And that was what made her want it.
“I love it,” she said softly. Then, hesitating, “Are you certain? I’d feel dreadful if anything happened to it. What if it gets soiled?”
“Then we wash it,” Mrs. Wooten said with a shrug. “It’s settled, then. Now—here’s some lavender. We’ll freshen it up a bit…”
For the next fifteen minutes, Mrs. Wooten helped her into the deliciously frivolous gown, adjusting the ribbons and smoothing the lace with care. The fabric whispered as it fell into place, brushing against her legs like a lover’s touch. Ambrosia gazed down at herself and, for the first time in years, felt not like a widow or someone’s burden—but like the girl she might’ve become, if she’d been given the chance.
“Let’s not wear your hair so tight, Mrs. Beckman,” Mrs. Wooten said, reaching up to loosen the strands at her temples. “It’s your crown, after all.”
She returned to the trunk and pulled out a small wreath of silk flowers—pale blush, soft lilac, a touch of green—and nestled it gently atop Ambrosia’s unbound curls.
“There now,” she said. “You look like spring itself.”
And, for once, Ambrosia almost believed it. “It’s too much.”
Ambrosia stepped back. The flowers looked like something a bride would wear, and she was only pretending.
“All the young ladies wear one at the fair. It’s tradition.” Mrs. Wooten dismissed Ambrosia’s objections, adjusting the dainty flower headdress atop her head. Without a mirror, Ambrosia could only sit and allow Mrs. Wooten to pin it on securely. “Lovely. Ah, indeed, your Mr. Beckman will fall in love with you all over again.”
Ambrosia blinked away the stinging sensation at the back of her eyes. The memory of her own mother came to mind. Before Mr. Bloomington’s coach had arrived at their house to take them to her own wedding, Ambrosia’s mother had fussed at her hair just like this. She’d even collected a few flowers from her own garden so that Ambrosia would have a bouquet.
Her mother had wanted the best for her. It wasn’t her fault…
And now, by a lucky twist of fate, and Harrison’s mistake, Ambrosia was going to have the opportunity to live a life she never could have imagined. In London, of all places! But that morning, the morning of her wedding, had been the last day of her innocence.
She’d carried the small bouquet to Mr. Bloomington’s house, mouthed her vows, to love, honor, and cherish a man who’d had no consideration for her own feelings. It had not been a wedding, in truth. It had been more of a business transaction—or a sentencing more like, with her as the inmate.
And the crime? Well, that she’d never quite understood.
Oh, but this was not a wedding either, not even a pretend one. It was only a festival.
She couldn’t very well remove the flowers from her hair now that they were already pinned in, so she merely rose to her feet again and smoothed down the lovely gown. “Thank you, Mrs. Wooten.”
She would enjoy the gown and the festival with all its food and dancing. She would enjoy pretending to be married to Mr. Beckman, a man who was very close to stealing her heart.
She would enjoy the romance if there was any to be had.
But when she stepped into the kitchen, a nervous flutter stirred in her chest. She smoothed her skirt, trying to steady herself—just as Dash looked up.
In an instant, the air shifted. His stormy eyes darkened, arresting her in place. That was no mere courtesy in his gaze, but hunger—raw, unguarded.
Ambrosia flushed hotly, heat climbing her throat. She continued smoothing her skirt with restless hands, flustered beneath the weight of his stare. “Isn’t she lovely, Mr. Beckman? What luck that it happened to fit her so well, wouldn’t you say? Oh, have you loaded my jams already? Marvelous, thank you. I do hope this weather holds. Don’t forget your shawl, now, Mrs. Beckman,” Mrs. Wooten added as she handed Ambrosia a white knitted wrap that complemented the gown. “You won’t want to be catching a chill, now. Although I’m sure your Mr. Beckman would be more than happy to keep you warm.” Donning her own wrap, she tittered at the two of them, and then swept out of the kitchen to where an old farmer’s horse cart had been pulled up to the door.
“You surprise me,” Dash murmured near her ear, his breath warm against her skin. His gaze lingered, intense, until the corner of his mouth softened. “And she is right, you know. You are… magnifique. Belle.”
The burning in his eyes eased as he looked at her—then brightened, and with a quiet grace, he offered her his arm.
“Mrs. Wooten insisted,” Ambrosia said quickly, taking it. “I couldn’t very well?—”
She faltered, self-conscious. The gown, so whimsical and light in the bedroom, now felt far too fine for the rustic kitchen and the faint scent of woodsmoke.
“It’s perfect,” he said, cutting through her misgivings.
He released her arm, drawing back, and his gaze swept the length of her—slowly.
“Mon dieu,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “What are you trying to do to me?”
Ambrosia blinked, throat dry. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “Should I change out of it? I didn’t mean to— I don’t want to draw attention?—”
