Page 8 of The Duke that I Lost

A FRENCH HEART

D ash bit back a bemused chuckle. “Your English is very good as well…” Ha! One should hope so. By this point, he’d spent more of his life on this side of the channel than the other.

“My father was English, but he met my mother in Paris,” Dash said. “She was young. Lovely. He was supposed to be passing through. But he lingered. After a hasty marriage, they lived near her family’s estate outside Rouen, initially.”

She looked intrigued. “Is that near Normandy?”

“ Oui ,” he said, staring into his glass. “In the North. Rouen is not unlike England, actually. Damp. Grey skies. But nothing like Northern England, thank God.”

Ambrosia smiled faintly. “Did your French grandparents own land?”

He nodded. “They were in textiles. Cotton, mostly. Dyes, weaving. Her father owned three mills along the river. It was,” he paused, “Lucrative.”

“But he still brought his family home to England?”

“Not exactly.” Dash’s mouth curved without humor.

“My father left France alone.” Left my mother.

Left me. “ My English grandfather insisted his son return to Dasborough Park, to learn his duty, just as later he demanded of me.” His voice roughened on the last word.

“I was two and ten when he appeared again, as if from nowhere. I had no choice but to return with him to England—to attend Eton, as he had done.”

“Was this because of the war?” Her brow creased with curiosity. “Was Rouen vulnerable to attack?

“Rouen was…strategic,” he said. “Trade moved through the Seine, so there was always some risk. But he had other reasons.”

“What about your mother?”

“She followed a few years later, before enemy troops came through. She didn’t say so, but I think she feared her welcome in France had grown as uncertain as her place in England.”

Ambrosia lowered her fork. “That must have been terribly confusing. Growing up between two worlds like that.”

Dash’s gaze drifted to her, then back to his plate.

He shrugged, and silence fell.

“So,” she asked softly, “do you consider yourself English or French?”

He looked up. In the candlelight, her eyes reflected a gentleness that disarmed him.

“My head is English,” he said at last. “But my heart… I think it will always be French.”

The admission sat oddly on his tongue. Sentimental. Unpractical. And yet undeniably true. He had always felt things deeply—more than was wise, actually.

She was watching him again—quiet, thoughtful. “Wartime would have been difficult for your family.”

Dash reached for his ale, taking a long swallow before answering.

“I purchased a commission,” he said. “Infantry. I did my training at Sandhurst. Joined my regiment just as they were posted to Brussels.”

He paused, eyes fixed on the rising steam. That part was easy enough to say. The rest?—

“But my father was dying.” He said it with a quiet finality, and picked up his fork. “And I was recalled to England.”

A pause.

“I see,” Ambrosia said.

His grimaced. “I sat with him until the end. Along with my mother and sister. But he had more than enough time to speak of our legacy, to leave his instructions. I made… promises.”

He shook his head, taking another bite of bread. By God, he never went on about himself like this.

Across the table, Madame Bloomington took a slow, thoughtful sip from her drink.

Dash willed her to change the subject, but then nearly laughed out loud at how she did just that.

“Will your mother and sister be meeting you in Margate for your birthday, and your… wife?” Her question—lightly delivered, was far too casual to be careless.

The answer was far more complicated than it should have been.

“I am not married, princesse .” He lowered his voice. “If that is what you were getting at.” It was not a lie.

He tapped his fingers on the table, noting a warm flush crawl up her neck. Her gaze darted around the room and then landed on his hands.

Ambrosia Bloomington was something of an enigma. Not nearly as composed as she liked to pretend.

“Did you call your horse—Gwennie?” she asked abruptly, clearly redirecting the subject yet again. “It’s an unusual name for a horse, is it not?”

“Short for Guinevere.” He grimaced. “My sister named her. I would have gone with something less tragic.”

“And your sister—Is she older? Younger?”

“Younger by two years—a stubborn little thing,” he replied, though his tone carried nothing but affection. “The two of you would get along swimmingly.”

The image struck him—his wild, outspoken sister and this tidy little widow who blushed at half his remarks. And yet… he could see it.

“Is she married?”

“No.” Dash was temporarily distracted by Madame Bloomington’s mouth when she licked her lips.

She glanced up, catching him.

… And there was that blush again.

“Tell me, princesse , if dear old Harry made a real marriage with you,” Dash said, “Why do you blush so easily?”

Her gaze dropped. “Because… I haven’t.”

“Haven’t?”

“Been… kissed.”

Dash choked. Full stop. He set his glass down and coughed into his napkin.

“But…” What the devil? “You’re joking.”

She was studiously slicing her carrot again, gaze downcast.

Mon Dieu. She wasn’t joking.

“I don’t really joke, Mr. Beckman,” she said softly.

“Of course.” In that moment, she seemed to fold in on herself, her spark dimming.

Dash didn’t like it.

He leaned forward, voice gentle, coaxing. “Ah, but I have seen you tease, princesse . You jest when you are in a race. When you take a gentleman’s hand to assist you to your feet.”

The corners of her mouth twitched despite herself.

“I suppose I do—sometimes. But not about this.” She twisted her napkin nervously. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

The pieces she gave him did not fit neatly together. If her marriage had not been white… then how, in God’s name, could she have never been kissed?

But no—he could imagine the answer. Mon Dieu .

And yet here she sat before him.

Dreadfully na?ve. Fiercely determined. Frighteningly unafraid.

And un-kissed.

Perhaps their meeting truly had been fate.

“I cannot allow such a sad injustice to stand,” he said lightly, though his chest felt strangely tight. “Remind me again—how old did you say you were?”

She frowned. “Six and twenty.”

“Six and twenty,” he repeated, shaking his head as if in mock despair. “A travesty. Six and twenty, widowed, and never been kissed? Princesse , that is a crime against nature. Yes, I think we shall most definitely have to remedy that.”

Her head snapped up, her green eyes blazing. “Absolutely not, Mr. Beckman.”

“No?” He didn’t even try hiding his grin, pleased to see her eyes light up again. “Come now, Madame Bloomington, admit it. You’ve wanted a kiss since you watched me through that window.”

She was blinking almost frantically.

“No! I mean, well, perhaps.” Mon pauvre c?ur! She was priceless. “But you mustn’t say things like that, Mr. Beckman. It isn’t…” She glanced around the empty room and leaned forward. “ You just shouldn’t.”

Perhaps.

“You would deny us both?” Dash teased, even though the room was feeling much warmer now.

“If you kissed me, then—I could not allow you to escort me to London. It would not be proper… I mean, I know that, already, our dealings are likely frowned upon, despite the fact that I am a widow and all. But… I would judge myself…”

The hint of shame in her tone sobered him. She wasn’t warning him off—she was protecting herself.

“You prefer to go on without me?” he asked, softly now.

“Oh, no.” She bit her lip, and he watched the motion far too closely. “I appreciate the added safety of your presence. And… I don’t want you to miss your party.”

Safety . Perhaps not so na?ve.

“And…” she added shyly, “for all that, I rather like your company.”

The resulting ache in his chest was unexpected. “I rather like your company too, Madame Bloomington.” He reached for his napkin, trying not to stare at her mouth this time. “You are safe from my kiss… but only for tonight.”

“I—pardon?” she asked, blinking at him.

He stood, pushing his chair back with deliberate ease. “Come now, ma chère .” He walked to her side and extended a hand. “Even independent women must pause for sleep.”

She hesitated—just for a breath—before placing her hand in his. Her fingers were small, cool, but not trembling. Good.

He helped her rise, and then offered his arm for the short walk to her room.

She took it.

They said nothing as they walked along the corridor, her perfume—lavender and lemon—alluring in its innocence.

Much like her.

She made him forget. Far too easily.

Why he was traveling. The responsibility that awaited him in Margate.

The crime behind it all. His.

And yet, this little game of flirtation? It was nothing. Harmless. A last hurrah for him, a leap into the future for her.

Still, it pleased him more than it should, the way her eyes shone when she tried teasing him, the stubborn jut of her chin when he pushed too far. He would keep playing, so long as she welcomed the game.

At her door, she relinquished his arm and retrieved her key, all wide eyes and that infernal polite smile that did not fool him one bit.

“Goodnight, Madame Beckman,” he said, letting the accent linger with intention.

“ Bloomington ,” she corrected automatically.

“Yes, that’s what I said.” He smiled, not bothering to hide it.

He wasn’t touching her. He hadn’t even moved, but his gaze drifted to her mouth and stuck there.

She stared right back at him, every bit the determined little widow. And then there it was… her conscience.

“Goodnight, Mr. Beckman,” she murmured, quieter now.

He inclined his head, watching as she slipped inside and closed the door. He didn’t turn until he heard the sound of the lock sliding into place.

And as he made his way back to the stairs, he exhaled through his nose and ran a hand down his face. She was sweet. Soft. A little too trusting. And yet…

There was steel in her, too.

As he made up the cot in the back of the kitchen, he refused to admit that Ambrosia Bloomington might be anything more than a temporary distraction.