Page 41 of The Duke that I Lost

His head snapped around, eyes searching for cover—a bench, a tree, a hole in the ground. Anything.

Nom de Dieu. Not today .

If he turned his back quickly enough, kept his face down, perhaps?—

No such luck. The two ladies who’d spotted him bore down with determined cheer.

“Oh! And Mrs. Bloomington!” one of them cried, as if the entire scene required just that final catastrophe.

“Hello!” Ambrosia’s voice carried over the path, bright and clear—and aimed, God help him, in their direction. Mr. Dog, the loyal little traitor, gave a sharp tug on the lead and strained toward Dash as though he’d just spotted a long-lost friend.

He could still turn and walk away. Fade into the crowd, pretend he hadn’t heard, hadn’t seen. But Hawk’s words about cowardice whispered in his ear, needling him.

So Dash squared his shoulders and prepared to weather the storm.

And then raised a hand in Lady Longstaffe’s direction, crossing the path toward the small cluster of women.

Lady Zelda was already in the midst of conversation with Ambrosia… who had gone utterly still, her gaze locked on him as if she were staring at an apparition. All trace of warmth had drained from her face, leaving her expression stiff, her cheeks pale.

“What a lovely surprise,” Lady Zelda cooed, extending her hand for him to bow over. “Martha, I had not heard Dasborough was in town, had you?” She turned her shrewd gaze between Dash and Ambrosia. “Of course, no introduction is necessary for the two of you. Oh, isn’t this delightful?”

Ambrosia didn’t move. Mr. Dog had no such restraint, leaping up at Dash’s legs, tail wagging furiously.

“My condolences on the loss of your wife, Your Grace,” Lady Longstaffe offered, her tone far less effusive than her companion’s.

Ambrosia’s head turned sharply.

“Did you call him Your Grace ?” She blinked, then snapped back to Dash, the smallest tremor in her voice betraying her composure. “But you are…Mr. Beckman.”

She spoke his name, and in the sound of it he heard disbelief, hurt, accusation—the words weighted as though they demanded he answer for the last two years.

Dash crouched to one knee, letting Mr. Dog’s solid weight and warm fur give him a moment to steady himself. He rubbed the reddish-brown coat, fingers working the familiar folds of skin at the dog’s neck. Then, slowly, he looked up at her, meeting her eyes without flinching.

“Hello, princesse.”

All the years between them felt vast as the sea, yet it was his betrayal that cracked like thunder in the air between them.

Upon hearing the familiar endearment he’d called her, she snapped out of her stunned state.

“Lancelot, come here. Now.” She spoke harshly at the dog.

The poor thing looked quite confused but did her bidding.

Choosing to ignore Dash, Ambrosia turned to the two elderly ladies who had created this debacle.

“I’d love to chat longer, but I’m in a dreadful hurry.

I have… I’m late for an appointment. I’m so sorry… ”

She didn’t wait for a reply and in a swirl of skirts, she spun on her heel and strode back the way she’d come, Mr. Dog’s short legs trotting at her side as he cast confused glances over his shoulder.

She’d called him Lancelot . In honor of his Guinevere, perhaps?

The thought was ridiculous… and yet it raised the faintest spark of hope.

Lady Zelda and Lady Longstaffe stared after her, mouths slightly agape.

“What just happened?” Lady Zelda demanded.

Lady Longstaffe’s eyes narrowed on Dash with the piercing authority of a formidable aunt.

“You are acquainted with Mrs. Bloomington, I hope. Because, if I’m not mistaken, it was you who asked us to befriend her, was it not?

” Her gaze swept down him with undisguised censure.

“And why, pray, are you dressed in that manner?”

He didn’t have time for this. Not now.

“I’m not officially in London yet,” he said, already angling away, his tone politely urgent. “Please—I’d be grateful if you could keep this to yourselves. I’ll call on you both and explain everything later, but for now…”

He tipped his head in thanks and turned, striding away before they could object.

By the time he reached the street corner, his stride had turned into a run. At first, he thought she might have returned home, but a glance down both sides of the street told him otherwise—she was gone.

Even moving quickly, she couldn’t have vanished entirely. He scanned the row of tidy houses, then spotted the narrow path disappearing into a grove of trees.

She must have gone that way.

And so he followed, his pulse hammering in his ears. He’d wanted to approach her carefully, to explain everything in measured words, so she could see he wasn’t the cold, faithless bastard he must seem at this moment.

But now?—

In the space of a single encounter, his identity had been laid bare. And not just his title—the fact that he’d been married.

A bead of sweat slid down his temple, another down his spine, though the afternoon sun wasn’t to blame.

Once he stepped beneath the dense canopy of trees, the park grew quieter, the bright hum of the street falling away. He slowed, listening.

From somewhere beyond a wide-branching evergreen came the muffled sound of sobs.

His heart dropped, suddenly terribly certain that he’d found her.

Dash moved off the path to peer behind the tree and stopped short.

The woman he had trailed earlier was gone. In her place stood his broken princesse —her face hidden in her hands, her brow pressed to the rough bark of a great oak, her shoulders trembling with the force of her grief.

The sight struck him harder than any blow ever had. He had done this. He had reduced her to this.

“Ambrosia,” he said softly. He would have given anything to comfort her, take her into his arms, to feel her lean against him the way she once had. But he couldn’t. She wouldn’t. To her now, he was no longer the man she had trusted, but a stranger. Worse still, a bitter memory.

He had known this would be hard, but he had not reckoned on this—evidence of her grief. Whatever weapons he possessed—wit, charm, bravado—they felt suddenly small in the face of such sorrow. The task before him stretched larger, darker, than he had let himself believe.

Impossible, even.

Before he could find another word, she whirled around, her eyes bright with fury and tears.

“Stay away from me!”

Dash stayed rooted to the spot, afraid that if he took even one step closer she might bolt.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said in a cautious voice. “I needed to tell you… things.”

She shook her head, hard. “You are a bloody duke ? You did not think to tell me that? And you were married ?” Her voice caught, edged with disbelief. “Why are you here? Were you… following me? And why… why now?

Her pain cut sharper than any blade.

“Do you not know how hard it has been for me to forget you?” she went on, tears streaking her cheeks. “Do you not realize how difficult it has been for me to move on with my life?”

The sight wrenched at him.

He wished he’d actually prepared for this moment, rehearsed or—or something . Maybe if he had, he’d be ready now with the words that might keep her from hating him, instead of floundering like a useless cad.

All that time spent stalling, and he had nothing to show for it.

His mind churned, scrambling for anything he could say that wouldn’t make this worse.

He drew a slow breath. “I wanted to come and talk with you,” he said at last. “But not like this. I didn’t want to hurt you—not any more than I already have. I simply wanted to… see you.”

Her eyes widened, sharp with disbelief. “Have you been watching me? For how long?”

Dash hesitated. That was not the part of that he’d wanted her to latch onto. “Please, princesse , just listen to me.”

He stepped forward, and she moved to skirt past him—a quick, controlled sidestep that spoke of a woman more self-possessed than the girl he’d known.

But when he caught her shoulders, she stiffened, the poise breaking beneath the strain.

He’d wanted to touch her again for so long, but not like this. Never like this.

“Don’t call me that!” Her voice caught on the words, the sob she tried to swallow betraying her composure. “You promised you wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye! You promised me. And then after… after—” Her lip wobbled, and she turned from him. “Let go of me!”

She didn’t have the strength to push him away, though she tried, her trembling making him ache with guilt.

Still, he didn’t release her. Not yet. For all his easy charm, when Dash set his mind to something, he got it—and right now, that meant keeping her here long enough to listen.

“Please. Just listen to me.” His gaze held hers, searching, beseeching. “Please, Ambrosia, just let me explain.”

But as he watched, her eyes hardened, even as tears continued to trail down her pale face. “Two years,” she grit out, her chin jutting defiantly forward. “It’s a little late for your explanations, don’t you think? You have to let me go. If I ever meant anything to you, please—just let me go now.”

What in God’s name was he doing? His hands tightened gently on her shoulders, not to restrain, but to ground her, to will her into understanding what words couldn’t yet reach.

“I’ll let you go… for now,” he conceded quietly.

“But know that I’ll be near. I just need to see you, to tell you what I couldn’t before.

Everything has changed, princesse . I had reasons for what I did, and you deserve to know them.

And once I’ve told you, if you still want me gone, I’ll go.

I’ll leave you alone forever. That’s my promise. ”

She jerked free then, breath ragged, eyes wide—not just with anger now, but something closer to fear.

“It’s too late, Your Grace .” Her eyes narrowed, the title bitten off like something bitter. “Stay away from me!”

That, he could not promise. “When you’re ready,” he said quietly, “I’ll be waiting.”

He had no intention of disappearing again. Not this time.

“A duke!” she all but spat, as though the word itself were an insult.

“Ambrosia—” But she didn’t let him finish. Scooping Lancelot into her arms, she turned and strode away, her pace quickening until she vanished from sight. This time, he was certain she was going home.

Dash raked a hand through his hair, distraught but determined.

He’d have to wait out her anger, however long it took. But this would not be the end. No, it was only the beginning.

She would hear him out. One day.

Only then did he remember his damn hat—still somewhere on the street.

At least her dog still liked him. That had to count for something.

And… she’d named him Lancelot.

On the walk back to Beckman House, despite everything, he was smiling.