Page 60 of The Duke that I Lost

FATE

N ot quite a week later, as darkness fell, Dash rode into a village that was all too familiar—the village that was home to the Fainting Goat.

Since he was unwilling to change out his horse, he stopped for longer periods than usual so that Guinevere could rest.

He really didn’t care how long the journey took.

Most nights, he had slept under the stars. Tonight, however, Dash looked forward to a warm bed and perhaps a bath.

He’d best eat too.

Unlike that fateful afternoon when he’d caught Ambrosia ogling him, on this night, there were plenty of rooms readily available to rent. Dash paid the innkeep, took the key, and returned outside so that he could tend to Guinevere.

At least he could take care of the one lady who truly did love him.

“I can do that for you, mister,” a boy’s voice piped up. A scrap of a thing, no more than eight or nine, hair sticking up like straw. “For some coin.”

“I tend my own horse,” Dash replied, flashing a penny, “but this is yours if you fetch me a bucket of water and a cup for myself.”

The lad’s grin spread wide. He darted off, all knees and elbows, and came pelting back with the bucket and cup while Dash hung his saddle over the stall gate and found a brush.

“Here you go, mister! Do you mind if I watch?” The boy scrambled atop a stall wall, legs swinging. “Your horse is big. Bigger than normal horses. And I know she’s a girl. I’m not ignorant, you know.”

Dash’s mouth tugged at one corner despite himself.

“Gosh, but I saw the strangest thing just now,” the boy rattled on. “Behind the inn. A lady had this funny-looking dog. At least, she said it was a dog. She said that it sleeps with its eyes open and its tongue hanging out.” He demonstrated, tongue lolling as his head flopped sideways.

Dash froze, the brush still in his hand.

“Its body was really long, like a sausage,” the boy continued, nodding with authority. “And he was a he, I know that for certain. Like I said, I’m not ignorant. But?—"

“Hold.” Dash’s voice cut sharp. His heart hammered in his chest. “You saw a lady. With a dog. Was he red, with short legs?”

The boy’s grin stretched ear to ear. “You saw him too?”

Dash swayed where he stood. His hand clenched tight around the brush.

It could not be. And yet…

He tossed the brush toward the kid. “You’ve done this before?” And at his nod, “Do your best! I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, mister! Yes sir!” the boy called, but Dash barely heard him. He was already moving, his boots eating up the ground as he rounded the back of the inn.

And there she was.

Ambrosia.

Drifting behind Lancelot, eyes lowered, her skirts whispering over the grass. And though the pup tugged and nosed through the patch of clover, she followed patiently… like an angel.

Dash simply stood there, staring, not quite willing to believe his own eyes.

Had he finally gone mad?

Had the drink, the grief, and the endless miles broken him so thoroughly that he’d conjured her from thin air?

The setting sun gilded her hair, and the breeze pressed her gown to the delicate curves he knew too well.

He could not move.

Could not breathe.

And then Lancelot saw him.

With a sharp yank, the pup tore the lead from Ambrosia’s hand and bounded across the yard, ears and tongue flying, as though he too had been waiting for this moment.

“Ah, bon garcon ,” Dash murmured, falling to one knee as Lancelot leapt at him, slobbering his chin, his ears, his jaw. Dash let the dog lick him raw, one hand braced against the wriggling little body—but his eyes never left her.

Ambrosia had stilled, frozen mid-step, her hand half-raised where the lead had been torn from her grip.

For a long moment she only stared at him, her expression mirroring his own shock.

And then, at last, she spoke.

“Dash?”

The single word shattered the spell. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes—those brilliant green eyes—glittered with unshed tears.

This was real. She was real.

And then, quite suddenly, all color drained from her face, and with a soft sigh, she crumpled onto the grass in a graceful swoon.

“Ambrosia!” Dash was at her side in a heartbeat, and Lancelot circled them anxiously, yipping, until a shadow darted nearer. The stable boy had appeared, wide-eyed, peering at the fallen lady.

“Fetch me water,” Dash barked, clutching her close. “Quickly.”

The boy dashed off, and for a long moment Dash simply held her, shaken to his very core. When he bent his head closer, he breathed in the faint scent of lavender from her hair.

Not a mirage, but his princesse. Warm. In his arms.

Ambrosia’s lashes fluttered, and she stirred, confusion clouding her eyes. “Dash? Where… what?”

“We’re at the Fainting Goat.”

Ambrosia’s eyes widened in shock and then he felt her tense, bracing herself to push upright.

“Not yet,” Dash murmured, pressing on her shoulder. “You just fainted. Take a moment.” His mouth twisted into a grim smile. “And no—we have not gone back in time.”

No matter how much he wished he could some days.

Her gaze lifted to his, and he saw it there—the recognition. Of who she was, who he was, and what this place had meant to both of them.

Just then, the boy came scampering back with a tin cup of water, then disappeared just as quickly.

Dash guided her into a sitting position, his arm firm at her back, and as she drank, some color crept back into her cheeks.

For a while they sat in silence, her fingers trembling against the cup, his hand reluctant to leave her shoulder, both of them too shaken to speak.

At last, she glanced around, then back at him, her eyes luminous with bewilderment.

“I was traveling to Dasborough Park,” she whispered. “I needed to find you…” Her lips parted, trembling on the words. “But… you are here.”

“Is Gr—Lord Grimstead with you?” His voice broke.

God must have a wicked sense of humor—planting the happy couple here, in this inn, tonight, of all the godforsaken places in the world.

But she shook her head quickly. “No. No. I’m alone. Except for my maid and Mr. Daniels, and an outrider, of course.” She blinked hard, several times in a row. “I… I was going—I… I needed to ask you something.”

“Convenient, then. That I am here.” Normally he would have chuckled, but after a beat he simply sighed and shifted, lowering himself onto the ground beside her.

“It is, rather.” Mostly recovered, apparently, she drew her skirts close as she tucked her hugged her knees. Her attempt at a smile, however, faltered miserably.

Then she lifted her face. Mon Dieu. Those eyes—wide, vulnerable, searching.

Dash braced himself.

“Do you…” She licked her lips, hesitation catching on every word. “Have you fallen out of love with me?”

Dash frowned.

“ Merde alors ! Why would you even think that?” Was she mad? “I’ve done nothing but try to show you—prove to you—that I will love you for all my life. Why, in God’s name, would you still doubt me?”

“I went to Beckman House like I said I would.” She held his gaze. “I went to tell you that I wanted to make a life with you. That I loved—that I…that I love you. There was never any choice but you. I finally understood that. But you were gone. You left me again. Without saying goodbye.”

The brothel. Hawkins Place. His infernal wandering. A fresh wave of self-loathing crashed through him.

Enough!

Dash grasped her hands in his and, pushing himself off the ground, pulled her up to stand. When he was sure she was steady, he lowered himself again.

To one knee.

This was him.

Begging.

“ écoute-moi, princesse .” He swallowed hard. “I never stopped loving you. Not for a single moment. Loving you, it is like breathing. And I will not lose you again. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“I did not leave London without saying goodbye,” he said fiercely.

“Beatrice had gone ahead, along with my valet and the luggage coach. Lord Grimstead told me you were leaving with him, but I waited. Mon Dieu , I waited. I would never leave you again without saying goodbye—Hell, I’ll never leave you again, at all!

I’ve learned that lesson well, princesse.

I have only just checked into this inn. You arrived before me. ”

She tilted her head.

“You. Arrived. Before. Me. Do you understand?”

At last she was listening—truly listening. Finally all the walls she’d built up since he’d left two years ago were coming down.

“I thought I’d waited too long,” she said. “I thought I’d lost you forever.” Her eyes met his, luminous, filled with all the love he’d ached for all along.

He could hardly believe his ears. “So you are not traveling with Lord Grimstead?” He needed to hear it again.

She reached down, her palm warm against his jaw. “I could not. From the moment I saw you in the park, I thought only of you. I should have told Lord Grimstead earlier, but I was afraid… Can you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive.” And he meant it.

Her thumb traced the stubble along his jaw, her gaze steady.

“You said you think you must have pushed that boy… at that horrible school. But I know your heart. I know you to be a man who rescues stray animals, who provides comfort to a dying young woman, who protects with everything in him. And I know, somehow, that you could not have hurt that boy deliberately. Not the man I love.”

Later, later he would tell her what Hawk said. For now, he simply needed to listen.

She drew in a trembling breath, her voice quiet, honest. “I think I must have known it from the start. I fell for you, so easily. And after you left, it never made sense. My heart told me who you were, even then… but I doubted it. I doubted myself. So I kept you at arm’s length these past months, because I was afraid—afraid that I might be wrong.

“But I’m not afraid anymore. The only thing I fear now is a life without you.”

She fell silent and a single tear slid down her lashes, curved along her cheek, and dropped onto the ground.

But then her eyes widened. “How did you know I was here?” she asked suddenly.

He hadn’t known. He hadn’t had the faintest idea. For weeks he had lived and breathed only her, yet he’d stumbled into this moment blind.

Still looking up, he gave a small, helpless shake of his head.

“Fate,” he said simply. “Luck, fortune—whatever it was that brought us together in the first place. When I left London, I was dead inside, certain I had lost your trust, your love, forever. I was on my way home to lick my wounds.”

Her lips parted, her eyes gone a little hazy. “Then it was… destiny.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. Dieu , he loved this about her—the way she could look at the world with that mix of innocence and conviction, as though even pain might hold some secret meaning. “I think it must have been.”

“She was right, then.” Ambrosia’s voice broke as Dash lifted both of his hands to cradle her face.

“Who was right, princesse ?”

“The fortune teller who read our tea leaves,” she whispered.

“She told me I would have what I sought in the near future, but that I would go without for a long time. In the end, though, she said I would have it again. And she was right. I loved you that one night, and then I went so long not knowing where you had gone, what you had done, or if you even lived. But she said I would have all I wanted again—and here you are.”

Her eyes glistened. “You do forgive me, don’t you? For doubting you?”

“I do.” He brushed his thumb over the band on her finger. “This ring. I want to replace it with a real one. Marry me, mon c?ur. Say you’ll marry me .” He swallowed the emotion that was thick in his throat.

“Of course.” Ambrosia let out a shaky laugh. “But I don’t want another ring. Just this one. It was perfect the moment I put it on. It’s… all I ever wanted.”

“Is that a yes?”

Her tears spilled freely now, her smile radiant through them. “Yes. A thousand times yes. If you’ll still have me.”

Something inside him gave way—years of restraint, pain, longing—shattering into joy.

Dash shot to his feet, and as he pulled her into his arms, a rough sound escaped from his throat.

Enfin . It was time.

He kissed her like a starving man, sealing her yes with the only language he trusted: raw, trembling, desperate love.

When he finally broke the kiss, he pressed his brow to hers, laughter and tears tangling in his throat.

“Fate, chance, whatever devilry was at work—I don’t care. I’ve got you. Mon c?ur … I’ve got you. At last.”

“And I, my dear Mr. Beckman, have you,” Ambrosia whispered. “ Mon c?ur, mon ame, ma vie . My heart, my soul, my life.”