Page 4 of The Duke that I Lost

AMbrOSIA’S NEW DRIVER

A n hour later, wrapped in a woolen coat and scarf, Ambrosia sat atop the driver’s bench, Mr. Beckman at her side, flicking the reins as they turned out of the rutted yard.

The sun had long since set, and the narrow road stretched out ahead under the pale wash of moonlight.

The hedgerows were little more than jagged silhouettes, the trees looming like ghostly guards on either side.

A few stars pricked the sky above them, and the quiet clip of the horses’ hooves echoed into the night.

Mr. Beckman had changed the wheel with no assistance whatsoever, and much to her irritation, Ambrosia had secretly marveled at the clever contraption he’d devised to do so.

Sitting on the only chair in the stables watching him, it had been impossible not to notice the way his muscles rippled beneath his waistcoat and rolled-up shirtsleeves. As anyone would have done.

A mistake though, clearly, as it had led to her current state, painfully aware of his presence at her side, all of her senses attuned to him, despite her best efforts.

She had been married, true enough, but her husband hadn’t been anything like Mr. Beckman.

As it stood, it felt as though lightning shot through her whenever his elbow so much as brushed against hers.

And when the wheels hit a rut or dipped into a hollow, jostling them close and pressing her thigh against his, her breath caught at the sensation.

This little adventure was proving far more dangerous than she’d bargained for—though not for the reasons she’d expected. She could only hope the next inn wasn’t far.

By the time the vehicle had been repaired, Mr. Daniels had passed out completely.

Mr. Beckman had said they could either leave him at the inn, in which case Ambrosia would be alone with this enigmatic stranger for the entirety of the remainder of her journey, or they could load Mr. Daniels into the coach.

Affronted at the mere suggestion, Ambrosia insisted they bring him along. She could not leave her driver behind. The idea was absurd! Besides, she’d prefer to have a witness along, in case Mr. Beckman’s character was not, in fact, upstanding.

But then came another choice. With Mr. Daniels loaded into the interior of the carriage like a rolled-up carpet—one that leaked drool and reeked of gin and sweat—Ambrosia could either travel inside with the inebriated driver or take her chances atop the box with Mr. Beckman.

Of course, he’d chuckled when she’d indicated she’d prefer the latter.

At least this way, Ambrosia reasoned, she could be certain he’d not take her in the wrong direction. It would be just her luck to have picked up some escaped prisoner or rogue highwayman and have him drive her to his hideout in the woods so that he could have his way with her.

The thought sent a confused shiver down her spine.

They had been on the road for nearly half an hour, and in an unexpected turn of events, Mr. Beckman had been unusually silent the entire time. He, who had carried on a one-sided conversation with his horse for nearly half an hour earlier, now sat with a set jaw and a distant stare.

He must be worried.

She glanced sideways at him, then took a breath. “He’s… quite large, isn’t he? Larger than most horses?”

That seemed to catch his attention. He turned to her slightly, his brow lifted, but then his expression cleared.

“ She ,” he corrected gently, “is a mare. And yes—Gwennie’s a Shire-cross.”

He looked away again, reins slack in his gloved hands.

“Oh,” Ambrosia said. “I see.” Even though she didn’t, really. “Do you think—? They won’t hurt her, will they? The person who stole her? It would be pointless to take her just to…” Ambrosia flinched at the inadvertent implication. She hadn’t meant to lead the conversation to such a morbid place.

“Oh, I doubt they got the chance to do anything with her,” he said, confident and with more than a hint of pride. “Gwennie’s not one to tolerate a strange rider on her back. No, I’m sure she bucked the blighter off first chance she got and is wandering the hillside as we speak.”

Well, that was somewhat of a relief at least. But still— “Will she be all right out there? I mean… sleeping out in the open. Without a barn? Or a stall?”

That brought another glance—this one longer.

“That depends,” he said after a pause. “If she feels safe. If it’s not too cold. She’ll find cover, most likely. She’s smart.”

“So she won’t… just keep walking?” Ambrosia asked. “Or get lost?”

He gave her yet another sidelong look.

“Horses don’t wander like housecats, Madame Bloomington,” he said dryly. “She knows the roads better than half the men I’ve employed.”

That silenced her—for a moment.

“Do they lie down to sleep? Like we do?”

He exhaled a soft laugh.

“Sometimes. But they can sleep standing up too. There’s a sort of… locking mechanism in their legs.”

She blinked. “Truly?”

“Truly,” he said, with a tone that clearly said, What sort of life have you led, woman?

“I never had the chance to learn much about them,” she murmured, and then added, “I’ve never even had a pet.”

“That’s a shame,” he said.

They fell into silence again for a while. But it was different now. Less brittle. More companionable.

“She’ll come back,” he said finally, almost to himself. “Horses are smarter than most humans. She knows how to find me.”

Ambrosia studied the way his hands rested on the reins. Strong. Tense. There was a kind of quiet grief in them—a stillness that made her chest tighten.

“Good,” she said softly. “I’m glad.”

He nodded, then slid his eyes sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching with something like reluctant curiosity.

“I would’ve pegged you for a country girl,” he said after a beat. “Were you raised in town, then?”

Ambrosia shook her head. “Oh no. I grew up in Somersetshire—Rockford Beach. Aside from a few brief visits to neighboring villages, I’ve hardly been anywhere else.”

He glanced over, brow arched. “Raised in the country, and yet you don’t know the first thing about horses?” There wasn’t cruelty in his tone, exactly—but there was incredulity.

She dropped her gaze to her lap. It wasn’t fair for him to sneer at something he knew nothing about. “It wasn’t up to me,” she all but whispered.

That drew a moment of silence.

Then: “So. Monsieur Bloomington wouldn’t allow pets, but he’s fine letting his wife traipse across England without a chaperone?”

“ Monsieur Bloomington is six feet underground,” she replied evenly.

“Ah.” He paused. “My condolences.”

“I would thank you, but they’re quite unnecessary.” Her tone was light—unburdened.

She kept her eyes forward, though she could feel him studying her.

“Forgive me, princesse ,” he finally said, “but you don’t exactly reek of sorrow. Is it possible that Monsieur Bloomington is... imaginaire ? An invention, perhaps—to lend a lady an air of respectability?”

Frowning, Ambrosia turned her head. “Do women really do that?”

“They do.”

“How strange.” She considered it a moment, then gave a small, unladylike snort. “Trust me, if I’d gone to the trouble of inventing a husband, I’d have made him far more agreeable than Harrison Bloomington.”

She didn’t add that he’d have more closely resembled someone like the man currently holding the reins—if only in the jawline and shoulders department.

He tilted his head. “So did you off him, then?”

He wasn’t laughing, not quite, but somehow he still managed to sound thoroughly amused, so casual that what he was asking nearly slipped right past her.

Such a question should have been shocking, insulting—the height of both, in fact—but Ambrosia couldn’t quite bring herself to take up any of those feelings, regardless of what emotions one should express in her situation.

“Of course I didn’t,” she said simply, straightening her back. Then added under her breath, “Not that I wasn’t tempted.”

His head turned sharply.

“Perhaps I am the one in danger,” he said, his eyes wide with mock alarm even as he grinned. “Am I safe beside you, princesse ? Or should I sleep with one eye open?”

Ambrosia clenched her teeth—and her thighs. Good Lord, what was wrong with her? She’d never been affected by a man’s voice before.

It had to be the accent. That soft French lilt should be illegal.

She glared at him. “I am not a murderess, Mr. Beckman.” Then, acting completely out of character, she shrugged and added, “Yet.”

This time his laughter echoed off the trees around them.

“We’ve a long drive ahead of us, my dear Madame Bloomington. You might as well tell me all about it. You are not wearing black, so his death cannot have been a recent tragedy.”

“I came out of half-mourning three days ago.” She had upheld full mourning for one year and one day, and then six months of dull greys.

She had fulfilled her duty.

Mr. Beckman raised his brows. “Ah… So you shed your widow’s weeds, packed up your worldly goods, and—don’t tell me—you shall be moving in with a distant aunt for the remainder of your days? Do you intend to act as her companion, then?”

Ambrosia’s hands curled into fists. “I most definitely am not about to become anybody’s poor relation.

I am a woman of independent means.” Her voice rang with conviction, perhaps a touch too loud for the quiet road.

“I’ve managed a household, I can balance accounts, and I’ve a place waiting for me in London. I intend to make a life for myself.”

There. She had said it. And it sounded perfectly reasonable. Even if her stomach twisted at the enormity of it all.

Mr. Beckman let out a low whistle. “Ah, an heiress. No doubt you’ll take the ton by storm—a beauty with spirit and coin. What could possibly go wrong?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re breaking one of the rules already.”

He glanced at her, brow lifted in mild amusement. “Which one?”

“You’re teasing me,” she said. “I said you weren’t allowed to do that.”