“What use am I, Ash Dorning? Does the world truly need my excellent needlepoint? My unreliable contralto? My impressive aim with a bow and arrow? Will the short men of Mayfair go into a collective decline when I am no longer on hand to waltz with?”
He caught her hand and kissed her gloved knuckles. “I would go into a decline if you were no longer on hand to waltz with. I realize I have burdened you with an uncomfortable confidence, but there’s nothing to be done, Della. I will manage, and you will understand why I must manage alone.”
“The pigheadedness of the average adult male defies every superlative,” Della said, tucking closer. “Does a wounded soldier expect no help from the surgeon? Does a woman in her confinement apologize for being ungainly? Does an auntie of venerable years feel ashamed of her slow gait? I could smack you, Ash Dorning, and you will not prevaricate yet again. Why did you kiss me on the cheek in full view of the Dickson’s guests?”
“Nobody was looking.”
“Somebody is always looking.”
Ash wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Budge up, before you start shivering. I kissed you because…”
Della laid her head on his shoulder and threaded an arm around his waist. Ash was warm, if a bit on the lean side, and the day had grown not merely brisk, but nippy.
“I kissed you because Lady Caldicott needed to see that at least one man doesn’t care two figs about your little escapade with Chastain.”
Never had Della encountered a greater example of masculine stubbornness. “That was a kiss for show, then? A display for the crowd?”
Another sigh, quite huffy. “Della…”
She draped the folds of her cloak across his legs—lest he take a chill, of course.
“I kissed you because friends are affectionate with each other on appropriate occasions.”
So grumpy. So grumpy and alone. “In broad daylight,” she mused. “Gossips lurking behind every bush. Very appropriate.”
“Have mercy.”
“I like it when you kiss me,” Della said. “If having Lady Caldicott skulking about inspires you to such friendliness, I will recruit her to accompany me on all of my outings.”
Ash caught her in a one-armed hug. “You are awful, that’s why I kissed you. You are a virago, a termagant, and a shrew. Such women are regularly at risk of being kissed by the men whom they befriend.”
He made no sense, and he made perfect sense. “I am forewarned.” Della subsided against him, savoring his embrace, and hoping that in some small way, he was also savoring hers.
Ash had underestimated Della Haddonfield. She was undismayed by a serious case of recurring melancholia, and she was devilishly affectionate. She could not know what a balm to Ash’s soul—and what a torment—her hugs, pats to the arm, and simple animal warmth were.
When Ash had handed Della down from the coach upon their return from yesterday’s Venetian breakfast, he’d dared to kiss her on the cheek again. He had been making a point, about taking no offense at Della’s inquisitiveness, or not needing Lady Caldicott on hand to inspire his friendly gestures.
She had kissed him back, a quick smack on the lips, and whatever point she’d been making, Ash had been too dumbstruck to fathom it.
“I’m for Angelo’s,” Sycamore said, gaze on the rain pelting the windows. “If I don’t break a good sweat, I will break somebody’s head at the club tonight. Join me?”
Sycamore loved anything sharp—knives, swords, darts, bayonets, broadaxes, razors. Even the coulter or chisel of a plow assembly could catch his eye. On the wall of his bedroom, he’d arranged a series of daggers in a fan of lethal steel.
Ash forbade him from cluttering up the rest of their apartment with his little hobby.
“Angelo’s it is,” Ash replied. “The books are in order, the inventories up to date, the bills paid. I might as well attend to my fraternal duty and put you in your place.”
Sycamore tossed Ash a cloak. “You are still preparing to leave Town, I take it?”
“We’re walking? In this downpour?”
“I need to move,” Sycamore said, buttoning his greatcoat and turning up the collar. “Bloody rain deprived me of my morning hack.”
Ash shrugged into his cloak and resigned himself to soaking his second-best pair of boots. “We could go to Jackson’s.”
“My unborn children cry out in horror at the notion,” Sycamore replied. “Only a fool steps into the ring with you at this time of year, darling brother. Jackson himself won’t oblige you.”
He had once, and Ash had nearly put out the famed pugilist’s lights. Not the done thing and more than a little disappointing.
“Jackson is getting on in years,” Ash said. “You’re bothering with an umbrella? We’re traveling a mere half-dozen streets.”
Sycamore touched some hidden button or handle, and a blade snicked out from the end of the unopened umbrella.
“I carry a fashionable accessory, the better to protect my doddering elders. Shall we be off?”
The day was dreary, but Ash’s reluctance to face the elements was only the normal variety of gloom on a rainy autumn day. When the beast stalked him in truth, reluctance became dread, and a half-dozen streets might as well have been the length and breadth of England.
“I hear you kissed Lady Della at the Dickson’s do,” Sycamore said as they struck off in a mizzly rain. “Are you trying to ruin what’s left of her reputation?”
“How the hell—? Do you pay Lady Caldicott to bear tales?”
Sycamore set a brisk pace. “I partnered her at whist last night. She misses nothing, and we won two shillings. Her ladyship fears that you disrespected Della and that nobody will hold you accountable.”
Women liked Sycamore. Old women, young women, girls in leading strings. Governesses and duchesses were equally keen to enjoy his company, while Ash… He didn’t leave London to get away from Sycamore, exactly, but Cam’s particular version of fraternal loyalty could be taxing.
Sycamore doubtless felt the same exasperated affection for his older brothers too.
“I merely bussed Lady Della’s cheek,” Ash said, “in a friendly sort of way.”
Sycamore shoved him. “I will merely buss your arse with my boot if you trifle with her ladyship, Ash. She’s on the thinnest of thin ice, and you can’t play spillikins with her good name. One clumsy move, and she won’t be able to show her face in London for the next five years.”
“I suspect Della would find that fate quite agreeable.”
Sycamore yanked him back from the curb as a passing coach hit a puddle and splashed water in all directions.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Sycamore demanded. “London is the throbbing epicenter of culture, politics, and all the most interesting vices. The countryside is fine for recovering from a bout of excess or hiding from creditors, but nobody seeks banishment from the capital.”
“You thrive here,” Ash said, stepping into the intersection as the coach went on its way. “Not everybody does.”
“Which brings me to my original question. Are you still heading for Dorset in another fortnight?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” The weather had been unusually mild for so late in the year, which meant the club still saw a fair amount of traffic. The instant the weather caught up with the calendar, business would drop off.