Page 36 of The Duke that I Lost

She lowered her gaze, a flicker of memory catching her off guard—Dash’s arm around Mr. Dog in the backseat of the carriage. His knee brushing hers. The sound of his voice laughing at something she'd said, his accent curling softly at the edges of every word.

A dull ache settled in her chest. Even the mention of a driver was enough to stir him to the surface.

“I see,” she murmured.

Mr. Burleson paused, perhaps sensing the shift in her demeanor. “Is something unclear, Mrs. Bloomington?”

“No,” she said quickly, but then she reconsidered. She pressed her gloved fingers to the edge of the folder, steadying herself. “Actually… I do have one more question.”

“Of course.” He leaned forward, adjusting his spectacles. “Anything at all.”

Ambrosia twisted the ring on her hand. “Would it be possible to purchase a different carriage?” she asked haltingly. “This one…”

Mr. Burleson tilted his head. “I rather think I understand. You are recently widowed, and the carriage must remind you of your deceased husband.”

Ambrosia had not thought of that.

“Well, um, yes. Are there enough funds to purchase a different one? We can sell this one, of course.”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Bloomington.” He smiled sympathetically. “And Mr. Daniels?”

“I’m fine with him. It’s just the carriage that I would like to be rid of.” Yes, she’d rather not be confronted with the memory of Dash Beckman—holding her comfortingly or making her laugh—every time she deigned to take a ride.

“It’ll be no trouble at all. I’ll take care of that today. Here is my card. Please, contact me if you think of anything else you require.”

“You’re certain the coach won’t be too great an expense?” she asked, still half-expecting the answer to change.

“Not in the least,” Mr. Burleson assured her with a genteel smile. “And should you have need of anything—anything at all—you’ve only to contact my office.”

Ambrosia nodded, murmured her thanks, and left the solicitor’s office feeling slightly unmoored. Everything was handled. Everything was in place.

It was… overwhelming.

Later that afternoon, she strolled through Hyde Park—just a short distance from Autumn House—and tried to remind herself to breathe. The spring air was soft against her cheeks, and the rustle of trees overhead offered a kind of whispered reassurance.

She had a beautiful home. A staff. Security. Her freedom.

Practically everything she’d ever hoped for.

No, it was everything she’d ever hoped for.

And yet… she felt hollow.

Lonely.

When she returned to Autumn House, her boots quiet against the stone steps, she was greeted at the door by Mr. Carrington.

“You have guests, ma’am,” he said, bowing.

Guests?

Her heart leapt—foolishly, painfully. Dash ?

She didn’t ask. She couldn’t bear to ask. Instead, she hurried to the drawing room, pushing open the door with far less composure than she intended.

It was not him.

Of course it was not him.

Carrington had said guests, plural.

Two elderly ladies sat primly side by side on the velvet settee, posture as straight as fence posts, dressed in colorful and elaborate silks. At Ambrosia’s sudden appearance in the doorway, they both brightened, rising in perfect unison.

Near the window stood two gentlemen—tall, imposing men, early thirties, perhaps, whose presence seemed to fill the small drawing room.

The sturdier-looking one had neatly trimmed brown hair, steady hazel eyes, and the unmistakable bearing of a man accustomed to command.

The other was a little taller still, slim and elegant, his black hair a striking contrast to the ice-blue of his eyes.

He favored his left leg ever so slightly as he stepped forward, the movement practiced enough to be almost unnoticeable.

Ambrosia hesitated on the threshold, hastily arranging her features into something polite—something gracious—despite her disappointment.

“I—” She caught herself, moving forward more slowly now. “Hello. I am Mrs. Ambrosia Bloomington.”

The shorter of the two ladies, a woman with curling red hair piled high in an elaborate coiffure, her blue eyes bright with mischief, stepped forward first. “We are neighbors. I’m Lady Zelda Balfour,” she said warmly, “and this is my dearest friend, the Viscountess of Longstaffe—Lady Longstaffe—and her nephew, Major Jeremiah Penvale, Viscount Longstaffe.” She gestured toward the hazel-eyed gentleman, who inclined his head with soldierly precision.

And then towards the cool eyed-gentleman.

“This is his oldest friend, Ashbourne Leigh, the Earl of Grimstead.”

“When we heard Autumn House was being opened again,” Lady Zelda added with a conspiratorial little smile, “we simply had to come and welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Ambrosia blinked. Two titled ladies. Two titled gentlemen. She dipped into an awkward curtsy, uncertain which direction to face first. “My Lady… my Lady…” She turned to the gentlemen. “My Lords. Welcome—and please, do sit down.”

“My, but aren’t you a lovely young woman,” Lady Longstaffe said, her gaze assessing but kind. “I must confess we expected someone older. Our condolences for the loss of your husband last year.”

“Did you know Mr. Bloomington?” Ambrosia asked before she could stop herself.

The two ladies exchanged a glance—brief, but meaningful. “A very, very long time ago,” Lady Zelda replied lightly. “Nearly forty years now, isn’t it?” She turned to Lady Longstaffe, who nodded in agreement.

As Ambrosia gestured them all toward the settee, she noticed the Earl—Lord Grimstead—looking around the room with a faint air of satisfaction, as though taking stock and approving of what he saw.

“I trust the staff is treating you well?” he asked conversationally, his tone light, but his eyes just a shade too intent.

“They’ve been wonderful,” Ambrosia said, genuinely pleased. “I’m lucky to have them.”

“Indeed,” Major Lord Longstaffe murmured.

She only smiled politely, missing the quick, knowing glance the two men exchanged before taking their seats.

Lady Zelda’s smile widened. “When we heard you were taking up residence, we wanted to be the first to welcome you—and to invite you to our ‘at home’ in two days’ time. It will be a small gathering, all very friendly. We do hope you’ll come.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Ambrosia answered. She hadn’t expected an invitation so soon…

“I do hope your journey was pleasant,” Lady Longstaffe added. “I always say that a journey without excitement is the best kind.”

Had her journey been pleasant?

It hadn’t lacked excitement, that was for certain. Images of muddy roads, broken wheels, Mr. Dog’s great escape, and Dash—her dear Mr. Beckman—flashed through her mind.

“Aside from a few… unfortunate mishaps,” Ambrosia said carefully, “it was most pleasant indeed.”

From his seat near the window, Lord Grimstead leaned forward, one dark brow arched. “Unfortunate mishaps can sometimes be the most… memorable parts of a journey.” His blue eyes swept over her in a way that felt both assessing and oddly intimate. “Is this your first visit to London?”

“Yes,” Ambrosia admitted, startled by the flicker of boldness in his gaze. “But it is more than a visit.”

Major Lord Longstaffe, seated beside his aunt, offered a quieter smile. “Then you must let us ensure that you feel quite welcome,” he said, his tone warm and unassuming, as if trying to balance Grimstead’s intensity.

They spoke for another thirty minutes, touching on polite topics—Hyde Park, the weather, the history of Autumn House. Ambrosia listened more than she talked, doing her best to appear the poised lady she imagined her guests expected to see.

At last, Lady Longstaffe set aside her teacup and rose, her movements graceful. “We have other visits to make today, my dear, but we shall look forward to seeing you on Thursday.” Lady Zelda stood with her, linking their arms in an easy familiarity.

Lord Longstaffe rose next, his height and breadth momentarily filling the room. He bowed over Ambrosia’s hand, holding her gaze just long enough to convey a quiet reassurance. “A pleasure, Mrs. Bloomington,” he said, and there was something protective in the softness of his voice.

Lord Grimstead limped forward last, his bow deeper but his smile carrying the faintest edge of mischief. “A pleasure indeed,” he murmured, his fingers lingering around hers just a heartbeat too long. “I suspect London will suit you.” His bold stare left her oddly flustered.

Not that he was unattractive—on the contrary, there was a striking elegance to him, all sharp lines and measured grace. But Ambrosia’s heart still bore the raw wound of Mr. Beckman’s betrayal.

Ambrosia stood in the doorway after they had gone, hearing Mr. Carrington escort them to the front. She had a home now. Funds. Neighbors who seemed inclined toward friendship. It was a future she might even have been able to imagine herself content in.

If only Dash Beckman had not come along to ruin it all for her.

Or… perhaps worse—if only he hadn’t made her believe, for one stolen night, that she could have something more.