Page 40 of The Duke that I Lost

TWO WEEKS LATER

“I cannot simply walk to her door, eh? What do I say? ‘Bonjour, princesse . Remember me, The one who vanished without a word, so I could marry another woman who was in danger because of me? Voilà —I am free again. And also, surprise! I am a duke, not a mere mister. Pardon the little lie.’”

Three nights earlier, Dash, Beatrice, and Hawk had arrived in Mayfair together. Upon reaching the city, they’d gone their separate ways—he and his sister to Beckman House on Curzon Street, Hawk to Hawkins Place on Park Street.

Beatrice had wasted no time throwing Beckman House into a frenzy, determined to bring it up to snuff after years of doing little more than collecting dust. All the activity gave Dash the perfect excuse to get out, leaving him free to walk the short distance to Hawk’s townhouse—close enough for either of them to drop in unannounced.

Now, he sat in Hawk’s study, the scent of polished wood and expensive tea leaves filling the room.

Hawk, naturally, had a steaming cup in hand while Dash cradled a glass of brandy.

Tall bookshelves lined the walls, flanking a large window that overlooked Park Street, but the mantel was bare save for a single clock—and Hawk himself, leaning against it, enjoying the conversation far too much.

So far, Dash had kept his and Bea’s arrival quiet. Once word got out that the Duke of Dasborough and his sister were in London, the invitations would pour in. Whether they accepted them or not didn’t matter—their mere presence would be thrown to the gossips like fresh meat.

He’d told Ambrosia his name—his full name, no less—but not his title.

So she might make the connection, and better she hear it from him than from a stranger—or worse, read it in some bloody broadsheet, likely paired with news of the Duchess of Dasborough’s death.

The thought of her finding out that way curdled in his gut.

Dash scrubbed a hand down his face.

He needed to approach her carefully. Strategically. With the proper timing. The moment had to be perfect.

“Why not?” Hawk drawled, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “The facts aren’t going to change. If she loves you, she’ll get over it. Regardless, she can’t forgive you if you persist in sulking in corners like some moon-eyed poet.”

Dash lowered his hand and shot his friend a look. “I’m not sulking.”

“No? Then what do you call sitting here with me, drinking brandy, instead of knocking on her door?” Hawk gestured about the room, eyebrows lifted. “You could be halfway through your apology by now.”

“You make it sound so bloody simple.”

“It is bloody simple. You find the woman, tell her you were an arse, and then persuade her you’re not one anymore.” Hawk’s grin widened. “If you require assistance with the persuading, I’ve a few pointers.”

Dash snorted. “You forget, mon ami , I am well acquainted with your exploits. Do spare me the advice.”

“Then you forfeit the advantage.” Hawk raised his cup and took a slow, deliberate sip, the very picture of smug restraint.

Dash’s smile faded. “You say she is unmarried. But I must be certain she isn’t… otherwise engaged.” He dragged a hand across his jaw. A widow was free to choose her course; he had no claim. Yet the thought of her giving her smiles to another man—his chest tightened at it.

“I need to see her first,” he said quietly. “I need to see…” His words faltered. See if she was happy? If she had changed? If his traitorous heart would leap the instant she entered a room?

When he looked up, Hawk was watching him, hazel eyes marked with a complicated mixture—disappointment, yes, but also pity. He set his cup aside and reached for his hat.

“In that case, Your Grace .” He laced the honorific with just enough derision to turn it into an affectionate insult. “I’ve visits of my own to make, so I’ll leave you to polish this… exceedingly well-thought-out plan of yours.”

At the door, Hawk paused, hand resting on the knob.

His expression softened; the sharpness easing though his words did not.

“I’ve known you a long time, Dash. You’ve always had your pride, and you’ve been an arrogant bastard more than once.

But you are my friend—and I never thought I’d see the day you mistook cowardice for caution. ”

Hawk left without waiting for an answer.

Dash stared at the door long after it closed. His jaw tightened, the knot in his gut coiling tighter. He wasn’t a coward. By God, he wasn’t.

* * *

An hour later, dressed in rough clothes borrowed from Hawk’s gardener and with a cap pulled low over his brow, Dash made his way to Audley Street, where Ambrosia lived.

He knew the house well—he’d overseen the last-minute renovations before her arrival—but he didn’t walk up to the door. Instead, to avoid drawing attention, he crouched a few houses down, appearing for all the world to be occupied with No. 14’s garden.

He spent a couple of minutes pulling some stubborn weeds out of the otherwise riotously blooming flowerbed. “ Foutue racine.” Dirt packed under his nails as he gave it a final, vindictive wrench and tossed it aside, his gaze sliding—yet again—to her door.

Nothing. Not a flicker of movement.

This might be a bloody waste of time.

He abandoned the ruse with an explosive sigh, and pulled out his timepiece. Nearly half past four. If she meant to drive in the park today, she’d need to leave soon. And if she wasn’t going…

The faint, rhythmic clatter of wheels on cobblestones cut through his thoughts.

He stilled, head tilted, listening as the sound grew louder. A dark barouche came into view, the kind of vehicle a man chose when he had both money and taste. It drew to a smooth stop before the house numbered seventeen—Ambrosia’s house—and the passenger stepped down.

Tall, well turned out, his coat cut to perfection, the brim of his hat shadowing his face. The man moved toward the steps with practiced grace—until that grace broke, ever so slightly, into a familiar hitch.

The limp.

And then Carrington, Dash’s former butler, opened the door and greeted the visitor as though welcoming a regular guest. The man glanced up, and Dash’s stomach gave a sharp twist.

Grimm.

His friend? Perhaps not.

Dash rose from his crouch and drifted across the street, closing the distance by a house. When the door opened wider…

Dieu. He hadn’t imagined it. Not her beauty, not that indefinable magic that floated around her. Two years later and here he was—skulking like a common thief—and still she struck him with the same force as before… only sharper, as though time had honed the edge.

Her hair was swept up, gleaming in the afternoon light, and the gown she wore was cut in the latest fashion.

Then Grimm set his hand at the small of her back.

She turned to him, smiling.

Thunder roared in his ears, but he didn’t move, didn’t so much as breathe, until the barouche driver flicked the reins, and the horses shifted into motion.

Feeling like a ghost, Dash stepped forward onto the walk, eyes following the departing carriage. A flicker of movement drew his gaze—Carrington, standing in the doorway, meeting his eyes with the faintest, knowing salute.

Well, hell. So much for the gardener’s cap and dirt under his nails.

Still, he returned the next afternoon, taking up his post a few houses down. Nothing. Not so much as the twitch of a curtain.

The morning after, his patience was rewarded. She stepped out into the sunshine in a pale green day dress—the color tugged at memory, calling up the gown she’d worn that last evening they’d spent together.

This time, she was alone.

Or nearly. She held tight to a leading string while good old Mr. Dog waddled faithfully at her side, his gait as dignified as ever.

But Dash’s satisfaction at seeing her without company soured quickly.

What the devil was she doing strolling about Mayfair without a proper escort? If some footpads decided to make trouble, her “son” was hardly the sort to drive them off.

Grumbling under his breath, he kept to the shadows and followed at a measured distance.

Every so often her voice carried back to him as she greeted a passing neighbor—sweet, bright, almost songlike.

And each time the sound caught him off guard, his feet faltering on the pavement.

How many times had he heard that same voice in dreams, soft with laughter, calling his name?

She walked with a lightness that spoke of contentment, her step buoyant. It didn’t take long for him to guess her destination—Hyde Park.

The sight of her so carefree, wrapped in sunlight and unburdened by the past, pricked him. Who was he to shatter her peace? After what he’d done, he’d be lucky if she offered him so much as a civil word.

A sudden gust tore down the street, snatching the cap from his head and sending it skittering along the cobblestones. He hesitated, torn between chasing it down and walking away entirely. Would she recognize him from a distance?

In the end, he couldn’t let her out of his sight. He let the cap go, allowing some of his hair to fall forward, and continued on, keeping to the edges of the walk. Once she entered the park, it became easier—trees and hedgerows offered cover, and he could draw closer without fear of being noticed.

Additionally, she seemed quite intent upon Mr. Dog’s antics. The dog showed interest in nearly every bird he caught sight of, especially the ducks at the edge of the water. Occasionally he let out a low bark and was quickly chastised by his mistress.

From this closer distance, he could see the soft flush in her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes.

Memory hit him so hard he had to remember to breathe—the silk of her jaw beneath his mouth, the delicate shiver when he’d dragged his tongue along its curve, the taste of her welcome when she’d parted those lips.

He was so intent on her that the rest of the park might as well have vanished.

A mistake.

“Your Grace! Yoo-hoo! Dasborough, is that you?” A shrill voice rang out far too brightly for his liking.