…It was only that he’d brought it up last night—teased her, really—and her mind had foolishly latched onto the idea. That was all.
Still…
“I’ll have it out for you straightaway, luv. And if you’ve a mind for anything else—anything at all—you’ve only to ask.” The maid winked. And as she sashayed out of the private dining room, there was an exaggerated sway to her hips.
As soon as she had gone, Ambrosia turned to Mr. Beckman. “You must be very hungry to have ordered so much.”
“Oui, but it’s not all for me. I intend to share it with you.”
But… “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Beckman. I will have my toast.” Ambrosia shook her head then, her mother’s voice and Harrison’s and Winifred’s reprimands ringing in her ears. “Gluttony is a sin.”
Of course, he laughed at that.
“Is that why you’re hungry all of the time?”
“I’m not hungry all of the time.” The minute the words left her lips, however, she wondered if he wasn’t right.
“You ask for food. You look at it. You touch it, but I’ve noticed you rarely eat it. If you would simply eat a little more, you would not feel so inordinately deprived.”
Ambrosia peered at him. “For such a short acquaintance, you make rather bold claims about me.”
He shrugged, maddeningly unbothered. “I notice things.”
Not particularly wishing to discuss anything else he might have noticed, Ambrosia turned the conversation. “Do you know where we are?”
“We’re nearing Bristol. Two, maybe three days from London.” And then he tilted his head. “You’ve really never been to London?”
“I have not. But I’m hoping my late husband’s solicitor will provide me with a few names in Mayfair, so that I might be introduced to society. I’ll need connections in order to become a patroness of the arts.” The idea hadn’t sounded nearly so outlandish in her head, but saying it aloud now, she felt rather naïve. “But I have no expectations.”
He studied her thoughtfully, frowning. His answer both surprised and pleased her. “You’ll do just fine, Madame Bloomington.”
“I have always wished for a flower garden,” she said, her voice soft with a kind of wistful wonder. “Roses, tulips, lilies—blooms for no reason but their beauty.” She hesitated, then her chin lifted a fraction. “But Harrison—Mr. Bloomington—declared flowers a waste, and allowed me only vegetables. Well… he is gone now.” Her gaze sharpened. “So when I am settled, I shall plant whatever I please, and watch it grow—simply because I want to.”
He stared at her intently as she spoke, as though what she said actually mattered.
“And what kind of flowers will you plant, princesse?”
Ambrosia’s lips curved thoughtfully. “Well, my first task will be to plant some summer-blooming bulbs—lilies, anemones, and perhaps a cluster of alliums—so there’s color in the months ahead. But I’d also like to get some perennials established. Something enduring. Foxgloves and delphiniums for height, lavender to scent the air…”
Her voice drifted slightly as the vision took hold.
“And once the bones of the garden are in place, I shall fill in every gap with cheerful annuals—sweetpeas and snapdragons, pansies and petunias, in every shade of the rainbow. Perhaps, one day, I’ll even have a hot house built. Then I could grow something truly exotic… orchids, maybe. Or citrus trees.”
Just then, the maid returned with a tray laden with food, setting it down before Mr. Beckman with such indifference to Ambrosia’s presence that it was almost comical.
Mr. Beckman grinned as the woman displayed more cleavage than was proper for any reputable establishment.
“My toast?” Ambrosia asked when the lady had been assured that the gentleman had all of the utensils and condiments and sauces he could possibly need.
“Might I have some—” But she found herself addressing the maid’s backside. “…jam?” Ambrosia crossed her arms, glaring down at scorched toast. It was more charcoal than breakfast. “This is not amoosing,” she muttered.
Across the table, Mr. Beckman didn’t say a word. Instead, he lifted his fork, slow and deliberate, collecting a bite thick with meat, poached egg, and buttery potatoes.
And then he held it out across the table between them.
… For her.
Right. He’d mentioned he intended to share.
