She peered up at him. “And what do you deserve?”
Before he could answer her, she kissed him. This was no friendly peck on the lips. This was every forbidden kiss Ash had ever dreamed of, every sweet, slow taking of his mouth, every plundering of his wits and testing of his self-control.
His self-control quit the field at a dead gallop as Della opened her mouth and pressed close. While she was petite, she was also womanly, and she knew what she was about. Her palm glanced over Ash’s falls, and—he was the King of Idiots—he grabbed her fingers and repeated the gesture, pressing her hand firmly to his privities.
The problem was not that he’d gone too long without sharing intimacies—though he’d gone months—the problem was that he was mad for Della Haddonfield and had been for ages.
And by the heavenly powers, she knew how to handle a man, how to proclaim without saying a word that he was desperately desired and wearing too many clothes. The unabashed press of her breasts to his chest confirmed the same happy news, as did the enthusiasm with which she welcomed his tongue into her mouth.
Ash’s body woke up, woke up from a hibernation he hadn’t realized he’d been enduring. He had formed the thought that the sofa would accommodate a couple comfortably, followed by the notion that Della might like to have her breasts freed from her décolletage, when a soft click had Della going still in his arms.
A click, then a gasp.
“Mr. Dorning,” Lady Caldicott snapped. “What on earth are you about?”
Ash gathered Della close, perhaps in a vain hope that her face would remain shielded, perhaps because he couldn’t bear to let her go.
“Lady Caldicott,” Ash said, nodding rather than bowing, “and Miss…?” Yellow Muslin stood at her ladyship’s side, looking equal parts horrified and fascinated.
“Penelope,” Lady Caldicott said, “leave us, and keep your mouth shut, my girl.” The young lady slipped out the door, doubtless intent on keeping her mouth anything but shut.
“I know we can trust your ladyship’s discretion,” Ash said, still not turning loose of Della, who had burrowed into him as if he was the only source of heat in the entire shire. “A mere kiss does not merit anybody’s ruin.”
“Della Haddonfield,” Lady Caldicott said, “turn loose of yonder swain. You either tell me you’re marrying Mr. Dorning, or I will personally petition every hostess in Mayfair to see you hounded from polite society.”
“We’re not—” Della began, easing away from Ash.
“We are engaged,” Ash said, keeping hold of Della’s hand. “Lady Della has just agreed to make me the happiest man in the realm and to become my wife. You will please allow us some time to inform our families.” The words came out oddly confident, with just the right amount of arrogance.
Della shook her head. “You don’t have to do this.”
“He does too,” Lady Caldicott said. “You are a menace to the unsuspecting bachelors of good society, Lady Della. No better than you should be, and I am sad to say, your mother was the same. I will expect to hear news of your engagement within the week. I mean this as the greatest kindness when I say most people will be curious to know whether your firstborn takes after Mr. Dorning or some other fellow.”
Della weathered that salvo with a perfectly calm expression.
“We are sorry to have upset you,” Ash said, “but I will not tolerate insults to my intended.”
“One week,” Lady Caldicott retorted. “I will hold my peace for one week. No more.” She left without closing the door.
Della sank onto the sofa, her face as pale as snowdrops by moonlight.
Ash came down beside her. “I am sorry for that, my lady.”
“I’ll leave,” Della said, drawing her shawl tightly about her. “Leave London, leave England.” Her breathing hitched as if she’d just finished a hard bout of tears. “I am sorry too, Ash. I should not have accosted you.”
He shoulder-bumped her gently. “We accosted each other. Rather spectacularly.” He’d known he desired her, but hadn’t allowed himself to contemplate what having that desire reciprocated would feel like.
Della smacked his arm. “This is serious. I should have known I could not keep my hands off you.”
“The fault is mine, Della. I’ll not have your reputation martyred to my unruly desire.” That desire still hummed through him, but so did Della’s proposition. A trial marriage, one that could become a more distant partnership if necessary.
The terms felt fair to the lady—as Della had noted, many romantic unions ended up in the same posture five years later—but such a marriage also felt… inadequate.
Dishonest on Ash’s part, because he was certain he’d disappoint her—or almost certain.
“What would you have us do?” Della asked, rising to gather up her evening gloves from the table.
“What would you have us do?” Ash countered, getting to his feet. “If we marry, you are stuck with me. If we don’t marry, you are ruined. I cannot recommend either choice, but should we wed, I will try to be the very best husband to you I can.” That promise scared him witless, but she deserved at least his best efforts.
Della pulled on her gloves and smoothed them up her arms. That unselfconscious little gesture, even in this outlandish situation, hit Ash with an erotic edge. In at least one regard, he could ensure their marriage got off on very sound footing.
“You leave this up to me,” Della said, “and I am too upset at the moment to think straight. Let’s endure the flutists and sopranos and take the week Lady Caldicott has given us. Your choices are really not any better than mine, do you but know it.”
On that cryptic remark, she quit the parlor, leaving Ash to follow her from the room.
The talk that had been dying down roared back to life. Nobody said anything to Della directly, of course, but as she rode down the bridle path, George at her side, the behavior of the other equestrians spoke volumes.
“They know,” she said as her mare pinned her ears at George’s gelding. “Lady Caldicott didn’t give us even a day.”
George had been reading in the family parlor when Della had returned from last night’s musicale. He’d apparently sensed from her expression that the evening hadn’t gone well, and Della had sketched the general situation for him.
George’s gelding sidled closer to the verge. “Her ladyship likely didn’t give you ten minutes, or Miss Penelope Hammond didn’t. When a woman who has overstepped turns around and oversteps again barely a fortnight later, tongues will wag, Della.”
Wagging tongues were to be expected. What troubled Della more were the men she’d considered cordial acquaintances looking at her as if she’d been put on the kill list for their local hunts. She had become, overnight, not simply soiled goods, but fair game, a creature to be pursued and used.
Her morning hack had been instructive.
“Lady Della.” Sycamore Dorning sat atop a blood bay gelding. In the slanting sunbeams, Cam Dorning was the picture of masculine pulchritude, from his tastefully understated cravat pin to his gleaming field boots. He tipped his hat to her, then nodded to George. “Always a pleasure when the rain moves off and we can start the day with a good gallop, isn’t it?”