“The fortune teller who read our tea leaves,” she whispered. “She told me I would have what I sought in the near future, but that I would go without for a long time. In the end, though, she said I would have it again. And she was right. I loved you that one night, and then I went so long not knowing where you had gone, what you had done, or if you even lived. But she said I would have all I wanted again—and here you are.”
Her eyes glistened. “You do forgive me, don’t you? For doubting you?”
“I do.” He brushed his thumb over the band on her finger. “This ring. I want to replace it with a real one. Marry me, mon cœur. Say you’ll marry me.” He swallowed the emotion that was thick in his throat.
“Of course.” Ambrosia let out a shaky laugh. “But I don’t want another ring. Just this one. It was perfect the moment I put it on. It’s… all I ever wanted.”
“Is that a yes?”
Her tears spilled freely now, her smile radiant through them. “Yes. A thousand times yes. If you’ll still have me.”
Something inside him gave way—years of restraint, pain, longing—shattering into joy.
Dash shot to his feet, and as he pulled her into his arms, a rough sound escaped from his throat.
Enfin. It was time.
He kissed her like a starving man, sealing her yes with the only language he trusted: raw, trembling, desperate love.
When he finally broke the kiss, he pressed his brow to hers, laughter and tears tangling in his throat.
“Fate, chance, whatever devilry was at work—I don’t care. I’ve got you. Mon cœur… I’ve got you. At last.”
“And I, my dear Mr. Beckman, have you,” Ambrosia whispered. “Mon cœur, mon âme, ma vie. My heart, my soul, my life.”
EPILOGUE
THE NEXT MORNING
Ambrosia stretched contentedly and burrowed deeper into the mattress, her body still humming with the memory of an intimacy so real it could never be mistaken for a dream.
And it had not been a dream.
A week ago, when she had gone to his townhouse and been told His Grace had already departed for the country, her heart had nearly broken. For a moment she believed she had lost him forever.
That was when it struck her with brutal clarity—she had spent too long waiting, too long doubting, too long letting fear rule her. Oh, what a fool she had been. Dash had gone to extraordinary lengths to prove his devotion. It had become her turn to act, to fight for him, to fight for them.
So she’d set off for Dasborough Park.
In the end, it had been he who had found her!
When she’d opened her eyes after fainting—at the Fainting Goat Inn, of all places—she had, for a moment, thought she’d gone back in time.
Thank God she hadn’t.
A most satisfied smile curved her lips as she let the certainty settle in her bones: Dash Beckman was hers.
He loved her. They were to be married. And after sharing a most romantic dinner, they’d come up to his room and he had made love to her in a most glorious fashion.
Her smile stretched even wider.
Because she had made love to him as well. She’d touched him intimately. She’d taken him into her mouth and performed the most wicked acts.
Without opening her eyes, she stretched out a searching hand, expecting to find the warmth she’d discovered in the night. Perhaps she could do so again this morning.
Her fingers brushed only cool linens.
Frowning, she reached farther across the bed. Nothing.
