Page 29 of The Duke that I Lost

For the next fifteen minutes, Mrs. Wooten helped her into the deliciously frivolous gown, adjusting the ribbons and smoothing the lace with care.

The fabric whispered as it fell into place, brushing against her legs like a lover’s touch.

Ambrosia gazed down at herself and, for the first time in years, felt not like a widow or someone’s burden—but like the girl she might’ve become, if she’d been given the chance.

“Let’s not wear your hair so tight, Mrs. Beckman,” Mrs. Wooten said, reaching up to loosen the strands at her temples. “It’s your crown, after all.”

She returned to the trunk and pulled out a small wreath of silk flowers—pale blush, soft lilac, a touch of green—and nestled it gently atop Ambrosia’s unbound curls.

“There now,” she said. “You look like spring itself.”

And, for once, Ambrosia almost believed it. “It’s too much.”

Ambrosia stepped back. The flowers looked like something a bride would wear, and she was only pretending.

“All the young ladies wear one at the fair. It’s tradition.

” Mrs. Wooten dismissed Ambrosia’s objections, adjusting the dainty flower headdress atop her head.

Without a mirror, Ambrosia could only sit and allow Mrs. Wooten to pin it on securely.

“Lovely. Ah, indeed, your Mr. Beckman will fall in love with you all over again.”

Ambrosia blinked away the stinging sensation at the back of her eyes.

The memory of her own mother came to mind.

Before Mr. Bloomington’s coach had arrived at their house to take them to her own wedding, Ambrosia’s mother had fussed at her hair just like this.

She’d even collected a few flowers from her own garden so that Ambrosia would have a bouquet.

Her mother had wanted the best for her. It wasn’t her fault…

And now, by a lucky twist of fate, and Harrison’s mistake, Ambrosia was going to have the opportunity to live a life she never could have imagined. In London, of all places! But that morning, the morning of her wedding, had been the last day of her innocence.

She’d carried the small bouquet to Mr. Bloomington’s house, mouthed her vows, to love, honor, and cherish a man who’d had no consideration for her own feelings. It had not been a wedding, in truth. It had been more of a business transaction—or a sentencing more like, with her as the inmate.

And the crime? Well, that she’d never quite understood.

Oh, but this was not a wedding either, not even a pretend one. It was only a festival.

She couldn’t very well remove the flowers from her hair now that they were already pinned in, so she merely rose to her feet again and smoothed down the lovely gown. “Thank you, Mrs. Wooten.”

She would enjoy the gown and the festival with all its food and dancing. She would enjoy pretending to be married to Mr. Beckman, a man who was very close to stealing her heart.

She would enjoy the romance if there was any to be had.

But when she stepped into the kitchen, a nervous flutter stirred in her chest. She smoothed her skirt, trying to steady herself—just as Dash looked up.

In an instant, the air shifted. His stormy eyes darkened, arresting her in place. That was no mere courtesy in his gaze, but hunger—raw, unguarded.

Ambrosia flushed hotly, heat climbing her throat.

She continued smoothing her skirt with restless hands, flustered beneath the weight of his stare.

“Isn’t she lovely, Mr. Beckman? What luck that it happened to fit her so well, wouldn’t you say?

Oh, have you loaded my jams already? Marvelous, thank you.

I do hope this weather holds. Don’t forget your shawl, now, Mrs. Beckman,” Mrs. Wooten added as she handed Ambrosia a white knitted wrap that complemented the gown.

“You won’t want to be catching a chill, now.

Although I’m sure your Mr. Beckman would be more than happy to keep you warm.

” Donning her own wrap, she tittered at the two of them, and then swept out of the kitchen to where an old farmer’s horse cart had been pulled up to the door.

“You surprise me,” Dash murmured near her ear, his breath warm against her skin. His gaze lingered, intense, until the corner of his mouth softened. “And she is right, you know. You are… magnifique. Belle .”

The burning in his eyes eased as he looked at her—then brightened, and with a quiet grace, he offered her his arm.

“Mrs. Wooten insisted,” Ambrosia said quickly, taking it. “I couldn’t very well?—”

She faltered, self-conscious. The gown, so whimsical and light in the bedroom, now felt far too fine for the rustic kitchen and the faint scent of woodsmoke.

“It’s perfect,” he said, cutting through her misgivings.

He released her arm, drawing back, and his gaze swept the length of her—slowly.

“Mon dieu,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “What are you trying to do to me?”

Ambrosia blinked, throat dry. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Should I change out of it? I didn’t mean to— I don’t want to draw attention?—”

“Don’t you dare,” he growled.

She tried to laugh. “You’re certain? I can put on something simpler?—”

“If you keep talking like that, we won’t make it to the festival. I’ll take you upstairs instead.”

Ambrosia froze. “Pardon?”

His grin was slow. Dangerous. But he offered her his arm again with the utmost civility, as if he hadn’t just undone her with a single sentence.

Ambrosia narrowed her eyes and frowned.

With a shake of his head, the twinkle returned to Dash’s eyes. He extended his arm once more.

“Shall we, Madame Beckman?”

Ambrosia hesitated for just a moment, then took a steadying breath and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She would pretend—as best she could—that this was all a game. Just a bit of fun.

She lifted the hem of her borrowed gown and allowed him to guide her out the door and down the three stone steps. The evening air was crisp, but the sky was clear now—the clouds from earlier lingering low to the south.

Mrs. Wooten stood near the little cart, arms crossed over her ample bosom as she appraised them with a smile. “You ride up front with Mr. Beckman,” she said briskly. “I’ll perch in the back. Don’t you worry about me.”

Ambrosia shook her head. “Absolutely not,” she said, already moving toward the rear of the cart. “I won’t take the comfortable seat while you bounce around back. It wouldn’t be right.”

She glanced toward Dash. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Beckman?”

His eyes caught hers, mischief and warmth passing between them, and the curve of his mouth was answer enough. And before she could form a single protest, his hands were already at her waist.

The breath caught in her throat.

Without effort, he lifted her—effortlessly, as though she weighed nothing at all—and placed her gently onto the flat wooden bed of the cart.

But he didn’t let go right away. His hands lingered, fingers pressing through the layers of her borrowed gown.

He looked up at her, his gaze searing—intense, unresolved.

As though caught between a plea and a warning.

As though he was memorizing her. Wanting. Warring. Needing.

Saying nothing—yet everything.

And when he finally did release her, Ambrosia’s head was spinning.

Even after Mrs. Wooten was helped onto the front bench and settled beside him, Ambrosia’s skin still tingled from his touch.

Dash climbed up last, took the reins in hand, and with a light flick and a call of “Hi-ya!” the cart creaked into motion.

Ambrosia sat there on the back, facing the road they’d come from, her legs swinging above the dirt and grass passing swiftly below.

But her mind wasn’t on the scenery. It wasn’t even on the festival ahead.

All she could think about was the feel of his hands at her waist. The way he’d looked at her, as if… as if he might never want to let go.

She wasn’t sure she wanted him to.

Ambrosia had been so deep in her thoughts that when the carriage at last rattled into the village, she glanced up in surprise.

Lanterns glowed above her, strung with bright ribbons that swayed in the evening breeze, while tents lined both sides of the road in cheerful array.

Dash guided their cart toward the others, where stable lads darted forward, eager to seize the reins and earn a few coins.

Before Ambrosia could climb off on her own, Dash came around.

“Stay,” he ordered as he handed Mrs. Wooten’s jams off to her husband. Once that was finished, he turned back to where Ambrosia still sat. “Now, Madame Beckman.”

His hands landed on her waist and she instinctively gripped his shoulders.

He easily lifted her off the wooden cart and down to the ground, less than an inch between the two of them.

Ambrosia didn’t step back but moved her hands closer to his neck, as though touching him was the most natural thing in the world.

“You newlyweds!” Mrs. Wooten laughed, jolting Ambrosia from her trance-like state. “You’ll have plenty of time for that later, don’t you worry. Come now. Let me introduce you to a few of our dearest friends. It isn’t often we have visitors, you know.”

Dash exhaled, unmoving for a beat, then exhaled a short, rueful laugh—resigned, as she was. Together they followed their hostess up and down the rows of vendors, pausing at nearly every stall to meet what felt like the entire population within five miles of Joseph’s Well.