Sacrebleu—he never should have told Beatrice about Ambrosia.
Bad enough he’d shared it with Hawk. But she’d noticed the ring he wore on his right hand, and at a particularly low point—one of too many over the past two years—he’d told her the truth.
“You might at least try to make her understand—that you’d already made a commitment, and that you only did what you did so that she might better go on,” Beatrice insisted. “You fancy Mrs. Bloomington holds you in hatred, but if she knew the truth… would she not see differently?”
Dash crossed to the window.
He was a widower now; society would expect him to be in mourning—though men were often granted liberties women were not.
Not that he cared to protect his reputation.
No, what gnawed at him was the question of whether he should go to Ambrosia at all. He’d made his choice two years ago. Walking back into her life now might be the most selfish thing he could do.
But there was a truth, deep inside, that he couldn’t ignore: that he’d known he would go to her from the moment Hannah’s coffin was lowered into the ground.
“I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said at last. Especially with Lark leaving.
“Then take me with you. Let us both go. I’ll help open up Beckman House.”
He tilted his head, studying her. “You would do that?”
And yes—he would be glad to see her step back into the world, even if she was not yet ready to claim her place in society again.
“I can help you win her back, Dash. If you still love her, that is. Let me do this, please? If Lark hadn’t written to me, if I hadn’t come to you about Hannah—about Lord Groby—you might never have lost her. I feel… I need to see you happy.”
His hand closed warmly over hers. “Bea, listen to me. I have never blamed you. Not for a moment. Do you understand? None of this—none of it—is on your shoulders.” His voice softened, but the firmness in it could not be mistaken. “I will not have you think so.”
She held his gaze, silent, searching.
“It has been a difficult year,” she said at last. And he knew she was thinking about their mother’s death. And then Hannah’s.
“But you hate London,” he reminded her.
A faint smile tugged at her lips. “I hated it five years ago.” She gave a delicate shrug, one of the few mannerisms left over from her time in France. “I am not the same girl I was back then. I can even go to Mrs. Bloomington for you?—”
“No.” His tone was gentle, but there was no mistaking the steel beneath it. “If she is there, you must leave her to me. You are not to involve yourself. Is that understood?”
“Yes. So you will take me? We’ll go together?”
They would both be expected to mourn. But perhaps he’d done what was expected of him for far too long.
Beatrice, he knew, couldn’t give two figs for what people thought.
“Very well,” he said at last. “Can you be ready to depart in three days?”
Her smile was the first he’d seen from her in far too long. Even if Ambrosia sent him away, getting away from Dasborough Park might be just what they both needed.
TWO WEEKS LATER
“I cannot simply walk to her door, eh? What do I say? ‘Bonjour, princesse. Remember me, The one who vanished without a word, so I could marry another woman who was in danger because of me? Voilà—I am free again. And also, surprise! I am a duke, not a mere mister. Pardon the little lie.’”
Three nights earlier, Dash, Beatrice, and Hawk had arrived in Mayfair together. Upon reaching the city, they’d gone their separate ways—he and his sister to Beckman House on Curzon Street, Hawk to Hawkins Place on Park Street.
Beatrice had wasted no time throwing Beckman House into a frenzy, determined to bring it up to snuff after years of doing little more than collecting dust. All the activity gave Dash the perfect excuse to get out, leaving him free to walk the short distance to Hawk’s townhouse—close enough for either of them to drop in unannounced.
Now, he sat in Hawk’s study, the scent of polished wood and expensive tea leaves filling the room. Hawk, naturally, had a steaming cup in hand while Dash cradled a glass of brandy. Tall bookshelves lined the walls, flanking a large window that overlooked Park Street, but the mantel was bare save for a single clock—and Hawk himself, leaning against it, enjoying the conversation far too much.
So far, Dash had kept his and Bea’s arrival quiet. Once word got out that the Duke of Dasborough and his sister were in London, the invitations would pour in. Whether they accepted them or not didn’t matter—their mere presence would be thrown to the gossips like fresh meat.
