There. She had said it. And it sounded perfectly reasonable. Even if her stomach twisted at the enormity of it all.
Mr. Beckman let out a low whistle. “Ah, an heiress. No doubt you’ll take the ton by storm—a beauty with spirit and coin. What could possibly go wrong?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re breaking one of the rules already.”
He glanced at her, brow lifted in mild amusement. “Which one?”
“You’re teasing me,” she said. “I said you weren’t allowed to do that.”
“Au contraire, princesse,” he said smoothly. “You forbade smirking, being spoken to as if you were a barmaid, and laughing at you—which, if I may point out, I haven’t done in at least half an hour.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. “A loophole, then.”
Even though he had. Laughed at her.
More than once.
“Precisely,” he said with a wink. “And I’m rather good at finding them.”
“Nonetheless, I am not taking the ton by storm. I’m just… me. Not an heiress and definitely not beautiful.”
When she looked at herself in the mirror, Ambrosia saw a lady who looked, in a word, average. While her reddish-blond hair was somewhat striking, her green eyes were perhaps a bit too large for her face, and aside from that, she surmised that she had inoffensive but unremarkable features overall.
“But you are,” he insisted.
Ambrosia smiled. “There’s no need to flatter me, Mr. Beckman. I’ve already agreed to allow you to travel with me.”
And yet, the compliment warmed her. Only her mother had ever said that she was beautiful, and one couldn’t help but be skeptical when such a compliment came from one’s mother. “As far as funds go,” she added with a faint shrug, “I won’t know the full extent of my income until I meet with Mr. Bloomington’s London solicitor. Aside from the townhouse, I daren’t hope for much—just enough to sustain me.”
She paused. “Well. And maybe a dog, eventually.”
“Ah, aiming for the stars, I see.” He was teasing her again, but rather than point that out, she was too caught up in realizing what she’d just done—spoken of her finances to a man she’d only just met, as though they were old acquaintances.
But he was looking at her again.
“And for the record, I am not a man who doles out empty flattery.” He gave a slight shrug, his smile crooked, thoroughly unrepentant. “Enfin… perhaps that is not entirely true. I am half French, after all. A well-placed compliment can be a powerful thing.” He flicked the reins a little. “But in this case, ma chère, I assure you—I speak only the truth.”
His eyes were twinkling, but not quite so mirthful anymore. “I imagine it was easier on good old Harrison—you would be easier to manage if you thought you were plain. Très malin. No wonder you are not weeping in sackcloth.”
Ambrosia wanted to argue with him, only… Mr. Beckman was not incorrect in that Mr. Bloomington had only ever had criticism to offer her. Given, it was normally directed at her character rather than her looks, but even so… “Thank you?”
She knew she wasn’t exactly an antidote, but calling her a ‘beauty’ was indeed stretching the truth.
“You’re welcome.” He chuckled. “So, you are not moving in with a lonely old aunt somewhere. Surely, not your very own townhouse?”
“Surely, yes. And it is in Mayfair,” Ambrosia announced proudly. “Number 17 South Audley Street. It is called Autumn House.”
“Hn.” He smiled, staring ahead. “Appropriate.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Your hair. It’s the color of the leaves in autumn.” Oh, but he was indeed laying it on thick.
She sputtered a moment, but when she went to speak, he interrupted her.
“I only speak the truth, Madame Bloomington.”
And this time…
