His eyes lit up and the sheepish look melted into a slow, wide grin. “Ah, voilà. Your belly speaks the truth. Allow me to make amends.”
Before she could argue, he stepped closer, all charm and swagger. “I shall escort Monsieur Dog outside to tend to his urgent affairs, secure us a private dining room, and return in—hmm—half an hour. Will that give you enough time, ma belle?”
That triggered another shiver, and a pleasant warmth rose in her cheeks. Ma belle—my beauty. Princesse, mon cher… It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he looked at her when he said them. Like she was something rare. Something he wanted.
She ought to get used to making such arrangements for herself. She could bring a meal upstairs and take it in her chamber. She ought to wean herself from his company.
Instead, she nodded mutely, her voice stuck somewhere between yes and dear God, yes.
At the same time, there was a little patter of tiny feet scrambling from inside the room as Mr. Dog hurried to the door, having apparently heard his name, recognizing even the French version. He slipped around Ambrosia’s skirts and began making tight little circles of excitement at Mr. Beckman’s feet.
“I daresay I can be persuaded,” she said, her smile tilting toward the impish. “And it would seem Mr. Dog is of a like mind.”
With that, and unwilling to question her lack of restraint with this man, Ambrosia slipped Mr. Dog’s leading string into Mr. Beckman’s hand and sent them on their way, leaving her alone with her fluttering stomach—and not from hunger.
And so it was with shaking hands that she wiped the wrinkles out of her gown, washed her face, and brushed out her hair before knotting it again.
She would not berate herself for tonight. She would be with him… simply be.
In a day or so, they would say goodbye forever and she’d have no choice but to accustom herself to a future without him—without his bold stare, without his exasperating sense of humor.
By the time thirty minutes had passed, Ambrosia looked less like a woman who had slept on the ground, and more like the respectable widow she was meant to be. Her hair was pinned, her gown was clean, and her hands folded tightly in her lap as she sat—waiting.
And waiting.
And then waiting some more.
The light from the window had dimmed considerably. The golden hues of late afternoon had bled into the cool gray of dusk, and still he had not returned.
Surely, he ought to have come back by now?
Perhaps she’d misunderstood—perhaps he’d meant for her to meet him downstairs. But no, he’d said he would return. And he had Mr. Dog.
For the umpteenth time, she walked to the window, pressing her fingertips to the glass in hopes of glimpsing him below—chatting with the innkeeper, perhaps, or Mr. Daniels. But the yard was empty now, save for a few shadowed figures drifting toward the stables. She couldn't make out any faces. Just shapes. And darkness settling in.
She stepped into the narrow corridor and glanced toward the stairs. For a moment, she hovered—debating. Then she turned and knocked lightly on the door to chamber number eight.
No answer.
Of course, she told herself, he would have brought Mr. Dog back to her if he had returned. The absence of the dog sharpened her worry. She was confident that Dash could look after himself in most circumstances but having a small creature to look after as well might complicate things. If… if something had happened…
Trying to ignore the squeezing in her chest, Ambrosia returned to her own room and stood again at the window. The last glow of light had all but vanished.
He’d been gone now for nearly two hours.
Where was he?
He would not have abandoned her! He would not have! Especially not with her dog!
Ambrosia twisted her hands together, imagining all manner of calamities that might have occurred.
Thieves could have set upon him, a man, alone. Or even worse, a murderer!
At the same time, she rebuked herself for imagining such dramatics.
Oh, but where was he? Struggling to avoid falling into hysterics, she paced back and forth across the room. Perhaps he’d met up with an acquaintance and began conversing and had simply forgotten the time.
Or a woman.
