Ambrosia’s gaze dipped to the floor, the corners of her mouth tightening as though she were weighing whether to say anything at all. When she lifted her chin, her voice was hesitant, careful. “I have a request.”
“Anything,” Dash said at once, but then rushed to add, “Unless it’s to leave you alone before you’ve heard me out.”
She rolled her eyes. “Nothing so unreasonable, I assure you. I’m realizing there are no boundaries to your obstinacy.”
Dash shrugged. She was not wrong. “Then ask me anything.” If they’d been alone, he might have drawn her into his arms and kissed away the faint line between her brows. Some days, he wondered if that would be the simplest solution. But it wouldn’t be fair—not until she understood.
“You are… planting flowers for me,” she said, the green of her eyes softening.
“You never planted any,” he reminded her gently. “It was one of your dreams.”
She dropped her gaze. “I didn’t feel much like it at first, and then… after a while… it no longer seemed important.”
He remembered that young woman—her quiet delight in imagining a garden she could call her own. Another wound to lay at his feet.
“I’ve planted both perennials and annuals,” he said. “You’ll be able to enjoy them even more in a year or so.”
She shook her head. “I… know. It’s going to be lovely.” Her teeth caught her lower lip before she spoke again. “But… Lancelot. He’s very interested in them, and I’d hate to see your work ruined because my dog decided to dig everything up. And…” Her voice grew softer. “I don’t know which plants might be harmful if he tried to eat them. I wondered if you might… put up a little fence? To protect both the flowers and Lancelot from himself?”
He was already picturing the design in his mind. “But of course. Anything else?”
She hesitated. “Is it true you have plans for a hothouse?”
He nodded.
Her tongue darted over her lips, a fleeting gesture before she glanced toward the other room. The sound of voices had dimmed; the reading was about to begin. He could not care less, but she seemed anxious to return to her guests. “I—thank you,” she said at last, and then, just as swiftly as she had appeared, she was gone.
Dash didn’t linger long either. He had accomplished more than he’d dared to hope—not only had she spoken to him, but she’d asked him do something for her.
Something she wanted.
His determination renewed, he stepped out into the night, bound for Hawkins Place and his insufferable friend.
For the first time in two years, he felt as though he had something to celebrate.
OVERDUE EXPLANATIONS
“Haven’t seen you lately.” Hawk leaned back in his chair at Hawkins Place, balancing on the rear two legs as if daring gravity to try him. “What’s the verdict? Has she forgiven you yet, or are you still determined to work as her unpaid gardener?”
Dash ignored the jab and dropped onto the sofa near the hearth, stretching out with the kind of lazy entitlement that came from years of friendship. “I’m making progress.”
“Mm.” Hawk reached for the teapot at his elbow, poured himself a fresh cup, then gestured toward the service with mock courtesy. “Tea?”
Dash gave him a withering look. “Something with bite, if you’ve got it. I’m not drowning my sorrows in Pekoe.”
Smirking, Hawk reached for the sideboard, retrieving a decanter. “Brandy for the hopeless, then.”
Dash accepted the glass, ignoring the jab, and launched into the evening’s events—her salon, her request about Lancelot, the hothouse plans. Developing the design in his mind as he spoke.
Had he forgotten about Grimm? Not for a moment. But Grimm was a scoundrel, a player, and Dash had no intention of letting him take advantage of Ambrosia.
Dash was halfway through listing the materials he’d acquired—lumber, panes of glass, benches, and far too many cornflowers—when Hawk’s chair thumped back to all four legs and he let out a bark of laughter. “Good God, man. At this rate, Mayfair will hail you as the Royal Gardener. Get on with it already—either she forgives you, or she doesn’t.”
Dash’s mouth flattened. “It’s not as though I kissed her one evening and then vanished. My actions were…” He cut himself off before he said too much. To tell Hawk the full truth would be to tread dangerously close to dishonoring Ambrosia, and that he would never do. “…unforgivable.”
Hawk tipped his head, his gaze sharp over the rim of his teacup. “And yet you want forgiveness more than anything else. How do you expect to get it if you won’t bloody ask for it?” He let the words hang a moment, then added, “Or is that what you’re afraid of? Hearing her answer once and for all. If she’s happy—if she’s moved on—perhaps you ought to as well. There are hundreds of chits eager to indulge you. And a hundred more who’d be delighted to step into the role of duchess.”
“I don’t crave hundreds of other chits,” Dash said flatly, though Hawk’s maddeningly sound logic lodged itself in his thoughts. Was he simply prolonging the inevitable?
