He tilted his head, gaze drifting toward the window as though he could see the past in his reflection.
“I couldn’t say, exactly.” His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Although, I didn’t really know I had it… until I lost it for a while.”
“What do you mean?” Ambrosia asked.
“In France, with my mother, my sister, my grandmother—I had my place. School, books, friends who shared their secrets and their sweets. I knew who I was. I liked who I was.”
His twisted his napkin. “But when I was summoned to England, my father expected me to become” —he made a small, dismissive gesture— “a proper little Englishman. Of course, I resisted. I was wild. I was… too much. And I was French, after all.”
Ambrosia’s brows drew together.
“So he sent me to school. Where the boys were bigger, the air colder, and my accent… not so charming.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I was small. Easily distracted. I didn’t belong. It was…” Another shrug. “A miserable time.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
But he just chuckled, waving away her pity.
“Don’t be. I found myself again.” He chuckled. “One of my tormentors—solid devil with fists like bricks—called me a p’tit connard.”
She shook her head, not recognizing the phrase. “And that means…?”
“Something between little bastard and insufferable peacock.” He lifted one brow, eyes glittering with mischief.
He rolled one shoulder. “When he threw his punch, I caught it—and then returned the favor with all the fury of a Provençal storm.”
Ambrosia’s lips twitched despite herself.
“We spent the next day side by side in the infirmary—bruised, bloodied, and suddenly… inseparable. Hawk… ah, he was a godsend. I could finally practice my damn English. And I realized being underestimated was not a bad thing. But from that day on, I have never let anyone make me forget who I am. No one.”
Ambrosia swallowed hard. Then, leaning in, she asked, “And who is that?”
He dropped his gaze to his ale. “Dashwood Cochran Étienne Philippe Jean-Baptiste Louis Beckman.”
Her eyes widened. “Pardon?”
There was a twinkle in his eyes when he looked up. “Dashwood. Cochran. Étienne. Philippe. Jean-Baptiste. Louis. Beckman.”
A stunned silence. Then?—
Ambrosia burst into laughter. “That’s not a name, that’s a family history!”
“What can I say? My parents had high hopes for me.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself.
She attempted it—badly. “Dashwood Cochran … Étien? Philip—Jean Baptiste?” She threw up her hands. “No wonder you had difficulty making friends.”
He laughed then, a rich, full sound that curled in her chest.
“Dash,” he said, the amusement softening into something warmer. “My friends call me Dash.”
“Dash,” she repeated, letting it settle on her tongue. “And you are still friends with this Hawk fellow?”
Mr. Beckman nodded with an affectionate smile.
“And will he be at your… party?”
“But of course.”
That was good. Whatever was to go on at this supposed party, Ambrosia felt that Mr. Be—Dash could do with the support.
