How was it that the very same pastry, which had tasted dry and uninspired earlier, now melted on her tongue like buttery heaven?
She took another, slower bite—this time savoring the creamy filling, aware of him watching her with one lifted brow.
“Happy now?” she muttered, dabbing at her mouth with the corner of the handkerchief.
“You have no idea,” he said, and leaned in for his turn. His lips and the tip of his tongue brushed the edge of her glove—just for a moment—but it sent a jolt through her spine all the same.
She dabbed at the crumbs in his not-quite-a-beard before she could think better of it.
What was she doing?
She hadn’t ever touched her husband’s hair, let alone his whiskers.
Mr. Beckman leaned in for another bite. And then another.
So she kept feeding him—and herself. One pastry, then the other. Mulberry and cream. She took alternating bites as though it were a tiresome obligation, all the while secretly relishing the rich, flaky decadence melting on her tongue.
How long had it been since she’d indulged in something so sweet?
Too long. Far too long.
When the last crumb was gone, she folded the now-creased handkerchief with care and tucked it firmly back into her reticule, as if doing so might bring propriety back to her present circumstances.
But she didn’t have long to sit quietly.
Mr. Beckman shifted the reins into one hand and pointed toward the stretch of moonlit road ahead.
“The Cow and Cleaver,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“The turn up ahead.” He chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “It leads to the inn.”
Of course.
“I hope they have rooms to let.” At least one, because Mr. Beckman wouldn’t really expect her to sleep in her carriage. Would he?
She secretly studied his profile. Strong chin, determined mouth, a nose that was almost aristocratic—almost, in fact, heroic.
If some highwayman jumped out to attack them, she was almost certain he’d pull a weapon from one of his boots and easily dispatch of the villain. And then he might stare into her eyes again, this time in order to assure himself of her well-being.
And when his lips drew closer to hers, she would not pull away from him. She would tilt her head back?—
“If there is only one room, you will share it with me, no?”
Ambrosia reeled back in shock.
“I am not some lightskirt, Mr. Beckman.” She would be clear on this point. Crystal clear. Simply because she’d broken a few of her own rules… and perhaps indulged in a fantasy or two, pertaining to this—this absolute boar of a man…
“I never said you were. But if you remember correctly, it was you who was watching me.”
“I was appreciating your horse,” she clarified.
She couldn’t help but notice the reappearance of his dimple. “But of course, madame.” He seemed to intentionally deepen his French accent as he nodded agreeably.
Too agreeably.
“He was—he is—a beautiful animal.”
