He stood, pushing his chair back with deliberate ease. “Come now, ma chère.” He walked to her side and extended a hand. “Even independent women must pause for sleep.”
She hesitated—just for a breath—before placing her hand in his. Her fingers were small, cool, but not trembling. Good.
He helped her rise, and then offered his arm for the short walk to her room.
She took it.
They said nothing as they walked along the corridor, her perfume—lavender and lemon—alluring in its innocence.
Much like her.
She made him forget. Far too easily.
Why he was traveling. The responsibility that awaited him in Margate.
The crime behind it all. His.
And yet, this little game of flirtation? It was nothing. Harmless. A last hurrah for him, a leap into the future for her.
Still, it pleased him more than it should, the way her eyes shone when she tried teasing him, the stubborn jut of her chin when he pushed too far. He would keep playing, so long as she welcomed the game.
At her door, she relinquished his arm and retrieved her key, all wide eyes and that infernal polite smile that did not fool him one bit.
“Goodnight, Madame Beckman,” he said, letting the accent linger with intention.
“Bloomington,” she corrected automatically.
“Yes, that’s what I said.” He smiled, not bothering to hide it.
He wasn’t touching her. He hadn’t even moved, but his gaze drifted to her mouth and stuck there.
She stared right back at him, every bit the determined little widow. And then there it was… her conscience.
“Goodnight, Mr. Beckman,” she murmured, quieter now.
He inclined his head, watching as she slipped inside and closed the door. He didn’t turn until he heard the sound of the lock sliding into place.
And as he made his way back to the stairs, he exhaled through his nose and ran a hand down his face. She was sweet. Soft. A little too trusting. And yet…
There was steel in her, too.
As he made up the cot in the back of the kitchen, he refused to admit that Ambrosia Bloomington might be anything more than a temporary distraction.
A HEARTY BREAKFAST
“Just tea and toast, please.” Ambrosia smiled stiffly at the maid who was doing her best to capture Mr. Beckman’s attention by bending forward, her bubbies almost spilling out of her bodice.
The woman barely looked at her. “And you, sir?”
“Eggs, kidneys, porridge, some toast, jam and currant cakes, and pastries if you have them. Spare nothing, ma jolie. I want the whole of it.” Mr. Beckman grinned. Of course, he must be used to this as a single, attractive gentleman.
Mr. Beckman’s hair had been brushed and tied back neatly this morning, making the blue of his eyes stand out even more than it had yesterday, and he exuded a distinctly masculine scent, cleaner today, but still spicy and still… unfairly toe-curling.
He’d said he would kiss her.
But she could not allow that.
So why was she bristling? Why was she imagining him kissing some other woman? It didn’t matter. Not to her. Why should it? He could kiss whomever he pleased.
