Page 5 of The Duke that I Lost

“Au contraire, princesse,” he said smoothly. “You forbade smirking, being spoken to as if you were a barmaid, and laughing at you—which, if I may point out, I haven’t done in at least half an hour.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “A loophole, then.”

Even though he had. Laughed at her.

More than once.

“Precisely,” he said with a wink. “And I’m rather good at finding them.”

“Nonetheless, I am not taking the ton by storm. I’m just… me. Not an heiress and definitely not beautiful .”

When she looked at herself in the mirror, Ambrosia saw a lady who looked, in a word, average. While her reddish-blond hair was somewhat striking, her green eyes were perhaps a bit too large for her face, and aside from that, she surmised that she had inoffensive but unremarkable features overall.

“But you are,” he insisted.

Ambrosia smiled. “There’s no need to flatter me, Mr. Beckman. I’ve already agreed to allow you to travel with me.”

And yet, the compliment warmed her. Only her mother had ever said that she was beautiful, and one couldn’t help but be skeptical when such a compliment came from one’s mother.

“As far as funds go,” she added with a faint shrug, “I won’t know the full extent of my income until I meet with Mr. Bloomington’s London solicitor.

Aside from the townhouse, I daren’t hope for much—just enough to sustain me. ”

She paused. “Well. And maybe a dog, eventually.”

“Ah, aiming for the stars, I see.” He was teasing her again, but rather than point that out, she was too caught up in realizing what she’d just done—spoken of her finances to a man she’d only just met, as though they were old acquaintances.

But he was looking at her again.

“And for the record, I am not a man who doles out empty flattery.” He gave a slight shrug, his smile crooked, thoroughly unrepentant.

“ Enfin … perhaps that is not entirely true. I am half French, after all. A well-placed compliment can be a powerful thing.” He flicked the reins a little.

“But in this case, ma chère , I assure you—I speak only the truth.”

His eyes were twinkling, but not quite so mirthful anymore. “I imagine it was easier on good old Harrison—you would be easier to manage if you thought you were plain. Très malin . No wonder you are not weeping in sackcloth.”

Ambrosia wanted to argue with him, only… Mr. Beckman was not incorrect in that Mr. Bloomington had only ever had criticism to offer her. Given, it was normally directed at her character rather than her looks, but even so… “Thank you?”

She knew she wasn’t exactly an antidote, but calling her a ‘beauty’ was indeed stretching the truth.

“You’re welcome.” He chuckled. “So, you are not moving in with a lonely old aunt somewhere. Surely, not your very own townhouse?”

“Surely, yes. And it is in Mayfair,” Ambrosia announced proudly. “Number 17 South Audley Street. It is called Autumn House.”

“Hn.” He smiled, staring ahead. “Appropriate.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Your hair. It’s the color of the leaves in autumn.” Oh, but he was indeed laying it on thick.

She sputtered a moment, but when she went to speak, he interrupted her.

“I only speak the truth, Madame Bloomington.”

And this time…

Ambrosia couldn’t stop her lips from stretching into a grin at his audacity. She’d never known anyone who spoke in such a forthright manner, except perhaps the eccentric neighbor she’d left behind in Rockford Beach, Mrs. Tuttle.

“Is that a smile? Good heavens, it is!” He spoke as though he was catching sight of a rare bird.

“You’re outrageous, do you know that?” Ambrosia couldn’t allow his behavior to go without comment, although her smile stretched wider, and she couldn’t stop the small giggle that followed.

Instead of following up on her declaration, or commenting at all even, he reached down to the floor and then handed her a small package.

“What is this?” She stared at it suspiciously.

“Open it and see.”

Tamping down a surge of guilt for accepting anything from a strange gentleman, she steadied herself on the seat and slowly began unwrapping the paper.

“Pastries.” The box was filled with the very same flaky confections Mrs. Neskers had served her earlier.

“ Madame Neskers mentioned you didn’t finish yours.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug, as if brushing away any suggestion that the gesture had been thoughtful.

But it had been.

How was it that she was so unaccustomed to simple kindness?

“Thank you, Mr. Beckman,” she murmured. “It was… very considerate. You didn’t have to.”

“Not that considerate, princesse .” There he went again. “I’m hungry too.”

She gave a breath of laughter, then retrieved a handkerchief from her reticule and carefully wrapped it around one of the pastries before holding it out.

He didn’t take it.

Instead, without so much as a warning, he leaned in and took a bite straight from her hand. If not for her gloves, his lips would have grazed her skin.

“Safer this way, Madame Bloomington,” he said around a mouthful, his tone maddeningly smug.

Ambrosia blinked.

Had he just?—?

How had she come to be here, feeding a man pastry while driving, alone…?

In the dark.

She jerked her hand back and wiped her gloved fingers on the napkin.

“You, sir,” she said stiffly, “are incorrigible.”

“Entirely true,” he agreed with a shrug. “Your turn, then I’ll have another, if you please.”

“I—no. I most certainly will not—this is… It’s indecent!”

“Very well,” he said with an infuriating calm. “But I shall not take another bite. Not unless you do. Two bites, princesse . I insist.”

She stared at him, aghast. “But?—"

“It’s only fair,” he said. “You cannot expect me to eat alone. I’m not a barbarian.”

Some might argue with that…

Nonetheless, with great hesitation, she lifted a pastry to her own lips and took a modest bite. And then blinked again.

How was it that the very same pastry, which had tasted dry and uninspired earlier, now melted on her tongue like buttery heaven?

She took another, slower bite—this time savoring the creamy filling, aware of him watching her with one lifted brow.

“Happy now?” she muttered, dabbing at her mouth with the corner of the handkerchief.

“You have no idea,” he said, and leaned in for his turn. His lips and the tip of his tongue brushed the edge of her glove—just for a moment—but it sent a jolt through her spine all the same.

She dabbed at the crumbs in his not-quite-a-beard before she could think better of it.

What was she doing?

She hadn’t ever touched her husband’s hair, let alone his whiskers.

Mr. Beckman leaned in for another bite. And then another.

So she kept feeding him—and herself. One pastry, then the other. Mulberry and cream. She took alternating bites as though it were a tiresome obligation, all the while secretly relishing the rich, flaky decadence melting on her tongue.

How long had it been since she’d indulged in something so sweet?

Too long. Far too long.

When the last crumb was gone, she folded the now-creased handkerchief with care and tucked it firmly back into her reticule, as if doing so might bring propriety back to her present circumstances.

But she didn’t have long to sit quietly.

Mr. Beckman shifted the reins into one hand and pointed toward the stretch of moonlit road ahead.

“The Cow and Cleaver,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“The turn up ahead.” He chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It leads to the inn.”

Of course.

“I hope they have rooms to let.” At least one, because Mr. Beckman wouldn’t really expect her to sleep in her carriage. Would he?

She secretly studied his profile. Strong chin, determined mouth, a nose that was almost aristocratic—almost, in fact, heroic.

If some highwayman jumped out to attack them, she was almost certain he’d pull a weapon from one of his boots and easily dispatch of the villain. And then he might stare into her eyes again, this time in order to assure himself of her well-being.

And when his lips drew closer to hers, she would not pull away from him. She would tilt her head back?—

“If there is only one room, you will share it with me, no?”

Ambrosia reeled back in shock.

“I am not some lightskirt, Mr. Beckman.” She would be clear on this point. Crystal clear. Simply because she’d broken a few of her own rules… and perhaps indulged in a fantasy or two, pertaining to this—this absolute boar of a man…

“I never said you were. But if you remember correctly, it was you who was watching me.”

“I was appreciating your horse,” she clarified.

She couldn’t help but notice the reappearance of his dimple. “But of course, madame .” He seemed to intentionally deepen his French accent as he nodded agreeably.

Too agreeably.

“He was—he is—a beautiful animal.”

“She,” he corrected her for the second time. “But that wasn’t all you were appreciating. You were distracted, no?”

Ambrosia deliberately ignored his taunting. “Well, she is a beautiful animal, then. And…” Despite his indecent implication… “I truly am sorry she was stolen from you.”

Mr. Beckman’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on the moonlit road ahead.

“Whoever took her will regret it soon enough,” he declared. “If she hasn’t already thrown him, I will.” The words that followed came out almost a growl. “When I come back.”

Ambrosia glanced sideways at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. Whatever matter was awaiting him in London must be important indeed.

“You must have good reason to go on without her,” she said, her voice tentative.

He didn’t answer, not right away. Just gave the reins a subtle twitch and said, “I must, indeed.”

“You will return for her, though? After this great meeting you have in London?”

“I will.”

Again, with that cocksure attitude of his. In this matter, however, she rather esteemed him for it.

A splintered sign appeared, and Mr. Beckman steered them toward the cluster of buildings in the distance. Ambrosia could hear voices and horses now, an indication the inn was bustling—but hopefully not at capacity.

Surely, he would not expect her to share her chamber with him, in truth?

If there was but one room.

Surely, he was only teasing.

Of course he was.

And yet…

Over the course of a few hours this man had managed to finagle his way onto her coach and under her skin, but ultimately, he was no more to her than a passing stranger.

And even though, yes, he was charming and handsome and … the utter opposite of nearly every man she’d ever met in her life, she could just pretend he could be trusted.

She straightened her back.

It was not inconceivable that the Cow and Cleaver would be down to their final vacancy at this time of night, with this many people milling about, with the number of horses she could spy in the stable.

In which case…

Ambrosia clutched her hands in her lap as she contemplated the possibility of Mr. Beckman claiming the last room for himself.

No gentleman would do such a thing… But was he, in fact, a gentleman?

Ambrosia leaned forward, eyeing the distance from the driver’s box to the ground and then from there to the main entrance.

She would need to move quickly. Get inside before he did.

Because after everything she’d endured today, she refused to sleep in her blasted carriage.