Ambrosia laughed. “He likes you.”
“He smells,” Mr. Beckman said dryly, lowering the dog back to the floor.
“What do you want to do with him?” Mr. Daniels’ face appeared upside down in the small opening.
“Madame Bloomington is going to keep him,” Mr. Beckman said, his gaze warm with laughter as it found hers. “For now, at least.”
Ambrosia had half expected him to object—to insist the dog be let out, that keeping him was highly impractical. For as long as she could remember, she’d always waited for permission before acting, weighed her choices against someone else’s preferences. But no one objected now. Not even Mr. Beckman.
And that—oddly—left her feeling both pleased and a little untethered.
Perhaps this, too, was something she would need to grow accustomed to. Making decisions for herself. Taking ownership of her choices.
“If you say so,” Daniels muttered. “Let me know if he starts sniffing around. Mr. Bloomington’ll have my hide if I return the carriage smelling like piss?—”
“We’ll be certain to alert you,” Mr. Beckman cut in smoothly, sliding the door shut and effectively ending that line of conversation.
“Mr. Daniels is employed by your… brother-in-law?” he asked, brow furrowing.
“He’s on loan to me, actually. Milton insisted it wouldn’t look proper for me to travel alone in the mail coach.”
Mr. Beckman nodded slowly, as if that explained something he’d been wondering about.
“And the carriage?”
“Milton’s as well. Both will return to Rockford Beach after Mr. Daniels has delivered me to London. My husband’s solicitor—Mr. Moyers—assured me the townhouse is still staffed. He even said he was fairly certain that, perhaps, there is a driver attached to the household.”
“Fairly certain, princesse?”
“Relatively certain,” she amended, her tone more confident than she felt.
But now that he’d voiced it, a whisper of doubt crept in. Still, there was no use worrying yet. Whatever awaited her in London, she would face it. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? To learn to stand on her own. Even if it meant pretending she was not, in fact, afraid.
Ambrosia smoothed her skirt yet again, aware of the tightness in her chest as silence settled between them. She didn’t want to think about sending the coach back to Milton and Winifred, or what it would feel like to say goodbye to Mr. Daniels, the only familiar face from home. Not until she had to.
So she cleared her throat and said, a little too brightly, “You never said if your sister and mother would attend your party?”
Mr. Beckman turned his head slowly, one brow rising. He knew exactly what she was doing. “No, Beatrice prefers to reside in the country.” He narrowed his eyes. “There’s something I still don’t understand—Why did you marry Monsieur Bloomington? You obviously didn’t love him. Every time, I imagine some old geezer…” But then he shook his head. “Why not wait for a proper husband, princesse?”
Every time he called her that—princesse—it made her feel set apart, as though she mattered to him in some meaningful way.
But that was only an illusion. A trick of tone and charm.
And yet, Madame Bloomington felt far too formal…
“You may call me Ambrosia, if you’d like,” she said quietly.
She shouldn’t invite such familiarity—but truly, what was more intimate? Her Christian name, or the pet name he used with such disarming ease?
And though widowhood had granted her a measure of independence, she still wished she could shed Harrison’s name as easily as she’d cast off her mourning.
“Ambrosia,” he repeated, but instead of adding distance as she’d intended, the way Mr. Beckman stretched out the syllables, savoring each sound, did quite the opposite. Then, even worse, “Princesse Ambrosia.”
Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “Right, ah. Thank you.” Gah! This proved it—it was his voice that was the problem, of that, she was now certain.
But she couldn’t afford to get lost in it like this, not in the middle of a conversation. No matter how sensual and almost musical his—No.
He’d just asked about her marriage to Monsieur Bloomington, what ought to be the least titillating subject in existence.
