Page 43 of The Duke that I Lost

He exhaled through his nose, already moving toward the stairs. “I have the beginnings of one. And when it’s ready, you’ll be the first to know.”

Beatrice rolled her eyes heavenward. “Good. But I hope it doesn’t involve hosting any balls. Your guests would be dodging arrows.”

Dash didn’t so much as blink. “You’ve turned the ballroom into your archery gallery?”

“Of course.” She arched a brow. “You’re not surprised?”

“Not in the least,” he said. “Honestly, I’m just grateful you don’t plan on hunting in Hyde Park.” Dash shook his head, though his lips twitched.

“Who says I am not?” she replied, the corner of her mouth promising mischief.

He might have brought his sister out of the country, but that didn’t mean she’d become a typical debutante.

“As it happens,” she added, “Seven invitations arrived this afternoon.”

Dash obviously had not been as surreptitious as he’d thought he’d been, and it seemed that half of Mayfair had been aware of his whereabouts while he’d been slinking about town in disguise.

He shrugged and climbed the staircase to his chamber. Hawk had kept him awake most nights and suddenly Dash felt as though he hadn’t slept in ages.

For now, it seemed, all he could do was wait.

* * *

Dash woke with purpose thrumming in his veins. Enough of waiting, enough of circling—today he would act. After a few necessary stops, he went straight to Ambrosia’s townhome—not to loiter like some mooncalf at the front, but to stride round the back garden, his plan already in motion.

By the time the first of his deliveries arrived, his coat was tossed aside, his sleeves rolled, and the spade biting into the ground.

Each swing carried a kind of satisfaction—the thud of turned earth, the crack of dead shrubs torn out by the roots.

Sweat slicked his brow, his muscles burned, and he welcomed it.

She had once told him she wanted a flower garden.

Very well. She would have one. Not just any patch of blooms, but the finest, most stubbornly alive garden Mayfair had ever seen.

His head gardener at Beckman House had been invaluable, offering cuttings and advice in equal measure.

Lilacs, gooseberry bushes, and quickset hedges were sent over first—sturdy anchors for what would come next.

Tomorrow would be for color. He couldn’t remember all the names the man had rattled off, but he’d insisted on armfuls of cornflowers and daisies.

They reminded him of her.

And because he remembered every word she’d ever said, he hadn’t forgotten the offhand comment she’d once made about wanting a hothouse.

The lumber he’d ordered would arrive shortly, and before the week was out it would be outfitted with a workbench, shelves, and every tool she could possibly need to propagate cuttings and coax reluctant bulbs to life.

Orchids, he’d heard, required both precision and patience—much like the woman herself.

Rare. Exquisite. Worth the effort, no matter how long it took.

For the next fortnight, Dash gave himself wholly to the work. Each morning found him in her garden—waistcoat discarded, boots caked in mud—directing deliveries, setting out rows, driving roots into the soil with his own hands.

At Beckman House, invitations piled high: embossed cards from every ambitious hostess eager to boast the Duke of Dasborough at her table. But Beatrice was content enough with her own pursuits, and so he declined them all without a second thought.

His world had narrowed to Autumn House. To the neglected earth he coaxed back to life. To the hope that, one day, his princesse might step into that garden and think of him.

She had not spoken to him. Not once.

But she had seen him.

On more than one occasion, he’d looked up from the soil to find her at the window, just behind the lace. Their eyes would almost meet—almost—and then the drapes would fall shut.

And as her silence persisted, Dash realized that patience alone wasn’t going to win him any ground. He’d been content—well, mostly—to let her see him in the garden, to remind her of his presence without forcing the issue. But even the hardest labor could not quiet his restlessness.

Perhaps it was time to be a touch more… proactive.

He needed to think, to measure his next move…

The opportunity presented itself later that evening at White’s.

Dash lounged back in his chair, booted feet propped on an ottoman, idly scanning the headlines of that day’s Gazette.

The low murmur of voices and the haze of tobacco hung about him, familiar as his own skin, and when a shadow fell across the paper, he glanced up—then broke into a grin. “Longstaffe.”

Major Jeremiah Penvale—Viscount Longstaffe—stood before him, rolling his shoulders, much broader than they’d been during their schooldays.

“Dash,” Longstaffe rumbled, clasping his hand. “Wondered when you’d show up here.”

“We all do, à la fin , eh?”

They exchanged a few pleasantries before Longstaffe settled opposite him, waving the steward away with a curt shake of his head.

“Hawk says you aren’t having much luck.”

Dash arched a brow. “Luck?”

“With Mrs. Bloomington.”

“Hawk talks too much.”

Longstaffe’s mouth quirked. “It isn’t only Hawk talking. Half the ton is. This Season’s on dit, it would seem, is that the Duke of Dasborough has become Mayfair’s most industrious gardener. My old pal, toiling away in the dirt with the flowers—I could scarcely believe my ears.”

Dash only smirked, unruffled. “Everything is proceeding exactly as I intend.”

Longstaffe shook his head. “If your plan is to wear out your knees in the flowerbeds while she peeks at you from behind her curtains, then yes—brilliant strategy.” The decorated major leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Have you considered, oh, I don’t know, maybe trying the front door?

Dressed as a gentleman. Perhaps… even as a duke? ”

Dash would have loved to, but… “I’d need an invitation.”

At that, Longstaffe hesitated. His gaze flicked about the room, as though to be certain no one was listening. Then, with a grunt, he rubbed the back of his neck—an oddly self-conscious gesture in so formidable a man.

“Well… as it happens, your Mrs. Bloomington has persuaded me to display some of my work at her next salon.”

Dash blinked. “Your work?”

“Paintings.” Longstaffe’s tone dared him to laugh as he leaned back.

Only Ambrosia, Dash thought, could persuade this beast of a military man to not only confess to dabbling in oils, but display the results to the ton . “Of course she has,” Dash said, amused.

Longstaffe gave a grunt of a laugh. “As one of the artists, I’m told I may extend invitations.

Imagine that—me, handing out cards to a Mayfair salon.

” His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Your lucky day, Dasborough, old man. Next Friday, nine o’clock.

Try not to arrive in your gardening boots. ”

Dash drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. An artist’s invitation was still an invitation. He gave a short nod.

“I’ll be there.”

Longstaffe’s eyes flicked to the side and then back. “You may as well be aware—Ashe will be there, you know.”

“Mais oui, porquoi pas?” Dash murmured with a roll of his eyes, because of course Grimm would be there, the bloody snake. What in God’s name was she thinking?

Jeremiah’s mouth curved faintly, though his tone stayed even. “He assures me he’s simply befriended her. But… I thought you should know beforehand.”

Dash met the big man’s steady gaze. The two of them had corresponded over the years, but it struck him now how little Longstaffe said without purpose.

A warning, wrapped in loyalty.

“I appreciate that.” Dash meant it. He let his mouth hitch into a half-smile. “Grimm won’t be a problem.”

Longstaffe’s nod was the kind a man gave when he didn’t necessarily agree, but wasn’t going to argue.

But Dash would finally enter Autumn House through the front door.

Tomorrow night, she’d have to speak with him. She wouldn’t want to make a scene. Not his Ambrosia…

He knew her too well.