My Heart's True Delight, page 5
“You could go to Town without me,” Beatitude said, wiggling her hips in a manner that communicated itself directly to Grey’s breeding organs.
“Ash would be offended if I galloped into Town simply because he’s varying his routine by a few weeks. Who was it that told me to have faith in my brothers?”
Beatitude set up a slow, sweet rhythm. “You could send Willow around to assess matters.”
“No, I could not. Willow has puppies on the way. Beatitude, if you insist…”
“You love it when I insist.”
He did. He absolutely did. “Oh, very well. I admit it: I adore you. I am yours to command, and I always will be. Have your way with me, you merciless fiend.”
So she did. She absolutely did.
“Della claims last week’s outing in the park went well,” Nicholas Haddonfield, Earl of Bellefonte, said. “I’d like your version of events.”
Ash and Della were to leave for the Dickson’s Venetian breakfast in ten minutes. He’d arrived early, hoping to spend that much more time with the lady—not with her enormous, blond, glowering brother, who was stalking the Haddonfield guest parlor like a caged hyena.
“Do you imply that your sister is mendacious?” Ash asked pleasantly. “If so, I’d have to invite you to meet me at Jackson’s for a few friendly rounds.”
Bellefonte had several inches of reach on Ash and would doubtless land plenty of blows, but he wasn’t as fast, and he wouldn’t punch as hard as Ash. Ash had yet to step into the ring with a man who could match him for speed or power.
“Spare me your friendly rounds, Dorning. Della managed to slip off with Chastain and get as far as bedamned Alconbury. I am her brother, she is under my protection, and I failed her. Forgive me if, because I doubt my ability to keep my sister safe, I am assuring myself of her veracity.”
Ah, well then. “You need not be ashamed,” Ash said, comparing the time on his pocket watch with the time on the eight-day clock. “Della has more cunning than you give her credit for. With older siblings talking over her and mistaking her diminutive stature for diminutive intelligence, she’s had to develop some guile.”
Haddonfield’s scowl became perplexed. “We don’t talk over her.”
Where was Della? “The next time you have a family meal, watch how many times she’s interrupted and talked over. Watch who asks interesting questions of whom and who is merely supposed to pass the butter on command. I am familiar with this tendency only because Sycamore has complained of the same treatment. He was late to grow into the family height, and the lack of inches and years afflicted him sorely.”
“We love Della,” Haddonfield said. “We love her especially because…” He looked around, as if the carpet, wallpaper, or furniture had all been changed the previous day.
“You love her because she’s a half-sister to some of you and no blood relation at all to others.” Including to Bellefonte himself. Nicholas was the product of his father’s first union. Della’s mother had been the late earl’s second wife. The Haddonfield family tree resembled a thorny hedge more than a sturdy oak.
“We love her because she’s special,” Haddonfield said. “And if you break her heart again…”
“You’ll meet me at Jackson’s?” Ash had not broken Della’s heart. Disappointed her, yes, but broken her heart—God, no. Please not that.
“My countess likes my handsome phiz in its current arrangement,” Haddonfield replied. “You are rumored to have lethal speed and a devilish cold temper in the boxing arena.”
A soft tread outside the door had Ash putting his watch away. “One doesn’t step into the ring to play pat-a-cake while stripped to the waist, does one?”
The footsteps faded, and Ash found himself the subject of Haddonfield’s blue-eyed scrutiny. “Dorning, what exactly are you about with Della?”
“I am about providing her a cordial escort for her next few social outings. I will be seen to gaze longingly after her retreating form, to caress her gloved hand unnecessarily when I walk with her, and to generally lay my heart at her feet—discreetly, of course. She will lead me a bit of a dance, then send me on my way.”
Haddonfield wrinkled his nose. “If you’re besotted enough to engage in this farce, you’re besotted enough to propose in earnest. Why not simply marry her?”
The question hurt worse than a left uppercut at the end of the twentieth round. “Her ladyship and I would not suit.”
“The hell you wouldn’t.” Haddonfield prowled around the piano and stalked up to Ash. “She wrote to you in Dorset. I franked the letters, and I know you never wrote back. She writes to all of our siblings, but Susannah gets twice the mail, because Della hopes your brother Willow will mention something about you to Susannah. Everywhere we go, Della surreptitiously looks for you, and is disappointed to find you not among the guests.” Haddonfield leaned closer. “You have made my sister pathetic.”
Ash fluffed his lordship’s cravat. “Do not, I beg you, refer to Lady Della as pathetic. I would love to go twelve rounds with you, assuming you lasted that long.”
The pounding would be glorious, and the recovery days of sheer, righteous hell.
Haddonfield patted Ash’s lapel with an enormous paw. “If Della catches sight of you at some damned musicale, she stares out of windows for the next week. If she sees you at a ball, she takes out her embroidery the next morning and sews not a single stitch for hours. Has it occurred to you, Mr. Dunderheaded Dorning, that this whole melodrama with Chastain might have been a ploy to gain your attention?”
A left uppercut followed by a merciless straight right. “Her ladyship was doubtless attempting to earn a respite from her siblings’ matchmaking.”
Haddonfield straightened. “Meaning she never intended to marry Chastain. My countess suggested as much. So how did the outing in the park truly go?”
Haddonfield was known as an exceedingly genial man, a doting paterfamilias, and kind to children and animals. He was well liked, well connected, and well heeled.
And he—all seventeen stone of him—was afraid for his youngest sister. “The outing truly did go well. Grudging nods, mostly. Lady Caldicott tried for the cut direct, but we were on foot, and I made it a point to occupy the middle of the path and bow over her hand. She relented. Her Grace of Moreland chatted Della up long enough that other people had to notice.”
Haddonfield made a face. “That was likely Lord Valentine’s influence. He’s close to his parents. What did Her Grace and Della discuss?”
“Nothing of any consequence. The mild weather, the relief from summer’s heat, the Morelands’ harvest, and Her Grace’s newest grandchild. Her Grace’s generosity was in talking to Della at all.”
Haddonfield snorted. “You will not find a randier, more headstrong, and unconventional lot in Mayfair than Moreland’s get. I consider Lord Valentine a friend.”
“I consider Lady Della a friend.” One who was due to make her appearance now, please God.
Haddonfield ambled over to a bust of some beaky old Roman and propped an elbow on the philosopher’s head. The earl was tall enough that this occasioned an unlordly slouch.
“Would it be so bad, being married to Della?” The question held a wheedling note.
“The query from your perspective ought to be: Would it be so bad for Lady Della to marry me, and I can answer that. Marriage to me is not a fate any woman you care for deserves.”
Haddonfield propped his chin on his hand and treated Ash to a slow perusal. “Why? You aren’t ugly, you have an income. You are of suitable family, and she’s smitten with you.”
Because I become insensate with irrational sorrow and indifferent to decency. I become numb to joy and in thrall to despair. I lose days to darkness and weeks to a paralyzing lack of motivation. I become an animal beyond the reach of reason.
“We would not suit, Haddonfield. I esteem Lady Della above all other women and wish only for her happiness, but we would not suit.”
Haddonfield looked like he wanted to protest, or perhaps throw a punch or two, but his expression became all smiles when Della strode through the door.
“Darling sister, you brighten the day with your feminine pulchritude. That is a fetching frock.”
Della stuck her tongue out at him. “You needn’t lay it on so thick, Nicky dear. I dressed so as not to call attention to myself. Mr. Dorning, you are punctual. Shall we be off?”
Della exuded her usual brisk energy, and her smile was warm. Her ensemble was a soft brown velvet dress with red piping that went nicely with her chestnut brown hair. Her eyes, though, gave away a hint of worry.
“The dress complements your coloring,” Ash said. “Your brother was only being gallant.”
Della wrapped her hand around Ash’s elbow. “Which means he’s up to something. Nicholas, I will be fine. Mr. Dorning will see to it.”
“He had better,” Haddonfield said, catching his sister by the arm and kissing her cheek. “Dorning, you will think about what I said?”
“The discussion concluded to my satisfaction,” Ash said as Della sent him a curious look. “I regard the subject as closed.” Forever, because Ash’s ailment was incurable.
Haddonfield smiled, and though he was not related to Della by blood, their smiles bore similar hints of mischief.
“You may regard the subject as closed, Dorning, but you’re wrong. You are absolutely, pigheadedly, stupidly wrong. Have a nice time, and, Della…”
“We’re off,” Ash said before Haddonfield could lecture his sister. “A pleasant day to you, my lord.”
Haddonfield saluted with two fingers. “To you, too, Dorning, and you are still wrong.”
A Venetian breakfast so late in the year was a chancy undertaking, but the afternoon sunshine held fair as Della and Ash arrived. Ash helped her down from his town coach, holding her hand a moment longer than necessary before offering his arm.
He was appallingly good at the role of doting swain. Della reminded herself repeatedly that, for him, it was only a role.
“Might you step on my hem?” Della asked him quietly a half hour after their arrival. “I want very much to go home. I thought the whispers and stares would fade, but they haven’t.”
“If you tuck tail and run,” Ash replied, his hand resting over hers, “Nicky dear will want to know why. Then he will discuss the matter with his countess, and she will make her attempt to pry details from you. Then brother George will have a go at you, and did I hear that brother Beckman might nip up from the country?”
And who should be lurking by the buffet tent, but none other than Lady Caldicott, like Cerberus guarding the gates of hell. The little niggle of worry that never entirely left Della in peace threatened to expand into a ball and chain.
“Let’s stroll by the river,” Ash suggested, changing course. “The day is pretty, and the weather cannot hold.”
Della’s good luck could not hold. Her Grace of Moreland had rescued the situation in Hyde Park, graciously acknowledging Della and doing so in a public venue. No benevolent duchess appeared among the couples and small groups strolling the Dickson’s grounds.
“James Neely-Goodman is here,” Della said, steps slowing as she readjusted her shawl. “He’ll cut me.”
“No, he will not.” Ash sounded very confident of his conclusion.
“What were you and Nicholas discussing when I joined you gentlemen?”
“When you rescued me? Let’s see… Nicholas was concerned that you were pilloried in the park last week and kept that affront to yourself lest you upset him. His nerves are delicate, I take it.”
Della’s nerves were delicate. She gave Ash’s arm a hard squeeze. “Be serious, please.”
“Nicholas feels he’s failed you, Della. Your brother adheres to the quaint notion that as the titleholder, it’s his job to keep his family safe, and you ended up in harm’s way. No matter that you might have intended to end up there, he’s ashamed.”
“Nicholas feels ashamed?” Della stalked off a few paces, when she wanted to kick her brother’s handsome backside and hurl imprecations at him. “Nicholas did nothing wrong. I am ashamed.”
“You might want to express yourself a little more moderately. Lady Caldicott hasn’t taken her eyes off you since we alighted from the coach.”
And one could not stick one’s tongue out at society’s most accomplished gossip. Della resumed her place at Ash’s side and tucked her hand around his muscular arm.
“You have distracted me from my query,” she said. “What were you and Nicholas truly discussing?”
“Let’s have a look at the fish pond, shall we?”
A stinky old fish pond held no appeal whatsoever. Della minced along with her escort, because the fish pond was at least out of earshot of the buffet tent. A little walking path ringed the water, and a folly sat at one end with a view of the house and the nearby river.
“You are concocting a falsehood regarding your discussion with Nicholas,” Della said as they began their circuit of the pond. “You are trying to fashion a lie that will be credible, but not too dishonest. A lie that appears to flatter perhaps, while in truth it offers me insult. My family has been serving me such lies since I toddled out of the nursery.”
If Ash responded with the predictable platitudes—my lady, you exaggerate; my lady, if your family prevaricates, they do so to spare your sensibilities—she would push him into the pond.
“Do they wrap you in cotton wool because you’re petite?” Ash asked.
“I arrived to this world sooner than expected, or so my nursemaid told me. The rumors of my fragile health have been greatly exaggerated ever since, but being scrawny did not help.”
“You appear quite robust to me, my lady.” Ash managed to infuse a hint of deviltry into that observation, but was the flirtation real or for the benefit of Lady Caldicott, scowling at them across the lawn?
“Was Nicholas trying to bribe you to marry me?”
By only the smallest hesitation in Ash’s stride did he betray the accuracy of her guess. “Why would your brother do that?”
“Because, as you say, Nicholas feels ashamed, and the antidote to his sense of failure is to find me a husband. You are of suitable station, et cetera and so forth. Ergo, behind a closed door, Nick might explore the subject with all the delicacy of a rhinoceros in a milliner’s shop.”
“Interesting image. Shall we sit?” Ash nodded in the direction of the folly, a pagoda-like structure that sat eight steps higher than the surrounding terrain.
Della allowed herself to be led up the stairs and settled on a bench with her back to the tent—and to Lady Caldicott. Ash remained on his feet, gaze on the river placidly rolling along some distance away.
“I do not want to treat you as your family treats you,” he said. “They mean well, while in effect disrespecting you. You are small but mighty, as the Bard put it, and I esteem you highly.”
Small but mighty. Nobody else had called Della that, and yet, she did not feel complimented. “And now you will tell me why we could never suit.” If anything could loom as a worse penance than a cut direct before half of society, a lecture from Ash on marital impossibilities could.
Della abruptly wanted to wrap her shawl around her head, hunch in on herself, and have the folly to herself.
“I owe you the truth,” Ash said gently. “Keeping it from you only flatters my vanity and creates misunderstandings. I am not a suitable husband for any woman, Della. I never will be.”
This wasn’t a dramatic declaration, but rather, a tired, oft-visited conclusion. “Do you prefer men?” Even those fellows sometimes married, and the union could often be considered successful. George was a case in point, though Della wasn’t sure exactly whose intimate company he truly preferred.
“I enjoy the company of many men,” Ash said, “but not in the sense you mean.”
What did that leave? “Are you ill?”
“Yes, but my illness is not of the body. I suffer melancholia, though that makes it sound noble and romantic. I turn into… Do you have any friends with this affliction?”
Over the past two years, Della had concocted a long list of reasons why an apparently eligible and interested man might not offer for an eligible and very interested female—a gambling habit, an opium addiction, a family on the wrong side of the blanket, a wife tucked out in the shires, a preference for men, an inability to function sexually, poverty, consumption, an unmentionable disease…
She would never have guessed that urbane, handsome Ash Dorning was afflicted with melancholia.
“I am familiar with the condition in only a general sense,” she said. “This is why you spend winters in Dorset?”
“It is. I’ve tried spending winters in Town. At university, the winters weren’t so bad, and sometimes I am felled during the warmer months. May I sit?”
“Of course.”
He took the place a decorous one foot away. “The ailment can strike without warning, or it can come over me slowly, day by day stealing my motivation. I never know how long the bouts will last, never know how bad they will be. I liken my condition to being at war. The enemy is out there, always watching, and victory is never assured.”
What an appalling analogy, and yet, Della understood it. “I’m sorry.”
He brushed a glance at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry this malady afflicts you. Clearly, you endure misery because of it.”
He braced his forearms on his thighs and leaned forward. “Everybody around me endures misery because of it. When I am afflicted, I have no appetite and no energy. Shaving is too much of an effort, and bathing is an ordeal. I can lie in my bed for days, Della, a human pit of darkness. My family worries, and I am sick with disgust at myself, but I can’t seem to do anything save loll about and wish I were different.”
Della longed to take his hand, longed to wrap her arms around him and hold him fast.
And to be held by him. Instead, she picked up a trio of acorns from those scattered on the bench beside her and fired them one by one over the railing at a whorl in the bark of the nearest tree.
