Ambrosia was torn between enjoying Mrs. Wooten’s company and feeling guilty over the lie she and Dash were perpetuating. In the end, she didn’t really have to worry one way or the other as it took all her concentration to keep up with the woman’s ongoing conversation… about the weather, about the festival they must all attend together that evening, and how she was certain her jam would win the contest this year because, although a Mrs. Flanders had won last year, that had been only “—because one of the judges carried a torch for that hussy!”
“Mrs. Wooten, ma’am?” Dash peeked into the kitchen, interrupting what was sure to be a long and detailed rant. “Mr. Wooten is taking our driver into the village. He said you would show me the horse cart and that I could drive you two ladies in for the festival and meet him there?” He stood in the doorway holding Ambrosia’s valise and his own pack, looking dusty and… yes, as Mrs. Wooten had noted… incredibly handsome.
“Oh, where are my manners? Of course, come in, Mr. Beckman. Right this way, both of you. I haven’t even given your poor wife a chance to clean up yet, I’ve been talking her ear off over tea.” She paused. “Do you care for some tea, Mr. Beckman?” But when she went to turn back to the stove, he halted her.
“Later, perhaps.”
And then she laughed at herself and led them up a small staircase and into an attic room. “I wish we had a grand chamber to put you both up, but you being newlyweds, I don’t imagine it matters much to either of you.” She winked. “I’ll bring up some water but if you need more, you can always collect some from out back. You can use this pitcher and wash bowl. Here’s a few towels, and you both just let me know if you need another quilt. It may say April on the calendar, but it still feels like winter around here, at night especially.”
Mr. Beckman grinned at Ambrosia and she couldn’t help but grin back. It was a wonder Mrs. Wooten got a breath in between sentences. Ambrosia had never known a person to talk so much, not even Winifred, and that was saying a lot.
After clucking at herself and pulling open the curtains at one end of the room, their hostess remembered she needed to finish packing up her jam and excused herself. “Come down when you’re ready. Of course, Mr. Beckman, if you’d like that tea, you just holler and I’ll put the water back on for you.”
And then she was gone.
“Comfortable lodgings, my lovely new wife. It is, I think, my lucky day.” He chuckled softly as he brushed the dust from his coat.
“What are we going to do?” Ambrosia bit her lip after a quick glance at the bed. She realized they’d slept beside one another on the ground two nights before, and yet the sight of only one bed, in one room, and his belongings right next to hers… “What if they find out? Mr. Daniels?—”
“Won’t say a word.” He answered her question.
Ambrosia walked over to the bed and smoothed the counterpane. “I understand why. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Wooten would think if she knew the truth—that I was traveling alone with a single gentleman. Even if I am a wid?—”
“Here’s that water for you!” Mrs. Wooten announced her presence at the bottom of the stairs.
Dash descended so that she wouldn’t have to carry it all the way up while Ambrosia tried to make sense of the situation she’d unwittingly placed herself into.
She was a widow, true, but it was possible that if some notable person in London got wind of her traveling arrangements, her dream of hosting readings and salons might be ruined before she even arrived there. Scandal traveled as though on the wind. Even in Rockford Beach, they’d heard of the most hair-raising scandals that took place in London.
She listened as the door at the bottom of the stairs closed and Dash returned.
“I’ll make friends with the floor, princesse. You needn’t worry.” He placed the pitcher gently beside the washbasin, but when he turned around, his eyes found hers—and burned. “Despite what I told you earlier.”
I wanted nothing more than to keep kissing you—to taste every inch of your skin… and then bury myself deep inside you.
Ambrosia felt it like a lightning strike to the chest.
Her skin prickled. Her breath stuttered.
The air between them seemed to shimmer with the impossibility of all the… possibilities.
She swallowed hard.
He saw it—her flinch, her awareness—and took a single step forward before halting himself.
Then his tone shifted, softened.
“You are perfectly safe with me. Je te jure.” I swear. His voice was low, gentle, almost tender now. “You trust me, non?”
Of course she trusted him. It was herself she doubted. From the very moment she first caught sight of this man, she’d acted out of character.
“So we simply…. pretend to be man and wife?” She stared up at him, imagining all the things that such playacting might entail.
It shouldn’t entail much—except for the fact that she’d gone and announced that they were newlyweds.
“It will not be so very difficult, will it?” He tilted his head in question. “To pretend we are wed?” A gravelly tone caught at his voice.
It wouldn’t be difficult at all. No, unfortunately, she’d imagined it too many times already. That was the problem!
