His gaze was steady. “And I did.”
Ambrosia looked away.
“But that isn’t fair!” She’d known this inequity existed. She’d experienced an abundance of it within her marriage, and yet somehow, a part of her had imagined she’d escaped such disparities when she’d left Rockford Beach as an independent woman.
Apparently, she hadn’t.
“It absolutely is not.” Mr. Beckman’s usual charm returned when the same maid returned carrying a basket of bread. “Thank you, luv.” How was it he could make an English endearment sound so incredibly French?
Ambrosia felt utterly deflated. Was every woman either luv or princesse or cherie to him? And was that all any woman ever was? Somebody to be charmed at will and then ignored when she was no longer convenient?
She oughtn’t to be angry with Mr. Beckman, of all people. He owed her nothing. In exchange for a ride to London, he’d been helpful and courteous. Having him along, in fact, had been… useful.
She stared into the amber depths of her ale, watching the way the light caught the rim of the glass. And then she exhaled, a long, quiet sigh. It wasn’t Mr. Beckman’s fault that she’d never learned how to deal with men like Mr. Jeffries. Men who wielded their power like cudgels. Men who seemed to relish in making women feel small.
“Ah, come now, Madame Beckman,” he said, with a teasing lilt. “Nothing can be all that bad.”
Madame Beckman. He would continue the charade just in case…
Ambrosia forced a smile—but it felt brittle. “I just—” She hesitated, then pushed on. “I wish I knew what to say in moments like that. Something that would put a man like him in his place. That would make him see that simply being a woman doesn’t mean I’m inferior.”
She didn’t add what she was truly thinking—that no matter how fiercely she wanted her independence, society rarely allowed women to hold it without a man’s approval.
As a widow, would she break free in London?
Was that even possible?
Mr. Beckman didn’t rush to fill the silence, and when she finally looked up, he was watching her, elbows on the table, his tumbler forgotten in front of him.
“You don’t need a man to establish your authority,” he said. No trace of teasing now—just calm conviction. “You have it in spades. You just haven’t figured out how to use it yet.”
Ambrosia stilled, wanting to believe him.
But… how?
Her gaze dropped to his hands. A faint scar crossed the back of his wrist, and his fingers, roughened by some kind of labor, tapped against the table without thought.
This man…
His accent was French, but polished—like his bearing. He walked into rooms like a man accustomed to being obeyed.
And yet, he hadn’t dismissed her. Hadn’t tried to explain the world to her.
Maybe… he wasn’t like other men she’d known.
“Can you give me a hint, then—what this hidden strength of mine is?” she asked dryly. “Because I was failing rather spectacularly before you came to my rescue.” She glanced down at her muddy hem. “I suppose my attire must not have done me any favors.”
“It matters not if you’re covered in mud or dressed for court.” His voice was certain. “The je ne sais quoi—that essence—it is already yours. Your strength. You have endured marriage to un homme sans âme.” A soulless man. “What carried you through? What kept you from surrendering to despair? Find that, princesse, and the world is yours.”
She wanted to argue, but… his words stirred a flame inside her, one she’d long thought extinguished.
In the quiet that followed, she studied him.
The fine lines near his eyes—the ones at the outer corners may have come from laughter alone, but there was also a rather pronounced indentation between his brows, the kind that came from expressions of consternation or deep thought. The tired elegance of his coat. The way his fingers fidgeted unconsciously, tapping the table, folding his napkin, then smoothing it flat again. Little signs of a restless mind.
He was not simply charming. He was not simply beautiful. He was a man who had been tested.
“When did you learn it?” she asked. “Your je ne sais quoi.”
