“Please. Just listen to me.” His gaze held hers, searching, beseeching. “Please, Ambrosia, just let me explain.”
But as he watched, her eyes hardened, even as tears continued to trail down her pale face. “Two years,” she grit out, her chin jutting defiantly forward. “It’s a little late for your explanations, don’t you think? You have to let me go. If I ever meant anything to you, please—just let me go now.”
What in God’s name was he doing? His hands tightened gently on her shoulders, not to restrain, but to ground her, to will her into understanding what words couldn’t yet reach.
“I’ll let you go… for now,” he conceded quietly. “But know that I’ll be near. I just need to see you, to tell you what I couldn’t before. Everything has changed, princesse. I had reasons for what I did, and you deserve to know them. And once I’ve told you, if you still want me gone, I’ll go. I’ll leave you alone forever. That’s my promise.”
She jerked free then, breath ragged, eyes wide—not just with anger now, but something closer to fear.
“It’s too late, Your Grace.” Her eyes narrowed, the title bitten off like something bitter. “Stay away from me!”
That, he could not promise. “When you’re ready,” he said quietly, “I’ll be waiting.”
He had no intention of disappearing again. Not this time.
“A duke!” she all but spat, as though the word itself were an insult.
“Ambrosia—” But she didn’t let him finish. Scooping Lancelot into her arms, she turned and strode away, her pace quickening until she vanished from sight. This time, he was certain she was going home.
Dash raked a hand through his hair, distraught but determined.
He’d have to wait out her anger, however long it took. But this would not be the end. No, it was only the beginning.
She would hear him out. One day.
Only then did he remember his damn hat—still somewhere on the street.
At least her dog still liked him. That had to count for something.
And… she’d named him Lancelot.
On the walk back to Beckman House, despite everything, he was smiling.
WORTH THE EFFORT
Dash lay in bed that night, replaying every word she’d thrown at him. Hawk had been right about one thing—she most certainly had not forgotten him. A woman did not run off and weep if she felt nothing for the man she fled. Non. That kind of fire came from somewhere deeper.
Love and hate—two faces of the same coin. All he had to do was turn it back to the side that once belonged to him.
Voilà. Simple to say. Less simple to accomplish.
The question was how.
She would have to become used to him again, to believe that this time he would not vanish without explanation.
The next morning, as he had the day before, he dressed and made his way to his post across from her townhouse.
When she emerged, she turned her head, spotted him instantly… and then looked straight through him as if he were no more than a lamppost. Without a pause, she set off in the opposite direction, a maid in tow.
He considered following—his instincts urging him to keep her in sight—but decided against it. Better to let her temper run its course. He had never made it to the front line, true, but even he recognized when it was smarter to retreat.
His gaze drifted to the iron gate at the side of the house. The lock was a simple thing—hardly worth the name. Mon Dieu, he would have to speak with her about that. If he could slip past it, anyone could.
Careful to keep his movements quiet, he opened the gate and followed the narrow stone path toward the rear of the house. A few trees stood between her garden and the neighboring properties, but otherwise the space was bare—patches of dirt, a few stubborn tufts of grass, and shrubs that had clearly been left to fend for themselves.
Two years ago, she’d told him she would plant flowers. She’d always wanted to, but Harrison, of course, had dismissed the idea as frivolous.
Dash stood for a long moment, surveying the neglected garden. Then, slipping a pencil and folded sheet of paper from his pocket, he began to sketch a few rough lines.
