Page 45 of The Duke that I Lost
Dash’s jaw tightened. A younger version of himself might have decked Grimm right there for being so bold as to put his hands on her, long-held acquaintance or no, but here and now he refrained.
Ambrosia would hate it if he made a scene.
“I see you’ve decided to wash off your dirt and join civilization again,” Grimm said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Ambrosia tilted her head, her voice deceptively light. “Shocking, isn’t it? His Grace so loves to pretend…”
Dash let the silence stretch. Then he inclined his head. “ Touché . But you know, princesse … beneath my mask, there was nothing to fear.” He shifted his gaze, just barely, toward Grimm. “That’s not always the case.”
For the briefest moment, Ambrosia’s poise faltered—the tiniest pause in her breath, a flicker in those green eyes—but it was gone as quickly as it came.
Her lips curved into a deliberate smile. “I’ll have to wait and see then, won’t I?” She tilted her head toward Grimm, her gaze lingering on him as though she were enjoying this game.
Jealousy flared, sharp and hot, but Dash buried it beneath an easy smile.
If she meant to rattle him, she’d have to try harder.
His old friend chuckled—not in open amusement, but in that self-satisfied way of a man who thought he was winning. Grimm’s thumb moved against the velvet of Ambrosia’s gown at her waist, a silent acknowledgment that he, too, was more than willing to play this game.
Ambrosia let her fingers trail along Grimm’s arm. “Shall we see who’s at the pianoforte, my lord?”
Grimm gave Dash a lazy salute before leading her away, his limp hardly noticeable.
She didn’t look back.
Dash stayed where he was, glass in hand, the picture of civility. But his gaze followed her across the room, noting the way her confidence had sharpened since that afternoon she’d been intimidated by an impertinent innkeeper.
His princesse , he realized, had discovered her je ne sais quoi .
She was poised now, controlled, but the openness she’d once worn like sunlight was gone. Was he the reason?
It was a bittersweet kind of torture, watching her like this—laughing with others, her eyes lit with that new confidence. And all the while, the same thought kept pounding in his head.
He should be the man at her side.
“I didn’t realize gardeners were such aficionados of the arts.”
The sultry voice broke through his reverie just as a cloud of heady perfume curled into his senses. Slowly, almost reluctantly, Dash dragged his gaze from Ambrosia. Standing beside him was an exotic beauty—raven hair, eyes as black as jet, lips painted the color of ripe cherries.
“I certainly didn’t realize they possessed such finery as this,” she added, her dark gaze sliding over his evening clothes in frank appreciation.
It took him a moment, but then recognition clicked. She was the neighbor—the one who had been watching him almost as intently as he’d been watching Ambrosia.
Dash narrowed his eyes, his tone polite but edged. “And you are?”
“Dona Carlotta Fernandez y Ortiz, Contessa de Cabrera.” The name rolled from her tongue like a practiced performance.
Dash lifted a brow. “No formal introduction?”
Her smile curved, knowing. “I suspect you aren’t the sort of man who requires one. Am I wrong?”
“Not at all.”
He shifted a step back, only to find the wall at his shoulders—and the Contessa closing the space between them, her perfume invading his senses. There was boldness in her approach, yes, but also an emptiness in her eyes—gone so quickly he might have imagined it.
“I was so very pleased to see you here tonight,” she purred. “I’ve been meaning to ask if you would be willing to… take care of me, as you have my neighbor.”
“Take care of you?” His eyes flicked toward Ambrosia to be sure she hadn’t left the room before returning to the Contessa’s dark gaze.
“My garden,” she clarified, though her smile left little doubt as to her double meaning. “It has been shamefully neglected. I would be ever so grateful if you might direct some of your attention my way… toward my garden, that is.”
“Ah, madame,” Dash said, gently easing her away. “I’m afraid I work exclusively for Mrs. Bloomington.”
Her ruby lips turned down in an exaggerated pout. “Such a shame.” One perfectly manicured hand reached over to trail from his shoulder to his elbow in a slow, deliberate stroke. “If you ever seek alternative employment, my offer remains open.”
Dash made a faint, amused bow, keeping his tone warm, but also standing firm in his refusal. “Noted.
“Dona Carlotta.”
Dash jerked his head over to see that Ambrosia had returned, and the Contessa turned as well.
“Ah, Senora Bloomington, I was just having a word with your… gardener.”
Ambrosia let out a burst of laughter that resembled a snort. Was his princesse showing some claws?
"Is that so? I’d treat anything he says with a pinch of salt—he’s been known to gild the lily now and then."
“Oh…?” The Contessa’s brows knit, her dark eyes narrowing slightly, as though turning the phrase over in her mind. The faint tilt of her head suggested she wasn’t entirely sure whether she’d been warned, insulted, or invited to join in on some joke.
“Anyway, I was just letting people know that the reading is about to begin in the other room,” Ambrosia said with a gentle smile, her tone more coaxing than dismissive as she urged the other woman toward the doorway.
She waited—politely—until Dona Carlotta had swept out of sight before turning back to him.
“She doesn’t hold a candle to you, princesse ,” he murmured near her ear. He didn’t mind her playing a few games—he deserved whatever she could dish out, in fact.
But he would not.
Ambrosia’s gaze dipped to the floor, the corners of her mouth tightening as though she were weighing whether to say anything at all. When she lifted her chin, her voice was hesitant, careful. “I have a request.”
“Anything,” Dash said at once, but then rushed to add, “Unless it’s to leave you alone before you’ve heard me out.”
She rolled her eyes. “Nothing so unreasonable, I assure you. I’m realizing there are no boundaries to your obstinacy.”
Dash shrugged. She was not wrong. “Then ask me anything.” If they’d been alone, he might have drawn her into his arms and kissed away the faint line between her brows. Some days, he wondered if that would be the simplest solution. But it wouldn’t be fair—not until she understood.
“You are… planting flowers for me,” she said, the green of her eyes softening.
“You never planted any,” he reminded her gently. “It was one of your dreams.”
She dropped her gaze. “I didn’t feel much like it at first, and then… after a while… it no longer seemed important.”
He remembered that young woman—her quiet delight in imagining a garden she could call her own. Another wound to lay at his feet.
“I’ve planted both perennials and annuals,” he said. “You’ll be able to enjoy them even more in a year or so.”
She shook her head. “I… know. It’s going to be lovely.
” Her teeth caught her lower lip before she spoke again.
“But… Lancelot. He’s very interested in them, and I’d hate to see your work ruined because my dog decided to dig everything up.
And…” Her voice grew softer. “I don’t know which plants might be harmful if he tried to eat them.
I wondered if you might… put up a little fence?
To protect both the flowers and Lancelot from himself? ”
He was already picturing the design in his mind. “But of course. Anything else?”
She hesitated. “Is it true you have plans for a hothouse?”
He nodded.
Her tongue darted over her lips, a fleeting gesture before she glanced toward the other room.
The sound of voices had dimmed; the reading was about to begin.
He could not care less, but she seemed anxious to return to her guests.
“I—thank you,” she said at last, and then, just as swiftly as she had appeared, she was gone.
Dash didn’t linger long either. He had accomplished more than he’d dared to hope—not only had she spoken to him, but she’d asked him do something for her.
Something she wanted.
His determination renewed, he stepped out into the night, bound for Hawkins Place and his insufferable friend.
For the first time in two years, he felt as though he had something to celebrate.