“I’m always hungrier when I travel,” he replied, already finished with his portion, pinning her with an approving stare—and then winking. “Apparently, so are you.”
Taking another generous bite of cheese, Ambrosia shrugged. Why contradict him when he was right?
She couldn’t remember the last time food had tasted quite so satisfying. It was as though she’d awakened from a long, strange slumber, and her body was yearning to enjoy all life had to offer.
“So, it’s typical?” she asked, brushing crumbs from her lap. “This is the first time I’ve ever traveled anywhere, so I wouldn’t know.”
He quirked a brow. “Anywhere?”
She nodded. “We took the occasional drive—my father liked packing us into the carriage and we’d go along the coast or through the farmland farther in. But beyond that? No. Rockford Beach has been my entire world.”
When Dash studied her, she had the sense that he saw not just who she was, but who she’d been.
“Tell me more about your world,” Ambrosia said, shifting restlessly as though the question itched inside her. “What do you do when you aren’t making mysterious journeys across England?” She tapped a finger against her chin, her eyes alight with mock speculation. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were an earl—no, a duke—idling on the income of vast ancestral holdings. But as you’re merely the lowly Mister Beckman…” She let the word linger, lips curving in a teasing smile, daring him to contradict her.
Dash’s mouth twitched, the faintest sign of amusement. He cast her a sidelong glance, equal parts indulgent and wary. “I do a little of this… and a little of that,” he said smoothly, his French lilt softening the evasion. He was not so easily beguiled.
She laughed softly to hide the twinge of disappointment—a twinge that really ought not to be there. Of course he would sidestep such a question. Over the entire course of their short acquaintance, he hadn’t given her any reason to think otherwise.
Still, she was reluctant to give up on the matter entirely. Perhaps a different tactic. “Are you… happy, at least? With the way your life has turned out?”
At this, Dash actually paused to consider his answer. “For the most part, oui… I am most fortunate. I am never in want. I take pleasure in running my estate, and most important, I have good people in my life who keep me company.”
“Your sister?” Ambrosia guessed. “And your friends?” The ones who would be at his mysterious birthday party. A party which he was apparently dreading for reasons he did not see fit to share.
Dash simply nodded.
“You mentioned your father had passed, but is your mother…?” Ambrosia could’ve slapped herself for being so indelicate, but Dash replied easily enough.
“Alive and well. Waiting for me at home.”
“Not…?”
“Not at the party, no.”
“Oh.”
She sensed she was nearing the edge of what he would allow her to ask, so she let the questions fade and drifted instead into her own recollections. “You are lucky to have your mother. Both of my parents have been gone for a while now.”
Dash nodded. “I am sorry.”
Ambrosia nodded. “Thank you. It’s been… a while. My father became ill a few days after my twelfth birthday. It was slow… relentless. But those afternoon drives—those were the last moments of pure happiness we had as a family.” Her eyes softened with the memory. “How strange it is, that we never recognize such magic until it’s gone.”
“It is,” he agreed quietly.
She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, trying to think of something she could ask that might lead back to more neutral ground. “Tell me something you wish you had valued more.”
“Innocence.” The word left him swiftly, surprising her with his frankness.
Ambrosia stilled. If he was willing to answer, perhaps he might also be willing to explain.
But then he added, “Don’t we all?” The muscles clenched all along his throat and he rose to his feet. “We’d best break camp if we’re going to get on the road before half the day is gone.”
He dropped the curtain over his life once again.
With her belly full, but yearning to know more about this man, Ambrosia scraped the remainder of the food into Mr. Dog’s small bowl and poured what was left of the milk onto it. The more he shared about himself, the more mysterious he became.
The more she wanted to know.
