Page 7 of The Duke that I Lost

DINNER WITH MR. BECKMAN

A mbrosia closed the door behind her, turned the key in the lock, and after lighting a few candles, let out an enormous sigh. The room was small and spare—a single bed, a modest vanity, a narrow window overlooking the inn yard, and a hard-backed chair.

But it was blessedly hers. Hers alone.

And although she’d resorted to less than honorable methods to acquire it, she had won.

Her heart gave a little hum, pleased with itself.

Upon stumbling into the inn behind her and discovering that Ambrosia had, in fact, landed the last room available, Mr. Beckman had grumbled something about a cot in the kitchen. But he hadn't complained further. In fact, he’d seemed more amused than angry. And… she hadn’t expected that.

In fact, while she’d finished paying the innkeeper and then waited for the key, Mr. Beckman had chatted amiably with the innkeeper’s wife.

He hadn’t even fussed over the manure.

Which was all over her skirts.

Ambrosia glanced down at herself and grimaced. The brown mess caked on the hem, and seeping into her bottom… was not mud.

Still picturing Mr. Beckman’s unflappable demeanor, Ambrosia stripped off her gloves, peeling them delicately from her fingers and wincing at their condition. Then, lifting each foot with care, she tugged off her half boots—one, then the other—trying not to gag as they came free.

Ambrosia imagined the look on Winifred’s face if she could see her now. The thought almost made her laugh.

But then, rolling down one of her poor ruined stockings, she paused. How long had it been since she’d sought no one’s approval?

For the past eighteen months, Ambrosia had lived beneath the suffocating rule of her husband’s brother and his dreadful wife, Milton and Winifred. Before that, she’d endured eight soul-draining years as the wife of Harrison Bloomington.

She had been dutiful. Pious. Unquestioning.

Now, she was standing half-naked in an inn room, one that she’d won by less than respectable tactics, and she was… smiling.

Shaking her head, she unfastened her bodice and then shimmied out of the dress, careful to touch as little as possible as she carefully stepped out of it.

And then, wearing nothing but her stays and chemise, Ambrosia deposited the bundle in the far corner. She wouldn’t be able to clean it completely, but she’d do her best. Everything would need time to dry if she wanted to pack it away for travel the next morning.

But no, she checked her thoughts, noting that her underclothes had remained relatively unscathed. She could leave whenever she wanted. She could sleep until noon if that suited her fancy.

For the first time in her life, Ambrosia was on her own schedule. If Mr. Beckman wished to continue traveling with her, he was simply going to have to wait.

Another satisfying thought.

After scrounging through her valise, Ambrosia crossed to the washbasin, uncorked her little bottle of lemon-lavender oil, and poured a liberal amount into the cool water.

The scent was crisp and sweet, a small comfort as she began to scrub herself down, rinsing her calves, her arms, her hands, her neck—until the worst of the grime was gone and she felt almost human again.

Once clean—or clean-ish—Ambrosia slipped into a dark rose walking gown. Not lavender. Not grey.

Only then did she eye her reflection.

“Who… are you?”

The woman in the glass bore little resemblance to the one who’d set out from Rockford Beach just days ago. Her auburn hair was wild around her face, her cheeks flushed, her lips glistening. And her eyes… they sparkled with something unfamiliar.

There was a hint of her usual uncertainty, of fear. But there was also excitement… freedom.

And this was only the beginning of her new life.

She would not just sit in her room all night. She would seek out the innkeeper’s wife and ask about a quiet place where a young woman traveling alone could take a meal. These were the sort of things she needed to get used to now.

Her heart all but skipped a beat when a knock sounded at the door.

"Who is it?" she called out, pausing mid-motion.

"It’s me."

He didn’t bother to say his name—so sure that she’d know exactly who he might be.

He wasn’t wrong.

Still, she didn’t unlatch the door right away, speaking through it instead. "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Beckman?"

"You can open the door, Madame Bloomington..." The low drawl of his voice curled right through the wood. He would persist—of that she had no doubt.

She crossed to the door, fingers oddly clumsy at the latch, and pulled it inward just a crack?—

Only for him to push it the rest of the way open and stroll inside like he owned the place.

Ambrosia blinked.

He looked…different.

The linen shirt beneath his coat was clean. His brown hair looked darker—washed, apparently—combed back and tied into a que at the nape of his neck. However, it didn’t appear as though he’d bothered to shave, the shadow along his jaw having deepened into something just shy of a beard.

It made him… more rakish.

More handsome .

She was still staring as he made a slow circuit of the small room, casually inspecting the decor as though it required his approval.

And then his gaze landed on her.

“Your hair is the perfect color,” he said.

“My hair?” Ambrosia had forgotten she’d let it down and reached up in surprise, as though she could cover it.

“?a fait chanter le vert de tes yeux,” he said softly—makes the green in your eyes sing. But then he clasped his hands behind his back, as if remembering his purpose. “I’ve secured a private dining room for us.”

Ambrosia raised her brows. A cot in the back of the kitchen, but…

a private dining room? He would have indeed had to have charmed the innkeeper—or his wife, more likely—to have landed such a luxury.

The night before, she’d taken her meal in her chamber.

She’d not realized how vulnerable a lady felt in a room of mostly men, unchaperoned.

And yet, Ambrosia was a widow. Which meant dining alone with him would not be such an exceptional circumstance.

“You will join me, no?”

“I—Yes. No, I mean, I wouldn’t mind. Just allow me to…” She reached behind her head to wind her hair into a knot, all the while feeling his eyes on her.

“It ought to be a crime, to cover what was meant to set the world alight.” He sighed as she secured it with a few pins.

Absurd!

Throughout the entirety of her marriage, she’d never once put up, nor let down, her hair in front of her husband. Therefore, at any second, she expected Mr. Beckman to excuse himself, promising to return shortly.

Instead, he casually claimed a seat on the end of her bed.

“I might as well wait here.” He had his hands behind him, lounging as he eyed her. “Seeing as I am without a room…”

She ought to send him away, but his words pricked at her guilt. And besides, if she intended to be an independent woman, she was going to have to find more courage within herself. She was not a green girl, a debutante. The same rules did not apply to widows.

She pushed one last pin into her coiffure and, after slipping her bare feet into her slippers, turned to face him.

“I am ready. Thank you.”

But the dratted man was still smirking. “You blush far too much for a woman who has been married.”

“I’m not blushing.” Even though she was. Then, recalling his accusation earlier, added, “And Mr. Bloomington did exist, I assure you.” Wishing her shawl hadn’t been relegated to the pile of soiled laundry, Ambrosia folded her arms in front of her.

“You’re far too young to be a widow.” He continued reclining casually on the bed, and simply studied her. “I wonder… If it wasn’t you who killed your husband, who was it?”

She ignored his question. “Shall we go down now, Mr. Beckman?”

With a shake of his head, he seemed to give up his teasing.

For now, anyhow.

As they made their way downstairs and then took their seats in the small but elegant dining room, they were mostly silent. It wasn’t until one of the maids had poured Ambrosia a cup of tea and brought Mr. Beckman an ale that Ambrosia gave into some of her own curiosity.

“For one who has shared nothing about himself, you ask the most impertinent questions. Why are you required to be in Margate this weekend?”

“An appointment. How old are you, Madame Bloomington?”

His answer wasn’t as forthcoming as she might have wished but, in all fairness… “I am six and twenty. How old are you?”

At this he laughed. “Old. Ancient. Beyond my prime.” And then at her scowl, “I shall be thirty on Saturday.”

Ambrosia watched him closely. “Your appointment, then, has something to do with your birthday?”

He smiled and lifted his glass as though in a toast. “I am expected at… a party.”

“So you have family in Margate?” she pressed.

He seemed to mull over her question before answering. “I suppose you could say that.” What on earth did that mean? “Do you have family in London?”

“No, just… the townhouse.”

“But not an heiress?”

Ambrosia had to fight to contain an unladylike snort. “Only in the most technical sense, I suppose.” At his questioning look, she added, “I was not the intended recipient, you see. I’m the beneficiary of a clerical error on Mr. Bloomington’s part.”

Harrison had mistakenly left Autumn House to her when he’d signed off that ‘all of his worldly belongings not designated to others be left to his loving and devoted wife’.

The first mistake was that, when he’d written the words “loving and devoted wife” he’d been referring to his first wife—who was now long since passed away.

The second being that the townhouse, along with a trust to cover staffing and maintenance, had somehow been omitted from the properties listed to go to his brother.

When the oversight had come to light, and Ambrosia did not object, her brother and sister-in-law had acted as though Ambrosia was electing to leave them destitute—they were not—instead of simply choosing to take advantage of the first hint of good fortune she’d seen in years.

Winifred had turned a dark shade of purple.

Milton had clutched his chest. The dramatics had been pointed and unceasing for the entirety of her time under their care.

Mr. Beckman was watching her over his glass of ale. “So it was fate?”

“It was the devil’s work, according to my brother-in-law.” Ambrosia exhaled. “If you ask him, he’ll tell you I’m a sorceress.” She had discussed this with no one but Mr. Moyers, the solicitor, and Mrs. Tuttle, of course.

To fulfill the requirements of the will, for more than a year, she’d remained living with two individuals who resented her very existence.

When they had deigned to show her any kindness, those moments had been poorly veiled attempts to persuade her to do ‘the right thing,’ and that that would be to revert her inheritance to Milton, of course.

The eighteen months since Harrison’s death had been long and tense.

Watching her dining companion now—so at ease, so unaffected—Ambrosia couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever feel that way herself.

It was strange, yes, but also liberating, to speak of these things with someone who was not quite a stranger… someone who had no personal stake in any of it.

“ Are you… une sorcière, madame ?"

Ambrosia shook her head. “If I was, I’d have worked my magic years ago.” She grimaced.

Mr. Beckman’s eyes were twinkling. “Perhaps you ought to have murdered him after all.”

“You shouldn’t…” Ambrosia shook her head. “He was well into his sixth decade. He died of infirmities and old age.”

Watching Harrison take his last breath, though, Ambrosia could not say she hadn’t felt some measure of relief, if not satisfaction. In that moment, as she’d felt the shackles of her long and arduous marriage at last fall away, she’d vowed never to marry again.

“Were you his porcelain doll, then?” Mr. Beckman asked, tearing a chunk from the loaf of bread between them.

Ambrosia blinked. “What do you mean?”

He offered a lazy shrug. “Was it a marriage of convenience? No… passion?”

As the meaning behind his question became clear, her jaw dropped. “That’s entirely inappropriate?—!”

“That is not a ‘no’.” His smile tilted. “A white marriage, then.”

Heat surged into her cheeks so fast it made her ears burn. “I will thank you not to speculate on matters that are none of your concern.”

“Too late, ma chère . I have my answer.”

“You are wrong, you know.” The words barely escaped before Ambrosia snapped her mouth closed. Unfortunately, her marriage had been real… in every way. But such talk was completely unsuitable for the dinner table—with a strange man, no less! And yet, he’d somehow managed to pry it out of her.

Mr. Beckman swallowed his food, taking a moment to study her, and then he murmured something under his breath, so softly that Ambrosia wasn’t sure quite sure she’d heard him right. “ You look like a maiden who’s never been kissed,” was what she thought he said, but that couldn’t…

“Pardon?”

“You are missed, no? By your friends?”

“Oh, yes. Or, well—not really, you know.” She shook her head.

“I suppose my sister-in-law, Winifred, seemed rather to enjoy having me around. If only to know there was someone who might listen to her complaints and bear witness to her piousness.” The last was accompanied by an uncharacteristically forceful stab of her fork into the small cut of meat on her plate.

Oh, but she sounded like the most ungrateful woman who ever lived. “I apologize,” she tacked on a little belatedly. “I shouldn’t say such things about Harrison’s family. You must think me a bitter old widow.”

He tilted his head, a funny expression on his face. “No, I don’t actually. Not old, certainly, and just a little bitter. I rather think one has a right to complain a little every now and again—when the circumstances warrant it, of course. And yours… well.”

Ambrosia wasn’t sure how to respond that.

“Even so,” she said, attempting to gather herself. “Enough about me. You’ve not told me anything about your family, Mr. Beckman. It’s obvious that French is your first language—though your English is very good as well,” she hastened to add, not wanting to offend. “Did you grow up in France?”