“You—! You absolute… rogue!”
Her words lacked true venom. How could they, when she looked like a petulant fairy that had been dropped from a flower?
Seemingly unbothered by the manure splattered across her skirts, she rummaged until she found her reticule. Then, with calm efficiency, she extended her free hand.
“Help me up.”
Dash huffed out a laugh and crouched down beside her. “Did you truly think you could beat me?”
“If you were a gentleman,” she said, lifting her chin despite her predicament, “you would have given me a sporting chance.”
“I thought we’d established that I am not, in fact, a gentleman,” he drawled, even as he offered his hand.
Her eyes narrowed, which ought to have been enough of a warning, but the second their palms met, she gave a sharp tug—more forceful than he’d expected—and Dash, already leaning forward, lost his balance entirely.
If not for a last-second twist and a well-placed boot, he’d have landed directly atop her. Instead, he hit the ground beside her with a grunt and…
Another unfortunate squelch.
“Minx,” he muttered.
“I am not sleeping in my carriage!”
Showing no remorse whatsoever, Madame Bloomington bolted to her feet and took off towards the inn with all the speed—but none of the grace—of a warrior queen.
Dash could have still beaten her to the door.
Easily.
But this, watching her go… was so much better.
Her figure—draped in manure-slicked muslin, hair tumbling like golden ribbons—was nothing like the poised widow of earlier.
And again, he was grinning.
His heart, which should’ve been weighed down with thoughts of Gwennie or his own miserable obligations, lifted instead.
“Go on then, my little English widow,” he muttered. “Vive la victoire.”
DINNER WITH MR. BECKMAN
Ambrosia closed the door behind her, turned the key in the lock, and after lighting a few candles, let out an enormous sigh. The room was small and spare—a single bed, a modest vanity, a narrow window overlooking the inn yard, and a hard-backed chair.
But it was blessedly hers. Hers alone.
And although she’d resorted to less than honorable methods to acquire it, she had won.
Her heart gave a little hum, pleased with itself.
Upon stumbling into the inn behind her and discovering that Ambrosia had, in fact, landed the last room available, Mr. Beckman had grumbled something about a cot in the kitchen. But he hadn't complained further. In fact, he’d seemed more amused than angry. And… she hadn’t expected that.
In fact, while she’d finished paying the innkeeper and then waited for the key, Mr. Beckman had chatted amiably with the innkeeper’s wife.
He hadn’t even fussed over the manure.
Which was all over her skirts.
Ambrosia glanced down at herself and grimaced. The brown mess caked on the hem, and seeping into her bottom… was not mud.
