Page 42 of The Duke that I Lost

WORTH THE EFFORT

D ash lay in bed that night, replaying every word she’d thrown at him. Hawk had been right about one thing—she most certainly had not forgotten him. A woman did not run off and weep if she felt nothing for the man she fled. Non . That kind of fire came from somewhere deeper.

Love and hate—two faces of the same coin. All he had to do was turn it back to the side that once belonged to him.

Voilà . Simple to say. Less simple to accomplish.

The question was how.

She would have to become used to him again, to believe that this time he would not vanish without explanation.

The next morning, as he had the day before, he dressed and made his way to his post across from her townhouse.

When she emerged, she turned her head, spotted him instantly… and then looked straight through him as if he were no more than a lamppost. Without a pause, she set off in the opposite direction, a maid in tow.

He considered following—his instincts urging him to keep her in sight—but decided against it. Better to let her temper run its course. He had never made it to the front line, true, but even he recognized when it was smarter to retreat.

His gaze drifted to the iron gate at the side of the house. The lock was a simple thing—hardly worth the name. Mon Dieu , he would have to speak with her about that. If he could slip past it, anyone could.

Careful to keep his movements quiet, he opened the gate and followed the narrow stone path toward the rear of the house.

A few trees stood between her garden and the neighboring properties, but otherwise the space was bare—patches of dirt, a few stubborn tufts of grass, and shrubs that had clearly been left to fend for themselves.

Two years ago, she’d told him she would plant flowers. She’d always wanted to, but Harrison, of course, had dismissed the idea as frivolous.

Dash stood for a long moment, surveying the neglected garden. Then, slipping a pencil and folded sheet of paper from his pocket, he began to sketch a few rough lines.

“Your Grace.”

He looked up to find Mr. Carrington standing on the back step, hands neatly clasped behind his back. The butler’s tone was as dry as a well-aged sherry. “Would you care to come inside for some… tea?”

At that moment, Lancelot bounded past the butler, his short legs working furiously, tongue lolling from one side of his mouth. The dog’s eyes were bright with welcome, tail wagging in an enthusiastic blur.

“ Mais oui. I should be delighted.” Dash brushed the dirt from his trousers, crouched to give Lancelot a quick scratch behind the ears, then followed him inside.

The man had once been his father’s butler, and after the previous duke’s death had served Dash with the same discreet efficiency. Dash had rewarded that loyalty with a considerable raise when he’d asked Carrington to take on the position in Mrs. Bloomington’s household.

“My condolences on the passing of your duchess,” Carrington said as he ushered Dash into his small, immaculate office. The brandy he poured for them both came from his own supply—a mark of respect, perhaps, or a subtle reminder that this was his domain now.

Two years ago, Dash hadn’t given the man much of an explanation when he’d arrived in London after leaving Ambrosia behind.

He’d only instructed Carrington to ensure she believed all the improvements to the house were part of her inheritance—and to see that she was neither cheated nor left too long to her own company.

Carrington, being English to the bone, hadn’t pressed for reasons. Instead, he’d discreetly suggested a few of the grand dames of Mayfair of whom Dash might enlist for assistance in that regard. Dash had scarcely had time to make his visits before duty had drawn him to Margate.

“She is doing well?” Dash dropped into the wooden chair opposite the butler’s desk. It wasn’t truly a question—but he wanted to hear the details from the man who’d been watching over her.

Carrington’s brows drew together, just slightly. “She is, Your Grace.”

The hesitation told Dash everything—the man was weighing loyalty to his current mistress against loyalty to the duke who still paid the larger portion of his wages.

“I won’t press you for anything I couldn’t discover myself by asking around town,” Dash said evenly. “But tell me—does she… entertain anyone? Is there an attachment?”

Carrington rolled his lips together, placing his clasped hands on his desk.

“There have been callers. Several so-called proper gentlemen, all of them appearing to have honorable intentions.” His pause was deliberate. “The only one to have held her interest…” His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “Is the Earl of Grimstead.”

Dash should not have been surprised. Mon dieu , he’d seen them. “Grimm.”

Carrington gave the smallest of nods. “Indeed, Your Grace. I needn’t remind you… his intentions are seldom what one would call honorable.”

Dash took a sharp inhale through his nostrils. The thought of Ashbourne Covington touching Dash’s princesse…

It made his gut churn.

He drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and gestured toward the pen and inkwell on Carrington’s desk.

“May I?”

Carrington inclined his head, stepping aside.

A few minutes later, Dash blew lightly on the page before folding it again. “You’ll see that she gets this?”

The butler pressed his lips together, then gave a single, grave nod. “I will make sure it reaches her, Your Grace.”

Dash inclined his own head in thanks. She needed to know he was here—for her. That he wasn’t going to vanish this time.

You’re going to have to talk with me if you ever want to get rid of me, he’d written, signing it simply Dash, and beneath that, his house number and street.

It would hardly raise eyebrows for a widow to call upon a widower now, but would she?

At least she could find him. When she was ready.

He knew her. In all the time they’d been together, she’d not once played games with him. She’d been up front as to her feelings. Even when she’d told him she just wanted physical pleasure, he’d seen the sincerity in her face.

Dash had known that she would need more. He’d seen the love in her eyes, a love he’d ultimately denied them both.

But if she had once loved him, she would eventually talk with him.

“And Carrington?” Dash rose, feeling resigned to patience he did not feel.

“Yes?”

“If Grimstead does anything untoward… you will send word?”

The dignified retainer nodded solemnly. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Dash had known Grimm for half his life, had watched cynicism creep in and take hold…

seen him haunt the darker corners of London, seeking distractions that never seemed to satisfy.

Like Hawk, Longstaffe, and Blackwell—and like himself—Grimm had come out of Harrowgate marked, each of them scarred in their own way.

Of course Grimm sniffing around worried him.

Dash exhaled a deep breath.

He supposed he would have to make his presence in London official now. Now that she knew he was here, now that she knew who he truly was, he had no further reason to hide.

“Are you the new gardener, senor?” A woman’s voice, rich and lilting, carried across the street as he stepped onto the pavement. Dash squinted against the light, making out little more than her silhouette—dark hair gleaming, her figure lush even in the loose fall of a high-waisted gown.

“Just a friend,” he replied shortly, dismissing her with a nod, though the word twisted bitter in his mouth. Would Ambrosia even grant him that much now? Likely not.

His life might have been easier—simpler—if another woman could stir his interest, be it in body, mind, or spirit. But none did.

Ambrosia—his princesse —was everything. And he doubted that would change anytime soon.

* * *

Beckman House had clearly felt Beatrice’s hand in the few days since their arrival. The marble tiles in the entry gleamed, the silver along the sideboard had been polished until it winked in the afternoon light, and the faint scent of beeswax hung in the air.

Servants he had met briefly upon his arrival now scurried about with the crisp efficiency of a household run to standard.

None of them had ever met Hannah, yet the windows were respectfully draped in black crepe.

The footmen wore black armbands, and the maids had small black ribbons pinned to their caps.

Drake, the new butler—tall, young, and earnest—stepped forward with a bow.

“Drake,” Dash acknowledged, remembering him from that first round of introductions. Beatrice had wasted no time in making the man her right hand, and it showed.

Mr. Edwards, Dash’s valet, no doubt was impatient to get on with his business of ensuring Dash was turned out properly for the Season.

Thus far, Dash had avoided him, preferring the anonymity of working-class garb.

But the Season would begin soon, and the salver in the hall would start to fill with invitations.

That thought gave him pause. He could see which events Ambrosia attended—and attend them himself. Respectable. Presentable. Close enough to begin weaving himself back into her life.

“Ah, there you are.” Beatrice’s voice floated down from the stairs before she descended, skirts gathered in one hand. She had the look of a general inspecting the troops. “Well? How did it go?”

He hesitated. “Not as I’d hoped.”

Her brows rose. “And yet you look more determined than when you left this morning.”

Dash’s mouth curved faintly.

It wasn’t the way he would have planned it, that was for certain. “I am. Seeing her again… only reminded me what’s at stake.”

“Mm.” Bea tipped her head. “Does this mean you will stop lurking in the shrubbery now?”

“I wasn’t lurking,” he said dryly.

“Of course you weren’t,” she replied, far too sweetly. “You were… strategically observing from a position of concealment.” She smiled, though her gaze was shrewd. “So, what’s the plan, mon frère ? And don’t you dare tell me you haven’t one.”