Mr. Daniels, no doubt, had slept in the carriage the night before.
She wrinkled her nose at the smell, but she didn’t truly mind. Not when her thoughts were still tangled in the sound of Mr. Beckman’s voice. But also the sight of his black leather gloves, which did little to disguise the strength—and almost noble elegance—of hands she’d noticed more than once.
She sank onto the cushioned bench, smoothing her skirts—more from nervous habit than necessity—when her gaze caught on what appeared to be a folded blanket on the floor.
Only…the blanket moved.
What on earth?
Before she could decide if her eyes were playing tricks on her, the carriage door creaked open.
Mr. Beckman filled the doorway—and then, impossibly, seemed to fill the entire carriage itself as he ducked inside and settled beside her.
Not across from her, but beside her, his large frame consuming more than just space.
With him came the scent she now associated with him entirely: cedar and leather. It was both comforting and distracting in equal measure. His boot brushed hers as he stretched out, unbothered by the proximity, while she, on the other hand, could hardly remember how to breathe.
She cleared her throat and cast him a sidelong glance. “You didn’t truly tell Mr. Daniels to drink such a vile concoction, did you?”
“Mais oui,” Mr. Beckman replied solemnly, pressing a hand to his chest. “Every good English boy must—it’s practically a rite of passage.” He gave a theatrical shudder. “And besides, it works.”
“Your father taught you this?”
“Not my father.” Dash’s voice lost its levity. “One of my tutors.”
Her brows rose. “At Eton?”
He shook his head. “No. Harrowgate Academy.”
Her brow furrowed. “An academy? Is that a college of some sort?”
His mouth tightened, the playfulness gone. “No. Not a college. More of a… place they sent boys who needed a little… extra.”
“Extra?”
Something unreadable flickered across his face—gone before she could name it.
“Extra discipline. Extra… correction.”
Though he’d been relaxed when he’d climbed in, Ambrosia could feel the tension now—in the set of his shoulders, the stillness of his frame. Where their arms and thighs brushed, the air seemed to tighten.
And then, almost too quietly to catch, he said,
“Que la mer le prenne enfin, et pour l’éternité…”
Ambrosia turned to him slowly. “You wish the sea would take it,” she translated, her voice careful. “Forever.”
He looked at her then, startled—for a heartbeat—before offering a crooked smile. “Your understanding of French is better than I thought.”
“One of the teachers at our village school was French,” Ambrosia said, her voice calm, her gaze unwavering. “Madame Martine. The town only kept her for two years, but she was brilliant. By the end, half the students were able to speak fluent French.”
Dash lifted a brow and made a low, amused sound. “And I imagine… not everyone saw that as a bonne idée, no? French influence corrupting innocent minds. Quelle horreur.”
He wasn’t wrong, and few would understand this better than him.
But… “You’re changing the subject.”
He gave a shrug and a teasing smile, as if that settled things.
