“Oh! And Mrs. Bloomington!” one of them cried, as if the entire scene required just that final catastrophe.
“Hello!” Ambrosia’s voice carried over the path, bright and clear—and aimed, God help him, in their direction. Mr. Dog, the loyal little traitor, gave a sharp tug on the lead and strained toward Dash as though he’d just spotted a long-lost friend.
He could still turn and walk away. Fade into the crowd, pretend he hadn’t heard, hadn’t seen. But Hawk’s words about cowardice whispered in his ear, needling him.
So Dash squared his shoulders and prepared to weather the storm.
And then raised a hand in Lady Longstaffe’s direction, crossing the path toward the small cluster of women.
Lady Zelda was already in the midst of conversation with Ambrosia… who had gone utterly still, her gaze locked on him as if she were staring at an apparition. All trace of warmth had drained from her face, leaving her expression stiff, her cheeks pale.
“What a lovely surprise,” Lady Zelda cooed, extending her hand for him to bow over. “Martha, I had not heard Dasborough was in town, had you?” She turned her shrewd gaze between Dash and Ambrosia. “Of course, no introduction is necessary for the two of you. Oh, isn’t this delightful?”
Ambrosia didn’t move. Mr. Dog had no such restraint, leaping up at Dash’s legs, tail wagging furiously.
“My condolences on the loss of your wife, Your Grace,” Lady Longstaffe offered, her tone far less effusive than her companion’s.
Ambrosia’s head turned sharply.
“Did you call him Your Grace?” She blinked, then snapped back to Dash, the smallest tremor in her voice betraying her composure. “But you are…Mr. Beckman.”
She spoke his name, and in the sound of it he heard disbelief, hurt, accusation—the words weighted as though they demanded he answer for the last two years.
Dash crouched to one knee, letting Mr. Dog’s solid weight and warm fur give him a moment to steady himself. He rubbed the reddish-brown coat, fingers working the familiar folds of skin at the dog’s neck. Then, slowly, he looked up at her, meeting her eyes without flinching.
“Hello, princesse.”
All the years between them felt vast as the sea, yet it was his betrayal that cracked like thunder in the air between them.
Upon hearing the familiar endearment he’d called her, she snapped out of her stunned state.
“Lancelot, come here. Now.” She spoke harshly at the dog. The poor thing looked quite confused but did her bidding. Choosing to ignore Dash, Ambrosia turned to the two elderly ladies who had created this debacle. “I’d love to chat longer, but I’m in a dreadful hurry. I have… I’m late for an appointment. I’m so sorry…”
She didn’t wait for a reply and in a swirl of skirts, she spun on her heel and strode back the way she’d come, Mr. Dog’s short legs trotting at her side as he cast confused glances over his shoulder.
She’d called him Lancelot. In honor of his Guinevere, perhaps?
The thought was ridiculous… and yet it raised the faintest spark of hope.
Lady Zelda and Lady Longstaffe stared after her, mouths slightly agape.
“What just happened?” Lady Zelda demanded.
Lady Longstaffe’s eyes narrowed on Dash with the piercing authority of a formidable aunt. “You are acquainted with Mrs. Bloomington, I hope. Because, if I’m not mistaken, it was you who asked us to befriend her, was it not?” Her gaze swept down him with undisguised censure. “And why, pray, are you dressed in that manner?”
He didn’t have time for this. Not now.
“I’m not officially in London yet,” he said, already angling away, his tone politely urgent. “Please—I’d be grateful if you could keep this to yourselves. I’ll call on you both and explain everything later, but for now…”
He tipped his head in thanks and turned, striding away before they could object.
By the time he reached the street corner, his stride had turned into a run. At first, he thought she might have returned home, but a glance down both sides of the street told him otherwise—she was gone.
Even moving quickly, she couldn’t have vanished entirely. He scanned the row of tidy houses, then spotted the narrow path disappearing into a grove of trees.
She must have gone that way.
And so he followed, his pulse hammering in his ears. He’d wanted to approach her carefully, to explain everything in measured words, so she could see he wasn’t the cold, faithless bastard he must seem at this moment.
