Page 52 of The Duke that I Lost

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” she confessed, “but one of my very first invitations was from the Marchioness of Barrington, for tea. I took Lancelot with me—mostly so I wouldn’t have to arrive alone—and didn’t realize until I stepped into the hall that he might not be…

entirely welcome. The butler looked at me as though I’d smuggled in a goat. ”

Dash smothered a grin. “But that did not deter you.”

Her smile softened. “Not at all. I remembered what you once told me—when that innkeeper upset me that day. You said I had my own strength. I lifted my nose in the air and walked right into the drawing room as though nothing at all were amiss.”

“And?” Dash leaned closer.

“And,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Lancelot wriggled free, of course.”

“Of course he did.”

“The little dandy trotted across the carpet and leapt straight into the Marchioness’s lap. And then—oh, he did that thing, you know?”

Dash chuckled. “His balancing act?”

“Yes. Back straight, tongue lolling, paws in front.” She dropped the reins long enough to demonstrate with her own gloved hands tucked close. “Looking as though he’d been trained to perform in the circus. Sitting pretty.”

Her laugh bubbled out. “I was mortified. Lady Zelda and Lady Longstaffe were equally horrified. But the Marchioness? She was delighted and insists I bring him to visit her at least once a week. I think she’d steal him from me if she could.”

Dash’s mouth curved, memory tugging at him. “I daresay you knew then the world wouldn’t be able to resist him.”

“Quite right.”

He let the pause linger, then added softly, “Or you.”

They reached a wide, open stretch of the Row. The air smelled of grass warmed by the sun, the faint shimmer of the river glinting in the distance. Dash leaned low, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Are you ready to fly?”

She stiffened.

“Relax, princesse. Don’t fight it. Let your body move with mine.”

Before she could answer, he loosened the reins. Guinevere lunged forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.

Ambrosia gasped, stiffening in surprise, but Dash’s arms came firm around her, steadying, guiding. “There,” he murmured into her hair, his voice rough with command and promise. “Feel the rhythm. Let her carry you.”

Guinevere devoured the ground beneath them, her strides powerful, bounding. The world blurred around them—trees flashing past, the thunder of hooves rolling through Dash’s chest like a second heartbeat. Slowly, Ambrosia caught on, learning the rhythm of the mare’s gait.

Again, she laughed.

The sound of it lit him up inside, sweeter than music, more intoxicating than wine. She leaned back into him, her head brushing his chin, light auburn tendrils catching on his cheek.

Dash bent close, breathing her in, the heat of her back pressed tight against his chest. Their bodies rose and fell together, as though she had been made to fit into him.

This—this was more than a flight across the park. It was…everything. And for the first time in two years, he felt whole.

After what felt like a breathless eternity—though even eternity could never be enough—he drew on the reins. Guinevere slowed, first to a gallop, then to a canter, and eventually to a walk, until at last she came to a halt, sides heaving with exertion.

Ambrosia’s chest rose and fell with exhilaration, musical giggles still floating in the air between them.

Dash held her close a heartbeat longer, unwilling to let go. When he spoke, his voice came out rusty: “You see, princesse? You and I, together… we can fly.”

Dash didn’t expect an answer, but he knew she had heard.

After a moment, he loosened his hold.

“Let’s walk for a while, shall we?” At her nod, Dash swung his leg over the back of the horse and then, taking ahold of Ambrosia by the waist, he lowered her to the ground beside him.

And her eyes, they sparkled. She had enjoyed that. She presented this calm, demure widow to the world but he’d seen the passion within her. She yearned to live life to the fullest.

“Gwennie will need time to cool off anyway.” Dash led the mare with one hand and, with the other, offered his elbow to his princesse . She took it without hesitation, though her gaze stayed fixed ahead, thoughtful.

“Was she beautiful?” The quiet question slipped from Ambrosia’s lips. She did not look at him when she asked it.

“In a childlike way,” Dash said after a pause. “I’d be surprised if she weighed more than seven stone.”

Her brow furrowed faintly. “She was very ill, then?”

“Yes.” His answer was somber, the ache in it unavoidable. Barely three months had passed since Hannah’s death. “She was already consumptive by the time we married. Her companion, Lark, once confided to Bea that Hannah had never really known good health.”

“Beatrice… Your sister, right?”

“Yes. I’ll have to introduce the two of you sometime. She is here. In London. After Hannah’s passing and Lark’s departure, I couldn’t leave her alone at Dasborough Park.”

“And your mother?”

Ah, she would not know of his loss.

“We lost her a little under a year ago. It happened quickly. It came unexpectedly, but she did not suffer.” His throat thickened, even though he’d spoken the words many times before.

Something about telling Ambrosia…

She turned to meet his eyes, hers genuinely sympathetic. “I’m so sorry, Dash. I know—when you talked about her. I know that you loved her dearly.”

Dash could only dip his chin.

“I did. Very much.” Losing the last of one’s parents left one feeling somewhat unrooted, rather like one of the cuttings he’d brought over to Ambrosia’s house before he’d replanted it.

“Did she know the nature of your marriage?”

“Yes. When I brought Hannah home, there was no reason to keep it a secret.”

Her only response was a little hum, neither agreement nor disapproval.

Dash’s chest tightened. He wished he could read her mind, but in that moment, she wore her silence like a veil.

She no longer seemed resentful.

Then again, although she hadn’t refused the prospect of meeting Beatrice, she hadn’t welcomed it either.

They came to the river’s edge, where the water caught the sunlight, twinkling.

Ambrosia startled him when she finally spoke.

“I wish I’d brought bread. To feed the swans.” She turned then, meeting his gaze fully, and her next words undid him. “I am glad you helped Lady Hannah. I think… perhaps you were the perfect sort of husband for a woman like her.”

Her voice wavered on the final words, as if it cost her something to say it.

Dash released Guinevere’s reins, letting the mare lower her head to graze. He wanted to take Ambrosia’s hand, to anchor her, but instead he remained at her side, watching the slow ripple of the current.

“Your wife was fortunate,” Ambrosia continued. “She had kind in-laws, and a husband who would not force her into anything that might harm her further. Friendship is a strong foundation for marriage. Yours, it seems, was not… unbearable. For either of you.”

“It was as good a marriage as could be expected.”

Her words cut deeper than she likely intended.

Ambrosia knew too well what an unbearable marriage felt like—she’d been shackled to a sanctimonious brute.

The thought of her suffering at Harrison Bloomington’s hands made Dash’s jaw clench.

He would have happily murdered the bastard himself if death hadn’t already taken him.

But Ambrosia needed to hear this from him, plainly. “Marriage to anyone but you would be unbearable.”

The sound she made was fragile, something caught between a sigh and a sob—like she both longed to hear it and wished he’d never spoken it at all.

He turned her gently, forcing her eyes to meet his. “I do not play at this, Ambrosia. No games. Mon amour … I will not give you up.”

She closed her eyes and, to his astonishment, stepped closer, burying her face against his chest.

His heart nearly shattered.

Dash folded his arms around her, and the world seemed to fall away. All that existed was the feel of her against him.

It was a privilege. One he had forfeited and never expected to know again.

They fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

And though he had reasons for everything—though he could justify each choice he’d made—nothing could erase the truth that walking away from her had been the greatest regret of his life.

Time stood still. He breathed her in, memorizing the fragile weight of her trust.

But then, faint voices drifted across the water, shattering the spell.

Ambrosia stirred, pulling in a sharp breath. With a quiet composure that was almost more heartbreaking than her vulnerability, she stepped back, smoothing her hands down her skirt, not meeting his eyes.

“How is your sister?” she asked at last, her tone carefully casual.

Dash knew that question for what it was—a retreat.

It was her way of protecting herself from falling too far, too fast.

Clearing his throat, he dragged his gaze back to the river.

“She seems to be doing quite well. On her own. I haven’t exactly fulfilled my brotherly obligations.”

Ambrosia tilted her head, watching him sidelong. “And why is that?”

He gave her a wry look, meaning layered in it. “I haven’t exactly spent my time squiring her about for the Season, have I?”

Her lips curved, just slightly. But she did not take the bait.

“I have heard she benefits from the company of Lord Hawkins.”

Dash’s brows shot up before he gave a short, almost rueful laugh. “Good of Hawk.” He nodded, gaze softening as he pictured it. “Of course he would. He knew my attention was… otherwise occupied.”

Ambrosia turned back to the river, where two swans had glided into view, their necks arching gracefully as they drifted side by side. For a quiet moment they both simply watched, the hush between them companionable rather than strained.

Although she said nothing more, Dash felt the echo of her words deep in his chest.

She had noticed. She had cared.

“Let me court you properly. Meet Beatrice. Come visit Dasborough Park. I beg of you.”