“I was aware of that trend.” Ash rested an arm along the back of the sofa. “And half the peerage is trying to marry their sons to the daughters of wealthy cits.”
Della hunched forward. “Much desperation results.”
“Were you desperate?”
“I missed you desperately.”
Nice try. “I missed you too. About Chastain.”
“Town has emptied out. The shooting is well under way, opening hunts around the corner, the house parties have begun, and still here I am, stuck in London. I was at some card party or other, partnered by a strutting twit who could not keep his hand off my skirts beneath the table. I excused myself from play and determined then and there that I was finished.
“No more smiling while my person is disrespected, no more standing up with men who hope to waltz away with my settlements, no more bad jokes about pocket Venuses and small packages.”
Ash mentally eliminated two phrases from his vocabulary. “You were angry.”
“I was desperate. I think I was born desperate.”
While Ash’s burden had been to be born despairing. “You took desperate measures?”
“I thought I was being practical, clever even. Chastain wanted out from under his betrothal, I wanted to be sent home having narrowly escaped disgrace. My plan went awry. Chastain’s father took much longer to catch up with us than he should have. Chastain became quite inebriated, and instead of having a cleverly engineered, narrow escape quietly hushed up, I am all but ruined.”
Ash drew her back against his side. “You are all but married. A very different prospect, I hope.”
“Can we let the business with Chastain drop, Ash? I was foolish, and he was a cad, but the whole matter is behind me, and there’s little point in revisiting it again.”
Ash would let the matter drop, though Della’s explanation rang hollow to him. Not false, but not entirely true. She was leaving out pertinent details, the sort of details that could get Chastain called out, no doubt.
Ash wrapped an arm around Della’s shoulders, wanting nothing so much as to ease the tension she still carried. “Chastain’s father has procured a special license. Young William will soon be the lawfully wedded husband of Mademoiselle Clarice Fontaine.”
“How do you know that?”
“When I arranged for our special license, I made a few discreet inquiries.”
Della relaxed against him. “Thank you. I wish Miss Fontaine only the best of luck. She will need it, if she’s to manage William.”
Ash wanted to ask Della more questions: Why should William’s impending nuptials be a source of relief to Della? Why should they be of any interest at all to her? If Della wished Miss Fontaine only the best of luck, why steal away with the woman’s intended?
But then, desperation had its own logic, as Ash well knew.
“I’ve missed you,” Della said, cuddling closer. “It’s a happier sort of missing you than what I’ve endured previously, but it’s still missing you.”
“Odd, isn’t it, how that works? I’ve been a human whirlwind these past three days, sending letters in all directions, haggling with your brother—I still haven’t found you a morning gift—but the missing-you part is always there. The longing for you. Should I have made love with you in the conservatory, Della?”
She skated a hand over his falls, where nascent arousal was—as usual, when he was close to Della—clearly in evidence.
“Why didn’t you?” she asked, casually stroking him through his clothes. “Why did you deny yourself what was on offer?”
He could not be entirely honest. He’d been wary of her eagerness, sensing in it something of contrivance. He’d been unwilling to risk conception when no settlements were agreed to. He’d been emotionally unprepared for that degree of intimacy, which, with Della, would have been more binding than any proposal.
But he did not have to lie. “I still think I will wake up and find myself at my desk across the street, the sound of laughter and conversation a dull roar beyond the office door. I think—I fear—that our engagement will be snatched away and that this will have been a fever dream or a form of derangement. You are my heart’s true delight, Della. That I am to have you for my own boggles my mind.”
She arranged herself straddling his lap, a position she seemed to like and Ash loved. “I have the same fear. My Ash will be snatched from me, and I will be thrust again into the arms of any half-sober fortune hunter or bachelor uncle. I could not bear to lose you.”
Had that been what had driven her boldness? “You won’t lose me, Della. By this time Monday, we will be man and wife.”
She curled down to rest her head on his shoulder. “I am indisposed, or I would drag you by the hair to your bedroom and finish what we started in the conservatory, Ash Dorning.”
How casually she confided the intimate details of her biology. “Are you uncomfortable?”
“Not a bit. I am inconvenienced. You needn’t buy me a morning gift.”
Wrong. “What sort of gift would you advise?”
They fell to teasing then, while Ash enjoyed the torment of frustrated arousal, along with a sense that he and Della were growing closer. They hadn’t quite cleared the air where Chastain was concerned, but they’d put the matter to rest.
“What have you found to occupy yourself,” he asked, “while I have scrutinized every shop on Ludgate Hill?”
“Tidying up my social calendar,” Della said, “sending regrets to events I’ve been invited to. I don’t want to be an object of talk, no matter how eagerly the hostesses would welcome me.”
“We need to put in an appearance at a few gatherings,” Ash said, stroking her hair. “Show the flag, weather the gossip, be publicly besotted.”
Della kissed him. “I am besotted.”
“As am I.”
She regarded him, as if considering where to kiss him next. “I was invited to a house party at Lady Wentwhistle’s estate. I haven’t sent regrets yet. That will be a relatively quiet affair.”
“Her property is in Sussex? No, Surrey, and from there I could take you to Dorning Hall. My mother was a crony of hers. She ought to be something of an ally.”
Having been kissed, Ash was now hungry for more kisses. Appeasing that hunger was foolish, because it aroused him further. Before he was once again pleasuring himself while Della looked on—though, would that really be so bad?—he made a decision.
“Accept Lady Wentwhistle’s invitation,” he said. “Tell her you will bring along your new husband. We will make our debut as a couple in congenial surrounds, and by next spring, we will be old news.”
Della curled into his embrace. “My besotted and inventive new husband. I have dreamed of you, Ash Dorning.”
The feel of her nestled against him was sublime torment. “I have dreamed of you too, Della. How much longer will you be indisposed?”
“Until Tuesday, probably. Bad timing, I know.”
“Anticipation will double our joy.” And likely wear out Ash’s right hand too. His frustration was a passing aggravation compared to the delight of holding Della and anticipating more intimate pleasures with her.