Page 3 of The Duke that I Lost

The boy shook his head. “I was in the back, helping with a delivery. I just assumed the barn was safe, like it always is… Usually.”

“ Usually ,” Mr. Beckman clenched out.

He turned in a frustrated circle, his boots scraping against the packed earth. “Do you have any horses to rent?”

The groom glanced helplessly toward the paddock. “These belong to the guests, sir. We’ve not a one to send out.”

Mr. Beckman closed his eyes, briefly pressing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose. Then he opened them and looked over at Ambrosia, tension radiating off him in waves.

“I suppose you find this amoosing ,” he said, his tone brittle.

She blinked at him, guilt prickling her chest. She had, in fact, found a flicker of satisfaction in the fact that he wouldn’t be riding off to claim the last room… but now?

Now she saw something else in his face—frustration, yes, but also… a desperate sort of worry.

She remembered the way he’d treated that mare. That horse hadn’t just been transportation. She’d been his companion.

“I do not,” Ambrosia said quietly. “Is it possible… there may have been some sort of mistake? That whoever took her might realize she is the wrong horse and… bring her back?” It wasn’t likely. But it was possible.

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked toward the stable door, where the last traces of golden light were fading from the yard.

Then, at last, “Not likely,” he muttered. “I’ll inform Mr. Neskers. But I… I don’t have time to wait.”

He cast another glance around the yard, then looked up at the rafters. “ Où es-tu, ma vieille fille ?” His voice was almost pained.

And then, reluctantly, he turned his attention toward her carriage. “I take it,” he said slowly, “you intend to travel to London in that contraption?”

She stiffened. “It is not for sale. And neither are my horses.”

That earned her a low, rueful laugh.

“Good. Because I’m not looking to make a purchase. How about a deal instead, princesse? I’ll repair your wheel in exchange for a ride to London.”

Ambrosia hesitated, her gaze shifting to the stable doors. Perhaps she could convince one of the stable lads to help…

She couldn’t simply promise a ride to a perfect stranger.

Could she?

“Daniels is in no condition to drive,” Ambrosia answered. “Even if you could fix the wheel.”

“I’ll do the driving tonight. Otherwise…” He cocked a brow. “Neither of us is going anywhere. Unless you wish to bed down in the hay with me. I suppose we could make that work.”

She turned sharply, ready to scold him, but stopped short. He was mocking her, yes, but his eyes still carried that flicker of loss, as if half his thoughts remained with the missing horse.

It made everything more complicated.

Still, she refused to let him speak so boldly to her. “Don’t be absurd,” she said coolly, lifting her chin.

And yet… what were her options?

She could bed down in the stables, curled on a damp pile of straw next to her snoring driver and the occasional rat.

The image was too horrifying to consider.

Even if she did wait until morning, she had no idea how long it would take to get the carriage repaired.

She couldn’t rely on Mr. Daniels for help, that was becoming quite apparent.

Which left Mr. Beckman—a man with no horse, no room, and no shame.

The kindness he had shown to his horse remained his only redeeming quality.

That and, unfortunately, his maddeningly impressive… physique.

It was all tremendously vexing.

She studied him again, this time making an effort to look past the thick lashes and devil’s smirk. “You aren’t a murderer, are you?”

“Who, me?” He glanced around the room, grinning that same foolish grin he’d sent her through the window. “Not that I know of.”

Reassuring.

Ambrosia turned to the broken wheel, as if sheer willpower might knit it back together.

Just then, a bitter wind sliced through the wide-open doors behind her, swirling around her ankles and lifting the edges of her shawl, reminding her—again—that spring had not yet arrived in England. The night would be long. And cold.

“So, what will it be, princesse ?” he asked, far too pleased with himself.

She exhaled. “Oh, very well. It’s going to have to be you, I suppose.”

Then she turned to face him fully, eyes narrowed.

“But if we’re to travel together, there will be conditions.”

He raised his eyebrows but then inclined his head, as if he were humoring a child. Something which Ambrosia had had more than enough of back at Rockford Beach.

Well, if he decided to push the issue, he would find that she was quite serious when she left him on the side of the road with nothing more than that silly hat of his and his useless pride.

“First, you must stop speaking to me as though I’m your favorite… barmaid. Try to show a modicum of decorum.”

She lifted a finger. “Second, no more winking. Or smirking.”

He looked positively delighted.

Which brought to mind her third caveat. “And for the love of England, stop laughing at me.”

Still grinning, though he appeared to make some small effort to suppress the expression, he nodded in agreement and then bowed. “Dash Beckman, at your service, princesse . And you are…?”

“Mrs. Ambrosia Bloomington.”

“Not a princesse?” He slid her a sideways glance which she, for some unknown reason, felt from the top of her head all the way down to her toes.

“Most assuredly not a princess,” she confirmed.