“I… Thank you, Mr. Beckman.” Mr. Dog chose that moment to rise up on his hind legs to look out the window in that same peculiar pose he’d used when sitting on Mr. Beckman’s lap earlier. Ambrosia reached a hand out to steady him, but he didn’t need it, swaying occasionally with the movement of the carriage but maintaining his own balance perfectly well.
“Oh, goodness! Would you look at that. He truly is magnificent,” Ambrosia announced. “I do believe you’re right, Mr. Beckman. This dog is going to make quite the splash in London.”
“Like you.” Mr. Beckman grinned, and Ambrosia grinned back.
“Like me.”
DIGNITY’S TAKEN A BLOW
Whatever odorous concoction clung to Mr. Dog’s fur, for all his curious charm, did not improve in the close confines of the coach.
At first, Ambrosia had been too distracted—by the unexpected joy of having rescued something, by the hum of Mr. Beckman’s presence beside her, by the sheer novelty of it all. But after half an hour of riding, with the scent growing riper and the dog sprawled shamelessly on the floor, she could bear it no longer.
She spotted a brook glinting just off the road. “Would you be terribly upset if we stopped to?—”
“Not in the slightest.” Mr. Beckman was already sliding open the window. “Pull over, Daniels! We’ve got to get that stench off this dog.”
Had he simply endured it for her?
For all his teasing and flamboyance, Mr. Beckman could also be oddly… endearing.
As the carriage slowed and bumped to a halt, hearing the cheerful gurgle of water nearby, she began making a mental list of the supplies she had brought that might come in handy.
“There is soap in one of my trunks,” she said as Mr. Beckman helped her down, her gloved fingers pressing into his steady palm. “And linens to dry him. The water will be cold—I don’t want him catching a chill.”
“He’ll be fine,” Mr. Beckman promised. “I’ve got him,” he added, lifting the dog down from the carriage. Then, eyeing the distance from the steps down to the ground and comparing that with Mr. Dog’s tiny little legs, “I don’t know how the hell he got in to begin with…”
“Sheer determination, I imagine. So have a care not to let go. I don’t think he would do well on his own in the wilds…” She grimaced.
Placing Mr. Dog on the ground, Mr. Beckman bent to secure the length of his cravat around the pup’s neck. “This should do the trick.”
He straightened and extended one end of the fabric toward her. She accepted it, the improvised leading string warm from his body heat. For one foolish instant she longed to lift it to her face, to breathe him in—but instead she wound it carefully around her fingers.
“Which trunk do you need?” Mr. Beckman asked.
“The large one.” But before she could instruct him to wait for her before opening it, Mr. Dog tugged insistently at the cravat, nose to the ground, likely seeking out a proper spot to lift a leg.
As she followed the pup’s meandering path, her mind turned uneasily to what she had packed in that particular trunk. She was right to be embarrassed, of course—that a man was rummaging through her belongings. Her shoes, her stockings, her night rail—oh, heavens. Her personal things. Her private things. That alone was enough to make her cheeks heat.
But then… her stomach dipped.
There was something else. Something she had nearly forgotten. That ridiculous bit of silk and lace—the negligee Mrs. Tuttle had gifted her in the end. The one she’d hidden away at the very bottom. Mortification prickled along her skin.
She whirled just in time to see Mr. Beckman flip the latch and reach inside.
“Oh, please—wait—just?—”
“You’ll have to show me which linen you’re willing to sacrifice for Mr. Dog. I can’t imagine you’ll want to keep it once we?—”
Ambrosia’s stomach dropped, and she just… froze. Of course he would find it.
Mr. Beckman stood with one hand still in the trunk, the other lifted slightly… holding it between loose fingers.
The one garment she would rather have flung into the sea than have it be seen—by him or anyone else. Sapphire blue, sheer, with lace so delicate it… shimmered.
Merciful heavens, she should have simply flung it into the sea back at Rockford Beach. What had she been thinking, humoring Mrs. Tuttle like this when the woman wouldn’t have ever even needed to know?
His expression was unreadable. Not mocking. Not lewd. Just… still. Intently, devastatingly still.
