“Here are your keys, ahem, Mr. Beckman. Rooms seven and eight.” Mr. Daniels handed them down from the driver’s box with surprising precision.
Ambrosia blinked at the change in tone. Had he just cleared his throat… deferentially?
“I’ll see to the horses and have everything ready for an early departure,” he added, dipping his head slightly before hopping down and leading the team toward the stables.
That was new.
Gone was the grumbling, eye-rolling driver who’d muttered under his breath and sighed with every turn of the road. This Mr. Daniels stood straighter. Spoke crisply. Seemed suddenly eager to please.
She glanced at Dash, who accepted the keys with an amused quirk of his mouth and a low, “Merci.”
Something had changed between them, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Perhaps that was what the money had purchased.
She didn’t want to think about it. Although she’d slept through most of the morning’s drive, she wanted nothing more than to lock herself away in a private chamber for a few hours and settle her wayward heart.
“Do you need anything from your trunks?” Mr. Beckman asked her as he lifted a hand to halt Mr. Daniels’ departure.
Most everything inside of them held the scent of smoke from the campfire and memories she’d save for later. Nothing she needed now. She had her cotton nightrail, of course, and a day dress that she could brush out in her small valise.
“I’m fine.” She held up the small suitcase, which Mr. Beckman then insisted on taking from her so that she could manage Mr. Dog. The dog’s legs were so short that it was easier to simply carry him most of the time.
Mr. Beckman led her inside and upstairs and after inspecting both rooms, insisted she take one that faced the back of the inn, where it would be quieter overnight. It was also the larger of the two. After he left her and Mr. Dog alone, reminding her to lock the door after he closed it, she threw herself onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
His eyes had been begging her to understand all the things he couldn’t say out loud.
I want… what I can’t have. But even more than that, I do not want to hurt you.
Had he been going to say that he wanted her? After enduring Mr. Bloomington through that first year of her marriage, Ambrosia had not considered she would want any man in that way. Knowing Dash had… changed all of that. All sorts of new possibilities had entered her mind since she’d kissed him.
She rolled over and groaned.
She was certain he wanted to make love to her. It was possible, even, that he loved her.
Just a little.
He liked her very much, at the very least.
So why did he keep pushing her away?
Mrs. Tuttle had confessed unapologetically that a few years after her husband died, she’d taken a lover for a brief period of time. The idea of having relations with a man, however, without it being absolutely necessary, had baffled Ambrosia.
But she quite understood now.
Before she could give the thought undue scrutiny, a knock sounded at her door.
“Are you hungry, princesse?” His voice rang out from the hallway.
She leapt up, smoothed her dress, and opened the door. Ridiculous of her to feel excited to see him again. They’d only parted a few moments ago.
The look he gave her was unexpectedly sheepish—boyish, even. “I have not yet fed you anything since breakfast. Mon Dieu, this is… unacceptable.”
Ambrosia’s lips parted, startled by the way his accent curled around the word unacceptable, as though he were commenting on something far more scandalous than missing a meal.
“You needn’t feed me,” she replied quickly. “Besides, I haven’t cleaned up yet, and I’m not even all that hungry, truly.”
Unfortunately, her stomach chose that exact moment to betray her with a loud, unmistakable growl.
