Which explained why it pleased her greatly to imagine the cocksure gentleman sleeping on a cot that night. Quite deserved after speaking to her with such familiarity.
Beyond familiarity, really.
Ambrosia stepped up behind him and let out a soft laugh—Cocky blighter.
He turned, glancing at her over his shoulder, and from the look in his eyes, he did not share her good humor.
“I am so pleased you find my situation amusing,” he said coolly, before returning his attention to the man behind the counter.
Amoosing.
A quiet thrill skimmed down her spine, but she refused to examine it.
He was a perfect stranger, not the knight from her imagination, for heaven’s sake.
“My sincere apologies, Mr. Beckman.” The innkeeper shrugged with a wince. “Perhaps the Cow and Cleaver will have a vacancy.”
“The Cow and Cleaver is five miles away.” Ambrosia’s knight… Mr. Beckman exhaled loudly and scrubbed one hand down his face. She couldn’t help but notice that even more of his reddish-brown hair had escaped its que.
Would it feel as soft and silky as it looked?
Ambrosia banished the thought at once. Entirely unseemly.
Steeling herself, she stepped up to the counter, careful not to glance in Mr. Beckman’s direction.
“I believe my chamber should be ready now?”
She offered the innkeeper a smile, aiming for gracious rather than smug.
“Mrs. Ambrosia Bloomington,” she added helpfully. “Mrs. Neskers asked me to wait earlier.”
The innkeeper paused. His fingers twitched slightly on the counter.
He did not quite meet her eyes.
“Well, Mrs. Bloomington…” He rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid that room isn’t going to be available after all.”
She blinked.
One, two, three counts of silence as she tried to make sense of his words.
And then—from her right—a low, unmistakable chuckle.
Ambrosia forced a less gracious smile. “But that’s impossible. Mrs. Neskers?— “
“—was unaware that the current occupants had decided to remain for an additional night.” Mr. Neskers cut her off, though not unapologetically.
She inhaled deeply. Her fingers curled slightly around her reticule.
“That is not acceptable,” she said, her voice tight but steady. “I was promised a room.”
She fought to keep her tone measured as visions of spending the night in her carriage flickered through her mind—cold, cramped, and frightening. And what of her driver?
Behind her, Mr. Beckman chuckled again.
She turned a sharp glare on him, which he met with an exaggerated cough and the most insufferably innocent expression she’d ever seen.
She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes.
