“She,” he corrected her for the second time. “But that wasn’t all you were appreciating. You were distracted, no?”
Ambrosia deliberately ignored his taunting. “Well, she is a beautiful animal, then. And…” Despite his indecent implication… “I truly am sorry she was stolen from you.”
Mr. Beckman’s jaw tightened, his eyes locked on the moonlit road ahead.
“Whoever took her will regret it soon enough,” he declared. “If she hasn’t already thrown him, I will.” The words that followed came out almost a growl. “When I come back.”
Ambrosia glanced sideways at him, surprised by the edge in his voice. Whatever matter was awaiting him in London must be important indeed.
“You must have good reason to go on without her,” she said, her voice tentative.
He didn’t answer, not right away. Just gave the reins a subtle twitch and said, “I must, indeed.”
“You will return for her, though? After this great meeting you have in London?”
“I will.”
Again, with that cocksure attitude of his. In this matter, however, she rather esteemed him for it.
A splintered sign appeared, and Mr. Beckman steered them toward the cluster of buildings in the distance. Ambrosia could hear voices and horses now, an indication the inn was bustling—but hopefully not at capacity.
Surely, he would not expect her to share her chamber with him, in truth?
If there was but one room.
Surely, he was only teasing.
Of course he was.
And yet…
Over the course of a few hours this man had managed to finagle his way onto her coach and under her skin, but ultimately, he was no more to her than a passing stranger.
And even though, yes, he was charming and handsome and … the utter opposite of nearly every man she’d ever met in her life, she could just pretend he could be trusted.
She straightened her back.
It was not inconceivable that the Cow and Cleaver would be down to their final vacancy at this time of night, with this many people milling about, with the number of horses she could spy in the stable.
In which case…
Ambrosia clutched her hands in her lap as she contemplated the possibility of Mr. Beckman claiming the last room for himself.
No gentleman would do such a thing… But was he, in fact, a gentleman?
Ambrosia leaned forward, eyeing the distance from the driver’s box to the ground and then from there to the main entrance.
She would need to move quickly. Get inside before he did.
Because after everything she’d endured today, she refused to sleep in her blasted carriage.
THE CONTEST
Dash guided the carriage onto the rutted road leading to the Cow and Cleaver, the horses flicking their ears as the scent of hay, smoke, and something less pleasant drifted down the lane. He might have been watching the inn draw closer—but what he was really watching, out of the corner of his eye, was the golden-haired widow at his side.
Madame Bloomington, clutching her reticule for dear life, was clearly preparing to make a break for the reception desk.
He nearly laughed aloud.
