“If I think of something,” Della said, “I will ask you.”
“You never do,” Jonathan replied. “You are the most self-sufficient, self-contained female I know. You never ask anybody for anything. If Ash Dorning has won your esteem, then I conclude he’s a more formidable fellow than I had thought.”
“He’s very formidable.”
Jonathan sent her a curious look. “Are you blushing, Della? I believe you are. My, my.”
“Out,” Della said, grinning as she pointed to the door. “You are about to lapse into your odious-brother mode, and here you were doing so well. Leave now, and I will see you at the ceremony.”
Jonathan did not merely bow, but instead wrapped her in another astounding hug. Only then did he kiss her cheek and make his farewells, leaving Della to marvel that he’d called at all.
Sooner or later, Jonathan’s logical, precise mind would light upon the other explanation for why a match between Della and Ash Dorning made sense. Ash was more formidable than most people assumed him to be, and Della was less formidable.
Much less formidable.
“Sycamore’s gift to us is his absence,” Ash said, twisting the key in the lock. “He will remove to the apartment at the Coventry, and this space will be ours to use as long as we please.”
Viewed through the eyes of an engaged man, Ash’s dwelling did not impress. The carpets needed a good beating, mud being pervasive in autumn. The windows were opaque with London grime, and the foyer was bereft of any beauty.
Not a vase of flowers, not a pretty landscape, nothing but a gilt mirror hanging over a serviceable sideboard. Sycamore was nothing if not vain.
The foyer did not smell particularly enticing either, having an air of damp wool and coal smoke.
“This will be a temporary dwelling,” Ash said, unbuttoning his coat. “A place to get our bearings. Cam and I own several rental properties as well, and I could buy or trade him out of one of those, if you like. They make us a fair bit of coin during the Season, and two of them are empty right now.”
Della peered about in silence, making no move to take off her cloak or bonnet.
“Della, please say something.”
She crossed into the guest parlor. “That’s the Coventry, across the street?”
“This building is connected to the Coventry by tunnels. We’ve never been raided, but should the authorities make an unscheduled call, the guests need means of egress besides the obvious. The wine cellar actually runs the length of the street, and there are two other exits. One by way of a mews. Another opens into a carriage house.”
Since becoming betrothed three days ago, Ash’s life had been busy. Negotiating settlements with Nicholas Haddonfield had entailed much discussion, until Ash had deduced Haddonfield’s agenda. His lordship wanted to maintain control of Della’s portion, which struck Ash as sensible. Once that obstacle had been dealt with, the details had been simple to sort out.
That had still left much correspondence to draft to various siblings—Casriel in particular was owed a report as head of the family and a party to the settlements. A frank discussion with Sycamore regarding Ash’s future at the club had also been required, and the fraught matter of shopping for a morning gift yet remained.
And throughout all of this busyness, Ash had wondered if his behavior in the conservatory had been ill-advised. Should he have obliged Della’s passion more fully? Should he have limited their affection to kisses and embraces?
“Della, you are notably reticent on the occasion of setting foot in our first marital home. Is something amiss?”
Della remained by the window, gaze on the traffic below. “I am delighted to be marrying you,” she said.
Ash braced himself for a but.
“And I realize that our engagement has been precipitous, which is entirely my fault.”
“I will forgo arguing that point.”
“But the reality of becoming a married woman is still a surprise. That should not be possible, when for the entirety of my life, marriage has been held up as the great goal toward which every lady of gentle birth must aspire. Marriage is the consummation devoutly to be wished for, literally and figuratively, and here it is, but I’m…”
She looked small and bewildered by the grimy window. Also remote.
“Della, may I ask you something?”
She nodded.
“Why did you run off with Chastain?”
She crossed the room and took a seat on the sofa. This being the guest parlor, and seeing little use, the sofa was a lumpy castoff that looked more comfortable than it was.
“Not here,” Ash said, extending a hand to her. “The family parlor, to use a euphemism, is more commodious.”
He escorted Della down the corridor and sent up a silent prayer that Sycamore had put away his naughty prints.
“A bachelor lair,” she said, picking up one of Sycamore’s prints. “And this passes for art in such an establishment.”
“Sycamore collects satirical prints, but his tastes tend to the pruriently satirical. He’ll take that with him when he leaves.” Or Ash would burn the damned thing.
The family parlor was warm, the furniture comfortable, and the carpet slightly worn. Ash had spent many an hour in here tending to ledgers, budgets, and invoices.
“Sycamore and I have our best rows here,” Ash said, poking some air into the fire as Della untied her bonnet ribbons. “We agree that arguments in front of the staff are ill-advised, so this has become the arena where we verbally spar. Might I take your cloak?”
Della made no move to take it off, so Ash undid the frogs.
“Will we have rows, Ash?”
“Very likely. You will scold me, I will grumble at you. The Coventry or Sycamore will annoy me, and you will have a megrim exactly when I most try your patience.” He drew her cloak from her shoulders and draped it over the chair behind the desk. “Then we will make up, as newlyweds do, and all will be well again. Tell me about Chastain.”
With a flick of her wrist, she sent her bonnet twirling in the direction of a coat rack in the corner, such that the bonnet landed precisely on the only empty hook.
“Good aim, my lady.”
“An easy target.” She smiled wanly. “I am ashamed of my behavior with Chastain. I behaved impulsively, and when I behave impulsively, the result is usually disastrous.”
Was she marrying impulsively? “Let’s sit, and if you are hungry, I can put together a tray. We have a warming pantry arrangement on this floor, and a full kitchen is downstairs, though we often eat at the club.” That would have to change once Della became the lady of Ash’s house.
She took a seat in a corner of the sofa. “I am not hungry. I like this room.”
She did not invite Ash to take the place beside her, but they were to be married, and at some point, courtesies could become absurdities.
“About Chastain, Della?” he asked, joining her on the sofa. “Were you truly eloping with him?”
She shook her head. “I am the last unmarried Haddonfield, and this is such an abomination against the natural order that all of my siblings—there are eight, counting Ethan, not to mention their well-intended spouses—have conspired to bring the universe back into harmony. They fling bachelors at me as if they were sowing seeds in a biblical parable. Did you know that half the City is earnestly attempting to marry their sons to women from titled families?”