“I won’t be needing anything else,” she managed. “You may take the rest away.”
The last thing she needed was to be left alone with a tray full of sinful indulgences—especially when the most tempting one had knowing eyes and a wicked grin.
And yet Mrs. Neskers did not leave.
The woman took her time. Adjusted a fork. Repositioned a serviette. Straightened the sugar bowl, though it had been perfectly aligned to begin with.
Ambrosia sat frozen, cheeks blazing, praying the floor might develop a crack wide enough to swallow her whole.
Only when the tray was finally gathered—slowly, so very slowly—and the door closed behind her with a soft click, did Ambrosia dare to move.
She pressed both hands to her face and squeezed her eyes shut.
He’d known. He’d known she was watching him all along.
And to say what he did! How positively horrid. How absolutely reprehensible.
The wicked thrill he’d sent spiraling through her entire body ought to have dissolved her into a tingling puddle of shame. Because to suggest such a thing—to a lady! —was beyond the pale.
Yes, she may have been entertaining one or two inappropriate thoughts. But that did not give him leave to speak them aloud.
It was… it was unconscionable.
And yet.
The words echoed through her mind, low and mocking, as she played them back again.
“Perhaps the beautiful princess at the window would like a kiss from the stranger she has been watching, no?”
She took a single bite of a pastry—flaky, sweet, and suddenly tasting like dust in her mouth.
She set it down.
The arrogant rake had managed to ruin this small, stolen pleasure.
Not just the treat. The moment. The quiet indulgence she hadn’t dared allow herself in years.
What had she expected?
She rose, brushing nonexistent crumbs from her skirts, her appetite—and her appetite for foolishness—thoroughly extinguished.
NOT A PRINCESSE
Keeping her head down, Ambrosia headed for the innkeeper’s desk. Her chamber ought to be readied by now, and as a lady traveling alone, she would not test common wisdom to avoid the public rooms. The sounds drifting from the taproom were already growing boisterous.
Just as she reached the front parlor, a familiar voice curled around her like smoke.
“But you must have something available.”
That voice. Rough-edged, low-pitched, faintly accented.
Only now, there was no windowpane between them. No glass to dull its effect.
“I do not require much. Just a small room with a cot. I am not picky.”
Ambrosia paused.
The French lilt, though subtle, lent an enticing curl to each syllable. Seductive, almost. It was entirely unfair.
