The linen shirt beneath his coat was clean. His brown hair looked darker—washed, apparently—combed back and tied into a que at the nape of his neck. However, it didn’t appear as though he’d bothered to shave, the shadow along his jaw having deepened into something just shy of a beard.
It made him… more rakish.
More handsome.
She was still staring as he made a slow circuit of the small room, casually inspecting the decor as though it required his approval.
And then his gaze landed on her.
“Your hair is the perfect color,” he said.
“My hair?” Ambrosia had forgotten she’d let it down and reached up in surprise, as though she could cover it.
“Ça fait chanter le vert de tes yeux,” he said softly—makes the green in your eyes sing. But then he clasped his hands behind his back, as if remembering his purpose. “I’ve secured a private dining room for us.”
Ambrosia raised her brows. A cot in the back of the kitchen, but… a private dining room? He would have indeed had to have charmed the innkeeper—or his wife, more likely—to have landed such a luxury. The night before, she’d taken her meal in her chamber. She’d not realized how vulnerable a lady felt in a room of mostly men, unchaperoned.
And yet, Ambrosia was a widow. Which meant dining alone with him would not be such an exceptional circumstance.
“You will join me, no?”
“I—Yes. No, I mean, I wouldn’t mind. Just allow me to…” She reached behind her head to wind her hair into a knot, all the while feeling his eyes on her.
“It ought to be a crime, to cover what was meant to set the world alight.” He sighed as she secured it with a few pins.
Absurd!
Throughout the entirety of her marriage, she’d never once put up, nor let down, her hair in front of her husband. Therefore, at any second, she expected Mr. Beckman to excuse himself, promising to return shortly.
Instead, he casually claimed a seat on the end of her bed.
“I might as well wait here.” He had his hands behind him, lounging as he eyed her. “Seeing as I am without a room…”
She ought to send him away, but his words pricked at her guilt. And besides, if she intended to be an independent woman, she was going to have to find more courage within herself. She was not a green girl, a debutante. The same rules did not apply to widows.
She pushed one last pin into her coiffure and, after slipping her bare feet into her slippers, turned to face him.
“I am ready. Thank you.”
But the dratted man was still smirking. “You blush far too much for a woman who has been married.”
“I’m not blushing.” Even though she was. Then, recalling his accusation earlier, added, “And Mr. Bloomington did exist, I assure you.” Wishing her shawl hadn’t been relegated to the pile of soiled laundry, Ambrosia folded her arms in front of her.
“You’re far too young to be a widow.” He continued reclining casually on the bed, and simply studied her. “I wonder… If it wasn’t you who killed your husband, who was it?”
She ignored his question. “Shall we go down now, Mr. Beckman?”
With a shake of his head, he seemed to give up his teasing.
For now, anyhow.
As they made their way downstairs and then took their seats in the small but elegant dining room, they were mostly silent. It wasn’t until one of the maids had poured Ambrosia a cup of tea and brought Mr. Beckman an ale that Ambrosia gave into some of her own curiosity.
“For one who has shared nothing about himself, you ask the most impertinent questions. Why are you required to be in Margate this weekend?”
“An appointment. How old are you, Madame Bloomington?”
His answer wasn’t as forthcoming as she might have wished but, in all fairness… “I am six and twenty. How old are you?”
