“It isn’t mine,” she rushed to say. “Mrs. Tuttle insisted I take it. I told her I’d never wear it. That I had no use for such a thing, but she swore there might come a time?—”
Thankfully, she cut herself off there—before she could say anything even more embarrassing.
Mr. Beckman lifted his gaze to meet hers, not saying a word. She did not even want to try to imagine what he must be thinking, whether he found the idea of her with a negligee—her wearing a negligee—merely absurd, evidence of unchecked vanity…
Ambrosia strode forward and snatched the offending scrap from his hands, jamming it beneath a very sensible white cotton night rail until not even a glimmer of blue could be seen.
Only then did she search for supplies she needed for Mr. Dog’s bath.
She tugged free an old apron and then fished out the jar of cherished lemon and lavender soap from her ablutions satchel.
Still, he said nothing.
“A real gentleman would not invade a lady’s privacy like that,” Ambrosia ground out, scooping up Mr. Dog and marching toward the sound of the brook.
She didn’t care what might be clinging to the dog’s fur, she simply needed a moment.
A moment to collect herself.
To breathe.
Of all the items Mr. Beckman could have uncovered, it had to be that—the negligee. The most scandalous thing Ambrosia had ever owned. She would have left it behind, but, ultimately, it was a gift from her one true friend, and—if she were being honest—she’d held onto it because of what it represented.
Possibility. Hope.
The wild notion that if the right gentleman did happen to come along…
Only, she didn’t really believe he would.
A strip of sandy shoreline appeared between the grass, and she dropped to her knees. Still clutching the cravat, she dipped her free hand into the brook and lifted the cold water to her cheeks, her neck, her brow—anywhere to soothe the heat of her mortification.
“I said he’d be fine—and he will be, but that doesn’t mean bathing him will be easy.”
But of course Mr. Beckman had followed.
“I can do it.” Determined, she tucked one arm around Mr. Dog’s belly and began to lower the squirming little sausage into the stream. The moment his paws grazed the water, however, he went rigid with panic, clawing frantically, scrambling back up her chest with wide, terrified eyes and an expression of sheer betrayal.
“Let me help, princesse.” Mr. Beckman, who had crouched down beside her, reached out and wrapped his hands firmly around belly of the wriggling pup.
His arms brushed against her chest.
His coat grazed her cheek as he leaned in.
“The soap—you have it?” he asked, not looking at her, holding Mr. Dog over the water.
“I do.”
“Do not fear, petit bonhomme.” His voice was low and coaxing. “No one will hurt you. We only need wash away that odeur terrible, oui? If you are to belong to a princesse, you must at least smell like a prince.”
His words were almost a lullaby, laced with fondness and that gentle teasing of his.
As he lowered the dog into the stream, cradling the trembling creature securely, he cupped water over its back in slow, steady motions, careful not to startle him.
And watching him, it brought Ambrosia straight back to the moment she’d spotted him stroking Guinevere’s neck at the inn—the same quiet tenderness in his hands, the same ease in his posture.
“Allez, princesse. Tout de suite—before he wriggles away.” Mr. Beckman glanced over, the corner of his mouth quirking, spurring her into action.
Ambrosia swallowed and reached for the small jar of soap, her fingers not quite steady. She worked up a lather in her palms, then looked up just as Mr. Beckman shifted the dog, presenting his muddied underbelly with a resigned sort of patience.
