The corner of his mouth twitched. “And?”
“You enjoy food,” she added. “You don’t take yourself too seriously—most of the time. You’ve kept your promise to me, so far. And…” She hesitated. “Despite what you pretend, I believe that you are, in fact, an honorable man.”
She was honest enough to admit that if he’d truly wanted to win the race the night before, he could have claimed that last chamber. He’d let her have it.
He’d retied his cravat around Mr. Dog and was standing now. “Isn’t that enough, princesse?” he asked softly.
Her husband had once been considered upstanding. Honorable. Respected. He’d been well-known in their village, and because he’d been related to Ambrosia’s father, her mother had trusted him. And yet, he'd been cruel. Miserly. Controlling.
She nodded. “It’s enough… for now.”
In the silence that followed, they made their way back toward the road, picking carefully through the trees and brush. But Ambrosia’s thoughts were already several steps ahead. In just a few days, she and Mr. Beckman would go their separate ways. The idea left her with an unexpected ache.
Perhaps… once he’d fulfilled whatever obligation he was rushing toward, they might renew their acquaintance.
Formally.
Properly.
Possibly at one of the salons she intended to host…
And just as she’d expected, upon seeing their soaked garments, Mr. Daniels greeted them with a dark scowl. He lifted a hand to halt them, then climbed into the coach, located Mr. Dog’s blanket and shook it violently. With great ceremony, he then laid it across the cushions to protect the upholstery.
Mr. Beckman assisted Ambrosia inside then lifted Mr. Dog in, who promptly curled into a ball on the floor and fell fast asleep.
Ambrosia scooted over so that Mr. Beckman could have more space beside her.
When a soft breeze slipped through the open window, over her damp clothing, Ambrosia shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
Before she could answer, he slid an arm along the back of the seat and gently drew her close. His jacket was as damp as her gown, but she didn’t care.
She nodded and nestled against him without protest. All the while, Ambrosia knew she shouldn’t feel so at ease with her entire body pressed to his. And yet… she did. She felt alive.
Still holding her close, Mr. Beckman leaned back and slouched comfortably into the cushions. He closed his eyes.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him.
He cracked one eye open, mock irritation glinting there. “Some minx stole my chamber,” he growled. “Now hush.”
He tugged her closer, and Ambrosia marveled.
It was more comfortable than she could have imagined—more comforting than she ever expected from a man who unsettled her in all the right and wrong ways.
Before she could puzzle out her feelings—or question the ease with which she fit beside him—sleep claimed her.
She drifted off with a sense of contentment.
In the arms of a handsome, charming, mysterious stranger.
LUNCH AT THE HAPPY PIG
Ambrosia couldn’t say how long she’d slept soundly, but didn’t wake up until the carriage gave a pronounced jolt, jostling as Mr. Daniels turned off the road.
He’d be wanting to rest the horses.
Carefully, so as not to wake Mr. Beckman, she slipped out from beneath his arm and then rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She had only just begun to collect herself when?—
