No, he hadn’t said the word love. But he’d said mon cœur. He’d held her as though she meant something. As though she mattered—not just as a woman, but as… a person.
She stood, pulled on her dress, and twisted her hair up with a few quick pins. Her hands shook a little—not from nerves, but from anticipation. She was eager to see him again. She imagined his smile, sleepy and crooked. The brush of his knuckles along her jaw. The gleam in his eyes when he teased her. Maybe he’d pull her into his lap, kiss her forehead, pour her tea.
It could be so lovely.
It would be lovely.
As she laced her boots, Ambrosia felt a warmth blooming inside her. Was this… love?
And if it was, what did that mean?
Surely, Dash would return to London after this party in Margate. Perhaps—perhaps—he would ask her to go with him. A wild thought, but not an impossible one. Not now.
The night they’d shared had been unforgettable. Earth-shattering.
Life-changing.
Surely it had been the same for him. How could it not have been?
Then again… he was a man. He’d known exactly what to do, how to touch her. Had it meant the same to him?
She rose and smoothed her hands down the front of her gown, suddenly aware of the way her pulse fluttered. At the door, she hesitated. Her fingers curled around the latch.
A stillness rippled through her—not fear. Not exactly.
Just a pause.
A whisper in her chest.
She shook it off, even laughed softly to herself. Silly. She had no reason to worry. Not this morning.
Still, as she descended the stairs, that uneasy feeling prickled the back of her neck, replacing some of her earlier euphoria. She told herself it was nothing. The moment she saw him, he’d smile, and all would be right again.
Mr. Dog came barreling toward her as she stepped into the warm, sunlit kitchen, leaping at her legs with a happy bark.
Ambrosia bent down and scooped him up, burying her nose in his fur. He smelled of hay and morning dew.
“Good morning, Mrs. Beckman,” Mrs. Wooten called brightly from the hearth, already reaching for the teapot. “Let me pour you some tea. Such a shame Mr. Beckman had to leave so soon. And on your wedding trip, no less.”
She blinked, unsure she’d heard correctly. “Pardon?”
Mrs. Wooten turned, brow creased in mild confusion. “That driver of yours, Mr. Daniels, he said it was something to do with a stolen horse. Very mysterious. I do hope your husband tracks the beast down—must be a valuable one for him to cut the wedding trip short. But of course, he’ll meet up with you in London. You know more about it than I do.”
Ambrosia swallowed hard, taking the teacup from Mrs. Wooten with hands that felt numb.
He… left?
“No—yes. Of course.” Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. “He—he had to act quickly. Of course.” Guinevere. He must have heard something. “I’ll just…” She tightened her grip on Mr. Dog. “I’ll just check with Mr. Daniels about the carriage.”
She turned toward the door before her smile could falter, before the ache rising in her chest overflowed in a torrent of tears.
The air outside was cool and damp, but it did nothing to clear the fog that had landed. She walked forward, letting her feet carry her past the edge of the garden, past the hedgerow, past reason.
He must still be here.
He wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.
“Princesse…” She heard it in her mind, so clear she could almost feel his breath on her neck. “I would not leave you without a word. I would not leave without saying goodbye. Surely you realize this?”
