Page 54 of The Duke that I Lost

PATIENCE TESTED

T he first day of waiting, Dash did nothing but second guess everything he’d done since returning to London.

Should he have let her be? Had the entire mission been driven by his own selfishness? He’d wondered, more than once, if time had distorted his memory—if he’d built their brief week together into something larger than it truly was.

But after holding her again, after feeling as though the world was brighter when she was near, he knew he hadn’t imagined it. His heart had not lied.

He yearned to plan a life with her. To know her dreams—every one of them—and to stand beside her as they became reality.

By the second day, restlessness had him by the throat.

He rode hard, trying to outpace his own thoughts, then found himself at Tattersall’s without intending it.

There, a gentle bay mare caught his eye—perfect for Ambrosia.

He longed to buy the creature on the spot, to have her sent to Autumn House with every saddle and bridle she might ever require.

But he restrained himself. He had said he would wait.

He would keep his word.

On the third day, he let Hawk suffer through his company in that man’s study. Dash drank a heroic share of Hawk’s brandy, while Hawk—smug devil—sipped tea.

“You’ve been mooning for hours,” Hawk finally told him. “And I’ve gone through three pots already. A man can only drink so much tea in solidarity, Beckman. Go home.”

Dash went, though only because he was in no state to argue.

Before the week was out, Beatrice had thrown up her hands entirely.

She watched his pacing, his brooding, his sullen silences—and then simply announced she was going out.

To one party, and then another. With how long she’d been away from Society, it couldn’t have been easy for her, no matter how frustrated or bored she was with him.

He told himself he ought to be proud. Instead, he only felt guilt gnawing at him, knowing he was failing her too.

By then, he was jumpy, irritable, and hardly recognizable even to himself. His usual charm had soured into brittle sulking. He longed for the open fields of home, even if it meant going alone. At least there, he could work. At least there, he could breathe.

But to have her with him…

His hope rose and fell by the hour, leaving him lurching between wild confidence and black despair.

Ten days passed without a word from her, and then…

He broke.

Not enough to seek her out, but enough to return to her garden. To the hothouse. He could work there.

It was something.

The glass and timber stood waiting, but the long worktable was still bare, the tools hung untouched, their shine mocking him.

The task had ironically planted something inside of him. He wanted to learn some horticulture alongside her. Together they could plant, and together they would watch the blossoms burst out in color.

God, she’d had him imagining children, grandchildren, growing old together.

But he’d take what she was willing to give.

If she was willing to give anything.

He dismissed all of the what ifs as he closed the iron gate behind him.

It was almost over. The Season would soon be coming to a close, and then he would finally know. One way or another.

He’d counted on the physical labor, but not the hot, wet heat that had settled upon all of London earlier than usual.

Before the midday sun, even, he’d stripped off his shirt.

Perspiration dripped down his face, but he didn’t allow himself to stop and rest. Working like this made him feel better than anything he’d tried since he’d last seen her.

The pain, the discomfort. It gave him something other than Ambrosia to focus on.

He gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow and shoved it through the doorway of the sweltering hothouse. With a sharp jerk, he tipped it forward, sending a heap of soil spilling across the floor. The barrow crashed back onto its legs, the clang of metal reverberating like the echo of his own fury.

“I hope you weren’t thinking of me while you did that.”

The voice—hers—cut through the thick, damp air.

Dash froze. The world tilted, and holding his breath, he forced himself to turn around.

She’d halted in the entrance, her hesitant expression softened by the filtered sunlight. His body knew her before his mind caught up, and for an instant, relief and anguish struck him at once.

But no—she should not look so worn. The shadows beneath her eyes, the tightness around her mouth—had she known something of his torment? Impossible. She had not been the one left waiting.

And yet… her gaze slipped from his, drifting downward.

A flush bloomed high on her cheeks, delicate but unmistakable. Recognition jolted through him.

That look—he remembered it. Desire, reluctant and unbidden.

The air thickened between them. Her hair was swept into a loose chignon, tendrils brushing her neck, and her gown, simple though it was, left the faintest suggestion of her décolletage exposed.

“Ambrosia…” His voice caught, rougher than he intended. “ Dieu , how are you?” The words sounded paltry for all he had starved on her absence. For weeks she had given him nothing—not even the whisper of a decision. And now, suddenly, here she stood.

“I miss seeing you,” she said, and his breath froze in his chest. She wrapped her arms around her front. “The flowers are beautiful. The shrubs… everything.” And then, “I… can’t stop thinking about you.”

It was all the encouragement he needed to go to her, until they were standing only inches apart.

He wanted to touch her, to hold her, to caress her cheek and smooth away the line between her furrowed brows.

As if it had a mind of its own, his hand reached up to do just that, hovering between them for a few seconds before he forced it down.

“Ambrosia.” His voice didn’t even sound like his own, strangled and weak with emotion. Anticipation, hope, fear, exhaustion.

“Have you decided?”