“I purchased a commission,” he said. “Infantry. I did my training at Sandhurst. Joined my regiment just as they were posted to Brussels.”
He paused, eyes fixed on the rising steam. That part was easy enough to say. The rest?—
“But my father was dying.” He said it with a quiet finality, and picked up his fork. “And I was recalled to England.”
A pause.
“I see,” Ambrosia said.
His grimaced. “I sat with him until the end. Along with my mother and sister. But he had more than enough time to speak of our legacy, to leave his instructions. I made… promises.”
He shook his head, taking another bite of bread. By God, he never went on about himself like this.
Across the table, Madame Bloomington took a slow, thoughtful sip from her drink.
Dash willed her to change the subject, but then nearly laughed out loud at how she did just that.
“Will your mother and sister be meeting you in Margate for your birthday, and your… wife?” Her question—lightly delivered, was far too casual to be careless.
The answer was far more complicated than it should have been.
“I am not married, princesse.” He lowered his voice. “If that is what you were getting at.” It was not a lie.
He tapped his fingers on the table, noting a warm flush crawl up her neck. Her gaze darted around the room and then landed on his hands.
Ambrosia Bloomington was something of an enigma. Not nearly as composed as she liked to pretend.
“Did you call your horse—Gwennie?” she asked abruptly, clearly redirecting the subject yet again. “It’s an unusual name for a horse, is it not?”
“Short for Guinevere.” He grimaced. “My sister named her. I would have gone with something less tragic.”
“And your sister—Is she older? Younger?”
“Younger by two years—a stubborn little thing,” he replied, though his tone carried nothing but affection. “The two of you would get along swimmingly.”
The image struck him—his wild, outspoken sister and this tidy little widow who blushed at half his remarks. And yet… he could see it.
“Is she married?”
“No.” Dash was temporarily distracted by Madame Bloomington’s mouth when she licked her lips.
She glanced up, catching him.
… And there was that blush again.
“Tell me, princesse, if dear old Harry made a real marriage with you,” Dash said, “Why do you blush so easily?”
Her gaze dropped. “Because… I haven’t.”
“Haven’t?”
“Been… kissed.”
Dash choked. Full stop. He set his glass down and coughed into his napkin.
“But…” What the devil? “You’re joking.”
She was studiously slicing her carrot again, gaze downcast.
