Page 44 of The Duke that I Lost

PLAYING GAMES

M r. Edwards had at last been granted the rare pleasure of dressing his most recalcitrant employer to the nines.

Dash stood before the glass, taking in his own reflection with a slow, unimpressed scowl.

The gold-embroidered waistcoat fit flawlessly over his chest, the black jacket cut to perfection, and the trousers—tight-fitting yet somehow elegant—showed every inch of his long frame to advantage.

His linen shirt sported a modest flounce at the placket, but non , he had drawn the line at lace at his wrists.

Even for a Frenchman, there were limits.

Edwards had urged an armband. Dash refused. It was not disrespect for Hannah—only the knowledge that he could not move forward while still wearing the past upon his sleeve.

He turned this way and that. Ambrosia would hardly recognize him dressed like this. Tonight, she would see the Duke of Dasborough for the first time.

At half past nine, he stepped out onto the pavement. To arrive precisely on time would have been gauche; as it was, he was already a touch late. His blood thrummed too hot for a carriage, so he chose to walk instead, hoping the movement might steady his nerves.

By the time he reached Audley Street, he paused.

The glow of lamplight spilled over a line of coaches stretching in both directions, as elegant figures climbed the front steps.

Her salons had indeed become quite the thing, and the sight drew something tight in his chest—half pride, half regret.

Because he’d missed all of it.

But none of that signified tonight.

And when he finally rapped on the door, it was Carrington himself who answered. Of course, his former butler wouldn’t send him away.

“I’m here at the express invitation of my good friend Viscount Longstaffe,” Dash said.

The butler’s lips held steady, but his eyes admitted a weary sort of tolerance. “In the large drawing room, Your Grace.” He stepped aside, the door swinging wide.

Dash handed over his tall black top hat and cane. “ Merci , Monsieur Carrington.”

Mr. Edwards had tied his cravat seven times before deeming it acceptable, and then insisted his employer carry every fashionable accessory a gentleman might require. Dash’s fingers brushed the pocketed item now—a ludicrously expensive monocle. The absurdity of it almost made him laugh aloud.

It was as if his valet knew exactly what he intended to do tonight.

Eh bien , perhaps he did. It seemed everyone in London knew his business these days.

Inside, Dash took a moment to glance around.

Yes, he’d been to Ambrosia’s home daily for more than a fortnight now, and along with looking in a few windows, he’d made that one visit to Carrington’s office.

But he’d not yet been inside while she was in residence.

Knowing she could appear at any moment, he drew a long, steadying breath, then strolled into the foyer as if the house were his own. The first murmurs reached him almost at once, soft hisses of recognition, the lift of an eyebrow. Out so soon after the Duchess’s death? How very Dasborough.

Let them talk.

When a curious gaze lingered too long, he raised the ridiculous monocle to his eye, fixing the offender with a look of bland indifference.

A silent dare.

The curious gaze dropped immediately.

From the smaller salon came the refined strains of a pianoforte, accompanied by polite applause.

Dash skirted its open doorway, letting the music and murmurs fade behind him, and stepped into the larger public room where the air seemed warmer, charged with conversation and sudden bursts of laughter.

And then?—

Princesse , indeed.

Elegant, poised. A certain magic hovered in the corner, where Ambrosia was standing, across the room.

She was speaking with two middle-aged ladies and a younger gentleman, her smile gracious, her nods perfectly timed.

Her hair—glorious as ever—had been swept up into a complex braid, a few curls spilling onto her shoulders.

The deep emerald velvet of her gown clung to her form, its short sleeves and low bodice revealing the perfect swell of her breasts—breasts he knew tasted of sunshine and salt, that had once arched into his mouth, begging to be laved, sucked, teased.

By him. By Dash. And only Dash.

Perhaps she felt the weight of his stare, for she frowned and turned toward him just as he reined in his thoughts. Green eyes met his—surprise, then displeasure… and was that a fleeting flicker of something else before she shuttered it?

Excitement.

Secret pleasure.

He’d imagined it? Non ?

But rather than ignore him, she excused herself from her companions and crossed to where he’d planted himself.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was low.

“How could I miss Longstaffe’s London debut? An old friend of mine. You wouldn’t want that, would you, princesse ?”

The endearment landed softly, but it didn’t spark the fire he’d half-hoped for. Instead, she glanced past him, then over his shoulder, as though checking who might be watching.

“Why must you insist on…” Her voice tightened. “Can you not simply leave me alone? Surely you aren’t interested in mingling with patrons of the arts.”

“Have you forgotten everything?”

“Of course not. I just—” She hesitated, pressing her fingertips briefly to her forehead before exhaling. Then, for the first time since he’d returned to London, she looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Her eyes held that same vulnerable intensity he remembered from their travels two years ago, the one that made him feel like he’d been seen—truly seen—for the first time in his life.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you really were?” Her voice had dropped again, but this time, it was laced with hurt. “Did you mean to make a fool of me? Was it all some sort of game to you?”

Dash winced. “ Non , never. It wasn’t like that, I swear to you.”

She was finally willing to listen—here, of all places—surrounded by a room full of gossips hanging on the faintest scrap of scandal. He could ignore Society’s opinion if need be.

She could not.

And yet, she was looking at him. Listening.

He touched her elbow, guiding her toward the shelter of a nearby window bay. A breath in. Then another.

“I don’t know why… I…” The words faltered.

Weeks he’d been biding his time, and now that the moment was here, his polished answer had fled.

So he simply spoke from his heart. “When we first met, you didn’t see me as Dasborough—as a duke.

I was just a man to you. We were friends, weren’t we?

Could you have been as comfortable with me as your traveling companion if you’d known I was a duke? ”

His jaw tightened. “I just wanted to be…” Myself .

She moved her gaze away from him to stare out the window.

One second.

Two.

Then… half a minute.

Finally , “I trusted you. I believed in you.”

“I know. I wanted to tell you everything, but…” From the moment he met her, he’d allowed himself to exist in denial.

And suddenly he felt shame for the situation he’d gotten himself into. Not shame for protecting Hannah, for paying on the debt he’d incurred over a decade ago, but shame for pretending he was free.

He had intentionally not made any promises to Ambrosia, but he had wanted to. And he had acted on more than one occasion as though he might do so.

As though he could.

Without knowing his circumstances, she’d had every reason to believe it was possible that he could change his mind.

Which he had, in his heart.

He’d made love to her.

Ambrosia closed her eyes. “I loved you, Dash.”

Loved.

Past tense.

The single syllable landed like a saber thrust, stealing his breath. He’d suspected it back then—guessed at it in the way she’d looked at him, touched him—but he’d never been certain. And now, to hear it relegated to the past…

The devastation rang in his bones like a death knell.

But she was not finished…

“Two years have passed.” The hurt bled through every syllable, raw and unguarded.

“For six long and lonely months, I hoped.

I prayed. I bargained with God and then I convinced myself that you would come back to me.

I yearned to see you. I wanted you, Dash.

I dreamt of you. And every time I saw a man with your build or your hair color, or heard a French accent, I was certain it was you.

But it was not. It was never you, Dash. In addition to being disappointed the morning you left, I was to be disappointed another thousand times afterward.

“It took almost a year for me to accept that you had… truly abandoned me, intentionally. If you had wanted to be with me, you would have stayed. At the very least, you would have given me some sort of explanation.” She closed her eyes.

And then… “You would have told me goodbye.”

She was right to hate him. But he couldn’t… He could not accept that.

“I am so damn sorry, Ambrosia. I didn’t have a choice. I?—”

“You married.” Her eyes flew back open. “Was that the obligation you needed to fulfill in such a hurry? Was it even your birthday or was that a lie as well?”

“It was my birthday. There was a deadline.” His voice dropped when he felt a few curious gazes land on them.

“I didn’t know if I would ever be free, and I didn’t want you waiting for me forever.

I left that morning knowing you would hate me.

If I had waited until you were awake, saying goodbye would have been…

impossible. In the end… it was easier .”

If he’d seen her eyes that morning, heard her voice asking him to stay, he couldn’t have done it.

And yet, he’d known he had to.

Her eyes narrowed, sharp enough to cut. “Easiest isn’t always best.”

“Ambrosia, darling.”

Grimm appeared behind her like the devil waltzing into a church—lace spilling over his wrists, his elaborately embroidered turquoise waistcoat only half-buttoned in that careless, calculated way of his.

One hand settled possessively on her waist and the other slipped lazily into his pocket as he turned to face Dash, that usual air of smugness about him.