“If you come with me,” she said, “I will be seen as hiding behind my family’s consequence. Ash Dorning will serve for the present. The Haddonfields and Dornings are connected, and he’s merely a younger son. He’s exactly the sort of escort nobody will remark.”
Nick settled beside her, which did nothing to quell her sense of being hemmed in. He would expire of mortification before laying a hand on a woman in anger. That wasn’t remotely what bothered Della. She still took the opportunity to shift several inches away when she tucked her stitchery into her workbasket.
“Ash Dorning escorted you to that ridotto, or rout or whatever it was,” Nick said. “Perhaps young Sycamore should be pressed into service.”
Della liked Sycamore Dorning. He was as kind as he was blunt. But he was also randy, self-important, occasionally calculating, and evasive in a way that was hard to describe.
“Sycamore is the more visible face of The Coventry Club’s management,” Della said. “He generally chooses to move in different circles than his siblings do.” Though Sycamore was certainly received, and the matchmakers took notice when he attended a gathering.
Nick rested an arm along the back of the sofa. “You mean Sycamore Dorning is still chasing the merry widows. A wife would inspire him to give up that game.”
Della rose with what she hoped was casual grace. “What do you have against Ash Dorning, Nicholas? His prospects march with Sycamore’s. He’s not the mighty swordsman with the ladies that Sycamore is, and Ash has been a loyal ally when lesser men are trying to pretend they’ve never danced with me.”
Nick remained seated, which might be rude in the eyes of a high stickler, but Della would rather have him off his feet than looming over her. He probably knew that too.
“You kissed Ash Dorning, Della mine. When he handed you down from the coach, I saw exactly what transpired between you. He took liberties, and you raised the bet. What the hell was that about?”
Della settled into a wing chair at the end of the sofa. “You waited two days to ambush me with this question? Waited until Ash is expected at any moment?”
“Servants talk, Della,” Nick said. “Even our servants, and they hear talk. Our coachman and grooms know I retrieved you from Alconbury. Our butler watched your little exchange with Dorning, as did any number of parlor maids gawking out the windows.”
“As you gawked out the window?”
“I care about you, but it might surprise you to know I am also somewhat concerned for Dorning.”
Had Nick raised his voice, had he lectured or even sermonized, Della could have ignored him, but his tone was reasonable, and—much worse—he was making a valid point.
“Ash and I are friends,” Della said. “Friends are occasionally affectionate.”
“Had you not eloped with Chastain, I would not remark that affection, but, Della, matters have reached a delicate pass, and I don’t think you grasp all the particulars.”
“I am dangling over a pit of ruin, Nicholas, I know that. I cannot afford to test Society’s tolerance any more than I already have.”
Nick scrubbed a hand over his face. “To blazes with Society, baby sister. I saw Dorning’s face when you kissed him. I know not what Banbury tale he spins for you, but that man is smitten. He’s arse over ears for you, and you toy with him at peril to his well-being and your reputation.”
At peril to his well-being? “Is his melancholia common knowledge?”
Nick picked up a little music box made of blond wood and inlaid with cherry and other darker colors. The pattern formed a pair of doves, singing on a branch of pale blossoms and made for a pretty ornament on the low table before the sofa.
“Dorning told you of his affliction?” Nick asked, winding the mechanism.
“He has. He describes it as a profound misery, but not life-threatening. It passes. Did you know of it, Nicholas?”
A tinny little hornpipe chirped forth from the music box. “Not until recently. Susannah and Leah correspond, and Willow Dorning has mentioned his brother’s malady to our sister. The family doesn’t bruit it about.”
“No,” Della said, once again getting to her feet. “Nor do they question Ash’s management of his malaise. They let him disappear for weeks at a time, hiding in his room, neglecting his well-being. He’s determined not to marry because he’s prone to this illness.”
“Then you must respect his decision,” Nick said, holding the music box to his ear, “and refrain from tempting the man with what he cannot have. Teasing him is unkind, Della, and also imprudent.”
Voices in the foyer below suggested Ash had arrived. “And if he teased me first?”
Nick set the music box on the table. “Like that, is it?”
“Would you object if he offered for me, Nick?” From what untapped well of fanciful longing had that question come?
Nick rose. “I would have concerns. I would not object. The Dornings are in the same posture we are—climbing out of decades of indifferent finances. Any settlements would have to ensure that you will be cared for even should your husband’s health prove unreliable. Dorning Hall has no dower property anymore, and Ash’s sole income, from what I’ve heard, is a gambling establishment trading as a supper club.”
This time, Della’s mind took off in two directions at once. Firstly, Nicholas had considered the possibility that Della and Ash might marry, considered it to the extent that he’d done some research. The union would have his blessing, assuming his normal fraternal questions about the bride’s security could be addressed.
Secondly, even knowing that Ash Dorning’s mental health was unreliable, Della would not object if he offered marriage. Far from it.
Though, of course, he wouldn’t offer. Would he?
The Whitfield musicale was well attended, as the relatively few autumn entertainments tended to be.
For Della’s sake, Ash was pleased. After showing the colors at several more such gatherings, she’d start next spring’s Season on firm footing. Whispers were inevitable, but if Chastain kept his idiot mouth shut, outright ruin could be avoided.
“The cellist was the best of the lot,” Della said at the interval. “The rest of the program is mostly sopranos or flutists. Shall we have a look at the buffet?”
So far, they’d received a few friendly greetings, some terse nods, and one attempted cut from a young lady familiar with Chastain’s émigré fiancée. As neither Ash nor Della had ever been introduced to the young lady and Della had refused to meet her gaze, the gesture hadn’t quite come off, and nobody appeared to have noticed.
“You are fretting,” Ash said as he escorted Della to the gallery. “You are asking yourself how you could have handled the twit in the yellow muslin more effectively.”
Though Della was smiling politely at nothing in particular, she looked to Ash like a woman developing a megrim. Sycamore suffered megrims. His pain was evident in a pinched quality around his eyes, though he hated when Ash implied that he was in less than roaring good health.
“I am asking myself if I’d like lemonade or punch,” Della said, passing Ash two plates. She had the plates filled a few minutes later and led him to the punchbowl. “Your preference, Mr. Dorning?”