“You won’t let me ravish you, will you?”
“You sound gratifyingly disappointed.”
Della was actually quite comfortable, bundled into Ash’s embrace, drowsing on his shoulder while he rubbed her back.
“I have it in my head,” Della said, “that you will think up some noble reason why we must not marry, but if I can compromise you, then you won’t abandon me again.”
His hand stilled, then resumed stroking her. “I am sorry, Della, for not explaining to you at the time why I left Town. I was fine one day—better than fine—and the next, the beast had me in its grip. Sycamore put me in the coach with instructions to the coachy to deliver me to Dorning Hall in one piece. I don’t recall much of the journey.”
“No apology needed. May I ravish you now?”
He anchored his hand at her nape and shook her gently. “We must talk first.”
Della sat up, the better to read his expression. “About?”
His gaze was serious, his grip on her neck gentle. “I would rather avoid the near occasion of fatherhood for the present.”
Della traced his lips with her index finger. “You don’t want a seven-months firstborn? I suppose there will be talk, between my elopement with Chastain and being found behind a closed door with you.”
He shook his head. “That has nothing to do with it. My concern is that I am not fit to raise children. You are an adult, and should I become incapacitated, you can turn to others for support. A child ought to have a father he or she can rely on.”
In all of her worrying and what-if-ing, Della hadn’t foreseen this difficulty. “You don’t want children?”
“That’s not what I said, Della. I said I would not be a reliable parent. I don’t want to be a father unless I can be a good father. At present, I cannot make that promise.”
Could a man have too much honor? “I never thought to have a white marriage, Ash Dorning, but if those are your terms, then I can live with them.”
“You would marry me without any hope of intimacy?”
She smiled. “There’s always hope. Intimacy and conception are very different matters.”
His expression turned severe. “If we marry, we will take precautions to avoid conception. Perhaps in time, my situation will improve, but that’s as much hope as I can offer. Will you wed me, Della? Knowing what you do about me, will you still marry me?”
She did not have to think, did not have to sort through maybes or on-the-other-hands. “Yes, I will marry you. By special license would suit if you’re determined to be so proper—and even if you aren’t.”
He kissed her, a press of lips almost solemn in its tenderness. “Then we shall be wed, and I will do my damnedest to be a good husband to you.”
Della’s relief was immense, like the relief she’d felt when the first footman had found her on the church steps, wrapped her in his cloak, and carried her home in his arms. She returned Ash’s kiss, nothing solemn about it, but drew back to ask an important question.
“When do we tell our families?”
“Today. When we’re finished here.” He’d not hesitated for an instant before answering.
“You’ll let me ravish you now?”
He rose with Della straddling his waist, turned, and laid her supine upon the cushions. “We will not anticipate our vows, Della, not quite.”
She was so full of frustrated longing she nearly pulled him down on top of her. “What does ‘not quite’ mean?”
Ash shifted the hassocks around so he sat near her hip. “I’ll show you. Close your eyes and think of our wedding night.”
Ash felt like one of those street urchins who juggled oranges for tuppence, though he was no sort of juggler. His body enthusiastically anticipated intimacies with Della, a woman he’d desired from the moment he’d seen her.
His heart wrestled with the notion that he’d just become engaged to that same woman, against all sense and probability to the contrary.
His intellect, the part of him that kept peace at the Coventry, minded the books, and managed the staff, started listing all the ways in which marriage would necessitate changes. He was calculating probabilities and discards, based on the few cards he held in his hand. He and Della could not, for example, live with Sycamore. They would need their own dwelling, their own staff. Rooms above a shop would not do for an earl’s daughter…
And tackling those issues now was simply beyond him. Della lay on her back on the sofa, looking disgruntled and delectable. She had brought Ash to this conservatory, prepared to make love with him, and by God, she would not leave entirely unsatisfied.
Why she had been so desperate to sample his charms, he did not know, and that was part of a niggling sense that something about the whole situation required further study. Later—later when his intended wasn’t regarding him as if he’d threatened to take holy vows instead of wedding vows.
“Did you enjoy the encounters you had with Freddy Throckmuddle?” he asked.
“Throckmorton. Not at first, but Freddy’s advances improved with practice.”
“Or with more cherry cordial.” Ash stole a kiss. “If I ever do meet this scoundrel, I will thrash him, not for sharing intimacies freely offered, but for plying you with drink. My lady, tell me you are not wearing a corset.”
“I am not wearing a corset. Two chemises, and my…”
She watched while Ash undid the bow at the center of her décolletage. “You were saying, my lady?”
“I’m not wearing drawers either.”
Della had been very determined on this seduction, and Ash was very determined that she not be disappointed.
“Commendably foresighted of you,” he said, loosening both the bodice of her dress and the two lacy confections beneath that. He left her treasures shielded, though only just. “How about we remove your slippers?”
He slid them off her feet, and set them aside. “Here is how this works, Della. I will dust off a few of my Greek lessons, and you will inform me if they meet with your approval. You will be honest with me. You will not endure unwanted attentions and wash down your objections with cherry cordial.”
“Greek lessons? Ash Dorning, you are comporting yourself in a most—”
He slid her skirts up to within three inches of her knee. “Not exactly Greek lessons. Lessons from a Greek tutor’s housekeeper. In her way, she was erudite and generous with her knowledge.”
Beneath Della’s skirts, Ash shaped her muscular calf through the silk of her stocking. When she made no objection, he slid his hand higher, past her lacy garter, learning the contours of her bare knee.
“Enlighten me,” Della said, some of the starch wilting from her tone.
“I’d rather kiss you.” Ash started slowly, alternating between glancing touches to her breasts and further boldness beneath her skirts. By the time he had eased her dress and chemises aside, her skirts were rucked up past her knees.
He paused, because he needed a pause, and because he wanted to imprint the image of Della on his memory.
“You cannot stop,” she said, gaze on the glass ceiling. “If you stop now, I will throttle you.”
She didn’t even try to cover herself, but lay in a wanton sprawl, one bare breast peeking from layers of cream lace, a pale knee thrust up from her skirts and petticoats.