“Yes, please.” She presented her cup.
“Milk? Sugar? And are you certain you won’t try a pastry?”
“Yes, please, and I am certain, thank you.” She refused mostly out of habit. Her figure leaned toward the fashionable hourglass, though if left unchecked, it had a tendency to err on the generous side. Her mother had long drilled into her the importance of remaining neat and trim for her husband.
…Who was now dead.
The image of Harrison’s pale, cold, and inert form, laid out in the parlor, came to mind.
Ambrosia tapped her chin, realizing that for the first time in her life, she had no one to please except herself.
“On second thought…I think I would like to try one of your pastries, if it’s not too much trouble.”
The gray-haired woman smiled. “I’ll return shortly then, madam.”
Ambrosia smiled. A new adventure laid out before her like a second chance at life.
Exhaling a peaceful sigh, she once again stared outside at her handsome knight—er, at the fine-looking horse—in time to see a groom approaching them. The rider shook his head, spoke with the groom for a few minutes, then turned and lifted a saddle off a fence and handed it over. Apparently, her knight would tend to his horse himself.
With the brush still in hand, the man continued stroking the horse with a practiced ease, drawing Ambrosia’s gaze to the steadiness of his hands. His shirtsleeves were neatly rolled to the elbow, revealing lean forearms, slim wrists, and long, elegant fingers. More refined than she would have expected, given the rest of his appearance. It rather dashed any notion that he labored for his living.
Following the direction of the horse’s hair, he lovingly brushed off pieces of dirt and mud that must have splashed onto the mighty beast over the course of their journey.
What would that feel like, she wondered, to be cherished so lovingly? And then nearly snorted when she realized that she was now comparing herself to an animal, wishing to be petted and groomed. Foolishness!
And now, unless she was mistaken, he was murmuring to the creature.
She tilted her head, trying to catch the words. They came soft and low, almost musical.
French. He was speaking in French.
Holding her breath, Ambrosia leaned closer to the glass, straining to hear.
“Tu me sers toujours bien, belle créature. Tu mérites un repas délicieux et une bonne nuit de repos, ma douce.”
A smile tugged at her lips.
You serve me well, beautiful creature. You deserve a good meal and a good night’s rest… my sweet?
She leaned in further, nearly pressing her ear to the pane.
“Peut-être se coucher avec un beau cheval mâle hein?”
Her brows rose. Was he truly suggesting the mare might enjoy the company of a handsome stallion?
And then?—
“Peut-être que la belle princesse à la fenêtre voudrait un baiser de l'étranger qu'elle a observé, non?”
She jerked upright, heat blooming in her cheeks. And when she dared glance back out the window—mortified, breath caught in her throat—she found herself staring directly into a pair of glinting, steel-blue eyes.
Her imaginary knight had not only seen her gawking, but now stood grinning like the rogue he clearly was.
Knowing full well her face had turned an alarming shade of red, Ambrosia hastily drew the curtain closed, her heart hammering beneath her stays.
A moment later, the door opened and in swept Mrs. Neskers, bearing a mouthwatering tray laden with biscuits and tarts.
Avoiding eye contact and resisting the urge to fan her cheeks, Ambrosia reached out and selected one of each—because dignity, apparently, had already fled.
