He’d told Ambrosia his name—his full name, no less—but not his title.
So she might make the connection, and better she hear it from him than from a stranger—or worse, read it in some bloody broadsheet, likely paired with news of the Duchess of Dasborough’s death.
The thought of her finding out that way curdled in his gut.
Dash scrubbed a hand down his face.
He needed to approach her carefully. Strategically. With the proper timing. The moment had to be perfect.
“Why not?” Hawk drawled, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “The facts aren’t going to change. If she loves you, she’ll get over it. Regardless, she can’t forgive you if you persist in sulking in corners like some moon-eyed poet.”
Dash lowered his hand and shot his friend a look. “I’m not sulking.”
“No? Then what do you call sitting here with me, drinking brandy, instead of knocking on her door?” Hawk gestured about the room, eyebrows lifted. “You could be halfway through your apology by now.”
“You make it sound so bloody simple.”
“It is bloody simple. You find the woman, tell her you were an arse, and then persuade her you’re not one anymore.” Hawk’s grin widened. “If you require assistance with the persuading, I’ve a few pointers.”
Dash snorted. “You forget, mon ami, I am well acquainted with your exploits. Do spare me the advice.”
“Then you forfeit the advantage.” Hawk raised his cup and took a slow, deliberate sip, the very picture of smug restraint.
Dash’s smile faded. “You say she is unmarried. But I must be certain she isn’t… otherwise engaged.” He dragged a hand across his jaw. A widow was free to choose her course; he had no claim. Yet the thought of her giving her smiles to another man—his chest tightened at it.
“I need to see her first,” he said quietly. “I need to see…” His words faltered. See if she was happy? If she had changed? If his traitorous heart would leap the instant she entered a room?
When he looked up, Hawk was watching him, hazel eyes marked with a complicated mixture—disappointment, yes, but also pity. He set his cup aside and reached for his hat.
“In that case, Your Grace.” He laced the honorific with just enough derision to turn it into an affectionate insult. “I’ve visits of my own to make, so I’ll leave you to polish this… exceedingly well-thought-out plan of yours.”
At the door, Hawk paused, hand resting on the knob. His expression softened; the sharpness easing though his words did not. “I’ve known you a long time, Dash. You’ve always had your pride, and you’ve been an arrogant bastard more than once. But you are my friend—and I never thought I’d see the day you mistook cowardice for caution.”
Hawk left without waiting for an answer.
Dash stared at the door long after it closed. His jaw tightened, the knot in his gut coiling tighter. He wasn’t a coward. By God, he wasn’t.
An hour later, dressed in rough clothes borrowed from Hawk’s gardener and with a cap pulled low over his brow, Dash made his way to Audley Street, where Ambrosia lived.
He knew the house well—he’d overseen the last-minute renovations before her arrival—but he didn’t walk up to the door. Instead, to avoid drawing attention, he crouched a few houses down, appearing for all the world to be occupied with No. 14’s garden.
He spent a couple of minutes pulling some stubborn weeds out of the otherwise riotously blooming flowerbed. “Foutue racine.” Dirt packed under his nails as he gave it a final, vindictive wrench and tossed it aside, his gaze sliding—yet again—to her door.
Nothing. Not a flicker of movement.
This might be a bloody waste of time.
He abandoned the ruse with an explosive sigh, and pulled out his timepiece. Nearly half past four. If she meant to drive in the park today, she’d need to leave soon. And if she wasn’t going…
The faint, rhythmic clatter of wheels on cobblestones cut through his thoughts.
He stilled, head tilted, listening as the sound grew louder. A dark barouche came into view, the kind of vehicle a man chose when he had both money and taste. It drew to a smooth stop before the house numbered seventeen—Ambrosia’s house—and the passenger stepped down.
Tall, well turned out, his coat cut to perfection, the brim of his hat shadowing his face. The man moved toward the steps with practiced grace—until that grace broke, ever so slightly, into a familiar hitch.
The limp.
And then Carrington, Dash’s former butler, opened the door and greeted the visitor as though welcoming a regular guest. The man glanced up, and Dash’s stomach gave a sharp twist.
