Page 9 of The Duke that I Lost

A HEARTY brEAKFAST

“J ust tea and toast, please.” Ambrosia smiled stiffly at the maid who was doing her best to capture Mr. Beckman’s attention by bending forward, her bubbies almost spilling out of her bodice.

The woman barely looked at her. “And you, sir?”

“Eggs, kidneys, porridge, some toast, jam and currant cakes, and pastries if you have them. Spare nothing, ma jolie . I want the whole of it.” Mr. Beckman grinned. Of course, he must be used to this as a single, attractive gentleman.

Mr. Beckman’s hair had been brushed and tied back neatly this morning, making the blue of his eyes stand out even more than it had yesterday, and he exuded a distinctly masculine scent, cleaner today, but still spicy and still… unfairly toe-curling.

He’d said he would kiss her.

But she could not allow that.

So why was she bristling? Why was she imagining him kissing some other woman? It didn’t matter. Not to her. Why should it? He could kiss whomever he pleased.

…It was only that he’d brought it up last night—teased her, really—and her mind had foolishly latched onto the idea. That was all.

Still…

“I’ll have it out for you straightaway, luv. And if you’ve a mind for anything else—anything at all—you’ve only to ask.” The maid winked. And as she sashayed out of the private dining room, there was an exaggerated sway to her hips.

As soon as she had gone, Ambrosia turned to Mr. Beckman. “You must be very hungry to have ordered so much.”

“ Oui , but it’s not all for me. I intend to share it with you.”

But… “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Beckman. I will have my toast.” Ambrosia shook her head then, her mother’s voice and Harrison’s and Winifred’s reprimands ringing in her ears. “Gluttony is a sin.”

Of course, he laughed at that.

“Is that why you’re hungry all of the time?”

“I’m not hungry all of the time.” The minute the words left her lips, however, she wondered if he wasn’t right.

“You ask for food. You look at it. You touch it, but I’ve noticed you rarely eat it. If you would simply eat a little more, you would not feel so inordinately deprived.”

Ambrosia peered at him. “For such a short acquaintance, you make rather bold claims about me.”

He shrugged, maddeningly unbothered. “I notice things.”

Not particularly wishing to discuss anything else he might have noticed, Ambrosia turned the conversation. “Do you know where we are?”

“We’re nearing Bristol. Two, maybe three days from London.” And then he tilted his head. “You’ve really never been to London?”

“I have not. But I’m hoping my late husband’s solicitor will provide me with a few names in Mayfair, so that I might be introduced to society.

I’ll need connections in order to become a patroness of the arts.

” The idea hadn’t sounded nearly so outlandish in her head, but saying it aloud now, she felt rather na?ve. “But I have no expectations.”

He studied her thoughtfully, frowning. His answer both surprised and pleased her. “You’ll do just fine, Madame Bloomington.”

“I have always wished for a flower garden,” she said, her voice soft with a kind of wistful wonder.

“Roses, tulips, lilies—blooms for no reason but their beauty.” She hesitated, then her chin lifted a fraction.

“But Harrison—Mr. Bloomington—declared flowers a waste, and allowed me only vegetables. Well… he is gone now.” Her gaze sharpened.

“So when I am settled, I shall plant whatever I please, and watch it grow—simply because I want to.”

He stared at her intently as she spoke, as though what she said actually mattered.

“And what kind of flowers will you plant, princesse ?”

Ambrosia’s lips curved thoughtfully. “Well, my first task will be to plant some summer-blooming bulbs—lilies, anemones, and perhaps a cluster of alliums—so there’s color in the months ahead.

But I’d also like to get some perennials established.

Something enduring. Foxgloves and delphiniums for height, lavender to scent the air… ”

Her voice drifted slightly as the vision took hold.

“And once the bones of the garden are in place, I shall fill in every gap with cheerful annuals—sweetpeas and snapdragons, pansies and petunias, in every shade of the rainbow. Perhaps, one day, I’ll even have a hot house built.

Then I could grow something truly exotic… orchids, maybe. Or citrus trees.”

Just then, the maid returned with a tray laden with food, setting it down before Mr. Beckman with such indifference to Ambrosia’s presence that it was almost comical.

Mr. Beckman grinned as the woman displayed more cleavage than was proper for any reputable establishment.

“My toast?” Ambrosia asked when the lady had been assured that the gentleman had all of the utensils and condiments and sauces he could possibly need.

“Might I have some—” But she found herself addressing the maid’s backside. “…jam?” Ambrosia crossed her arms, glaring down at scorched toast. It was more charcoal than breakfast. “This is not amoosing ,” she muttered.

Across the table, Mr. Beckman didn’t say a word. Instead, he lifted his fork, slow and deliberate, collecting a bite thick with meat, poached egg, and buttery potatoes.

And then he held it out across the table between them.

… For her.

Right. He’d mentioned he intended to share.

But. Ambrosia was torn.

He tilted the fork forward, the fragrant bite hovering just in front of her mouth.

When she parted her lips, he slipped it past them with a smug kind of ease.

The flavor was warm and decadent, rich with salt and butter and savory textures. Her eyes fluttered shut before she could stop them. She chewed, swallowed, and only then did she open her eyes again.

She glanced up, startled to find Mr. Beckman watching her. His gaze was darker than usual, his lids heavy, as though he had drifted somewhere far away. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his breath seemed to catch before he spoke, low and unsteady.

“ My poor heart …” he murmured, so softly she might have imagined it.

“This food. It is delicious,” she conceded, flustered.

“First no kisses, now no proper breakfast—were you his wife or his prisoner, princesse ?”

She ignored his question. “I’ve never had this. What is it?”

He held his fork out to her so that she could take another bite.

“Kidneys and potatoes. They were one of my grandmother’s favorites—my father’s mother. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven the first time I tried it.”

He scooped a mouthful for himself, eating off the same utensil he’d fed her with. Eating from the same utensil as this handsome stranger struck Ambrosia, once again, as being unimaginably intimate.

And yet she pushed her toast aside, reached over, and stabbed her fork into a piece of kidney and egg from Mr. Beckman’s plate. She expected some sort of mocking comment, but he apparently was exercising self-restraint this morning.

Even if she was not.

“Out with it,” she demanded.

His brows lifted, a slow smile forming. “Out with what?”

She dropped her gaze to her plate, her voice tightening.

“You think I don’t notice, but I do. Every time I try to speak for myself, every time I make a decision—you smile.

As though I’m some child to be indulged.

I am trying, Mr. Beckman. I am doing my best to stand on my own two feet, to be independent.

And I would rather you not laugh at me for it. ”

She paused, then lifted her hand in a small, helpless gesture that encapsulated the room, the inn, the world beyond. “All of this—the travel, being on my own—it’s completely foreign to me. And you just sit there and grin, as if I’m a child playing at being grown.”

Her voice had shrunk to something small and tight by the end, and when she stopped, she didn’t dare look at him.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, softly: “I’m not laughing at you.”

Her eyes flicked up, uncertain.

“I smile because you… surprise me,” he continued, slower now, choosing his words with unusual care. “You say things no lady would ever say. You’re bold one moment and flustered the next and—” He huffed a quiet breath, his brow tugging. “It’s not mockery. It’s… delight.”

He seemed almost confused by the word, as if it had chosen itself.

“I find you delightful,” he added, more firmly now.

Ambrosia’s breath caught. Her fork stilled halfway to her mouth.

“Oh.”

But that was all she could manage.

He nodded.

“So you really don’t mind traveling with me?”

“ Madame Bloomington .” His voice was a low, velvet rumble.

“While I regret being separated from Guinevere, I cannot say I’m entirely sorry—not if it led me to make your acquaintance.

For that, I am... truly grateful.” His gaze held hers for a moment.

“You, ma petite , are sweet and disarmingly innocent. There’s a lightness in you—a surprising optimism, especially for someone who, from what I gather, was so carelessly mistreated by the very man who should have treasured you most.” He gave a small shake of his head.

“Monsieur Bloomington did not deserve you.”

“God rest his soul,” Ambrosia murmured out of habit.

“God rest his soul,” he repeated after her, albeit with more than a little amusement in his voice.

Ambrosia set her fork down, blinking away the stinging in her eyes. Stinging that had nothing to do with Harrison Bloomington’s passing.

“Thank you, Mr. Beckman.”

“You are welcome. However…if you insist upon making those sounds while eating off of my plate, I may not uphold the promise I made to you.”

The promise that he wouldn’t kiss her. Last night. He’d only promised not to kiss her last night .

Ambrosia smiled to herself and deliberately took another bite from his plate, closing her eyes and letting out a tiny sigh as the flavors hit her tongue once again. When she opened her eyes, there was no laughter in his. And then he growled.

This time, it was Ambrosia who laughed.

* * *