“Perhaps he can help you find Guinevere… After your visit to London.” She knew she was pushing, perhaps unfairly, but she couldn’t help it. There was a certain look that always crossed his face whenever she mentioned the party. Not quite despair, but something close. Why, though?
“Perhaps,” he said at last.
Before she could press further, the door opened and not one, but two maids bustled in carrying large trays, thwarting her opportunity to hear more.
For now.
Mr. Jeffries was doing his best to make up for his earlier behavior, it seemed, by sending them a banquet fit for a king.
Or… rather, for Dashwood Cochran Louis St. Something Something Beckman.
Dash.
There were at least three kinds of cheese, cold ham, sausage, and bread. There was also a plate for Mr. Dog, who’d been napping at her feet but promptly came to life at the prospect of a good meal.
Ambrosia would’ve liked to continue hearing Dash’s plans—anything about his life, really—but after the maids had left, the moment was gone…
Then for no reason at all, Ambrosia blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“I’ve never worn the sapphire negligee.”
It had bothered her. That he hadn’t questioned her about it.
It shouldn’t. He was merely being a gentleman.
But she didn’t want for him to think that she had a lover waiting for her in London… or that she’d left one at home…
It shouldn’t matter. All of this was very personal information… and yet…
It did matter.
“That’s a shame,” Mr. Beckman said as he shoved a bite of food into his mouth, and then, once he had finished chewing, murmured, “Perhaps you can wear it for me.”
Ambrosia nearly choked. “Pardon?” Surely she’d misheard him.
But he simply gave her a confused look, lifting a rather large piece of the ham. “Perhaps you can share this with me?”
Oh.
Oh! The ham.
She had loaded her plate with mostly vegetables—a deep-rooted habit formed over her years with Harrison, and then later, under the watchful eyes of Winifred.
But she needn’t please any of them now.
Ambrosia reached across the table and stabbed a plump piece of sausage with her own fork. “I believe I will.” She held his gaze this time, trying to channel some of her own je ne sais quoi.
The corner of his mouth quirked, but his eyes darkened.
“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, princesse.”
MR. BECKMAN’S UNORTHODOX PLAN
Later that day, as the sun began to set and they entered the only village for miles, Ambrosia furrowed her brows at what appeared to be an inordinate amount of carriages and people milling about. When they pulled into a crowded inn yard, Dash told her to wait a moment while he secured them a room.
A room. Singular.
Surely, he meant separate quarters for each of them. Ambrosia had no reason not to trust him on this matter. He’d already slept on a cot one night, allowing her to take sole possession of the only available chamber.
