“Careful,” she warned. “He may not have teeth, but he does have opinions.”
“I think he’s sulking.” Mr. Beckman studied Mr. Dog, who was no longer kicking. “Dignity’s taken a blow.”
He did indeed look as if he was sulking, something like a pout managing to come across loud and clear even on his little dog face.
Ambrosia leaned forward and gently began scrubbing the short legs, the lightly furred belly, and round chest. “He and I have something in common, then.”
The words slipped out before she could think better of them, but Mr. Beckman didn’t tease. Instead, he held the dog steady, his expression unreadable but soft around the eyes.
They worked in tandem, her hands dipping into the brook to build up the suds, his grip shifting to let her reach every scruffy inch of the dog’s back and neck. Now and then, her fingers brushed against Mr. Beckman’s—or her bosom inadvertently grazed his arm—and each accidental contact sent a flutter through her chest.
At one such moment, their hands met and lingered...
“Careful, princesse,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “We’ll have to bathe you next if you keep leaning in like that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” But her voice didn’t sound firm as she’d intended.
He really, really needed to stop saying such things.
She cleared her throat. “There now,” she murmured as she rinsed away the last of the suds.
Mr. Beckman let out a low whistle. “Handsome dog under all that mud.”
“He is rather, isn’t he?”
“A good lesson for the day.”
She looked up sharply, surprised by the note of something sincere in his voice.
Their eyes met.
And held.
But Mr. Dog had had enough. He gave a vigorous shake from nose to tail, flinging cold water in all directions.
Ambrosia gasped as the droplets hit her everywhere, soaking through her gown. But when she glanced at Mr. Beckman—just as drenched, a single strand of hair plastered along his jaw—laughter burst from her lips.
It wasn’t the polite sort of laugh she usually permitted herself. It came bubbling out of her chest, bright and delighted and utterly unladylike.
In her mirth, she leaned back on her heels, unintentionally pulling on Mr. Dog’s lead, which caused the little beast to lurch—and pulled Mr. Beckman off balance with her.
He landed beside her with an indignant grunt.
“We’re all soaked!” she gasped, flopping back onto the damp grass and letting the sun warm her cheeks. “Mr. Daniels is going to have conniptions over Milton’s coach.”
But the thought didn’t trouble her. Not in this moment. She had a dog. A ridiculous, no-longer-stinky, noble beast.
She was not alone. And for once, she didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission.
Mr. Dog, for his part, gave another shake, then flopped smugly onto Ambrosia’s apron in a patch of sun, seemingly pleased with himself.
“Mr. Daniels can hang,” Mr. Beckman muttered, lying back beside her. “At least Mr. Dog no longer smells like shite.”
His words startled a final laugh from her, and when she turned her head, she found him already watching her.
The warmth in his expression, warmer even then the sun, made her heart stumble.
And in that moment, she couldn’t quite recall why she had, in fact, forbidden Mr. Beckman from kissing her.
