realistically, what other options did they have? Sleeping outside again? “Will it rain, do you think? On this festival we are to attend?” She turned away as she asked.

She could feel the silence stretch, just long enough to make her skin prickle. He was watching her, she knew. Reading her.

“It might,” he said at last, his voice low. “But I think it will hold off.”

Still, he didn’t move. She could feel the weight of him there, in the breath she held tight in her lungs.

“I’ll take Mrs. Wooten up on her offer of tea while you freshen up,” he added a second later, the sound of his departing footsteps soft on the floorboards.

Only once his footsteps had faded down the stairs did she dare to move. But even with him gone, he hadn’t truly left her. His presence lingered in the room—like the aftershock of a lightning strike.

Her hand drifted to her lower belly, pressing there as if she could soothe the ache coiled deep inside. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t nerves.

It was hunger.

An aching pulse that throbbed low and steady, reminding her of all the places his hands hadn’t touched. Her breasts felt too heavy, her skin too sensitive.

She inhaled to steady herself, but it didn’t help.

His scent hung faintly in the air—earthy, leather and spice, along with the echo of his voice in that low, accented murmur that made her knees go weak.

God help her.

She shouldn’t feel this way. Not about a man she barely knew. Not like this.

But her body did not care what she ought or ought not to feel. It clung stubbornly to this… yearning.

Even in his absence it lingered, a silent, burning want she could not will away.

She busied herself brushing at her gown with unsteady hands, as though neat pleats might restore order to her thoughts. It was in this state that Mrs. Wooten bustled back into the room, wiping her hands on her apron.

“That man of yours is right handy, I’ll say that much,” Mrs. Wooten declared with a brisk nod. “Took his tea with thanks, but then went and noticed my woodpile was low—insisted on bringing in a fresh stack from out back before I could say a word about it. Got me to thinking…”

She shuffled across the room. “If you’ve been coming all the way from Rockford, I imagine you’ve worn that frock a time or two by now.”

She bent at the knees, lifting the lid of an old, weathered trunk, its hinges creaking like a memory. “Now, it’s not new, mind,” she said, reaching in, “but it’s still got some magic left in it, I think.”

Magic.

When she stood again, something shimmered.

A gown. It was a soft spruce green—like moss in shadow—with a lace overlay that rippled like mist. Tiny vines and curling tendrils had been embroidered along the bodice and hem in silver thread.

The neckline was a modest but feminine scoop, and the sleeves were sheer, lightly puffed, gathered above the elbow with a silk tie.

Ambrosia’s breath caught.

She hadn’t worn anything so pretty since the start of mourning. No. Longer than that.

Not since she’d become someone else's shadow. Since she’d been a woman who no longer belonged to herself.

Now, a dress like this—soft, fanciful, unnecessary—looked like the most indulgent thing in the world.

“You need to wear this. Being a new bride and all…”

“I can’t. It isn’t necessary—” she began, shaking her head, because she wasn’t really a newlywed.

“I know it’s not,” Mrs. Wooten said with a knowing smile, “but you ought to wear something he hasn’t seen you in yet.

” She winked. “The festival’s not only for the children, after all.

I’ve the fondest memories of it, back when Bart and I were courting.

” Her eyes softened with nostalgia. “There’ll be tasting booths, and dancing, and vendors from every village between here and Salisbury.

If I were new bride, I’d want to look special for my husband. ”

She gave the dress a pat and laid it across the bed.

Ambrosia stared at it for a long moment. It was nothing like anything she'd worn before—not severe, not practical, not dictated by grief or duty. It was frivolous. Joyful.

And that was what made her want it.

“I love it,” she said softly. Then, hesitating, “Are you certain? I’d feel dreadful if anything happened to it. What if it gets soiled?”

“Then we wash it,” Mrs. Wooten said with a shrug. “It’s settled, then. Now—here’s some lavender. We’ll freshen it up a bit…”