His tone was imperious, almost threatening, and Della wondered why anybody would ever describe Sycamore Dorning as frivolous or hotheaded. He had a coldness in him that surprised and intimidated.
“You’d take my husband away from me?” The heaviness in Della’s belly turned acidic and anxious. She liked Sycamore, she’d even to some extent trusted him, but that self-possessed, flirtatious, casually confident version of him was nowhere in evidence.
Sycamore looked like he’d say more, but Ash returned, bearing a flute of champagne.
“Stop annoying my bride,” Ash said, passing Della the drink. “Be a good brother and tell whoever is playing the harp that it’s time to enjoy the buffet. I am ready to pitch that instrument through the nearest window.”
Sycamore passed Ash his glass of champagne. “Feel free to leave,” he said. “I’ll make your excuses to the assembled gawkers.” He leaned over and kissed Della’s cheek. “I meant what I said.”
He strode away, his charming smile once more in place.
“He means well,” Ash said, putting Sycamore’s glass on the mantel. “What was he haranguing you about?”
“I’m not sure.” Della set aside her glass, untasted, as well. “Might we depart?”
Ash looked at her—truly inspected her person—and took her hand. “Slipping away quietly is not the done thing, but then, we’d best begin as we intend to go on, and that will mean disregarding convention from time to time.”
He led her from the room, and while that provoked a few indulgent smiles from the guests, nobody started a fuss.
“Just keep walking,” Ash said, “as if we’re nipping out to the garden to enjoy some fresh air.”
The afternoon had turned unseasonably warm, almost balmy, and a few guests had taken their plates out to the terrace.
Ash strode on, pausing only long enough to pass a shawl and bonnet to Della in the foyer and drape a cloak over her shoulders. He tapped his hat onto his head, collected his walking stick, and ushered her out into the afternoon sunshine.
The Dorning town coach stood at the foot of the steps, matched grays in the traces. “My carriage is not magical,” Ash said, escorting her down the steps, “but magical things can happen inside of it.”
“Things like peace, quiet, and privacy?”
“Those too. In you go.” He took the place beside her on the forward-facing seat, an aberration Della rather liked.
“I never realized what an ordeal a wedding day is,” she said. “How the hours drag and how ritual weights the whole business.” How people felt entitled to stare and how every smile hid questions.
Exactly how ruined was the bride? Did the groom care? Had he been bought? Had he sampled her wares before making his decision? Was the bride’s figure perhaps a trifle fuller than it had been in spring?
Della had seen those questions, smiled, and clung to Ash’s side through them all.
Ash thumped his fist against the roof. “You are my wife now. I like that part of this day rather a lot. I do not like my brother trying to play nursemaid on my wedding day.”
Was that all Sycamore had been about? “He worries for you, but I suspect he also worries about how he’ll go if you should decide to leave the club.”
Ash doffed his hat and set about untying the ribbons to Della’s bonnet. “He does worry, and he keeps it all very much to himself. Cam is the proudest man I know, which, considering Worth Kettering is among my in-laws, is saying a great deal.” He loosened the ribbons and lifted the bonnet from Della’s hair, careful not to disturb her coiffure. “Come here, Mrs. Dorning. I have been mad to put my arms around you.”
She went into his embrace gratefully as the horses clopped along at a walk. “Do you think about leaving the Coventry?”
“I hadn’t. I make a handsome living there, the revenue allows me to invest in other properties, and Sycamore can’t handle it on his own. He could hire a bookkeeper, manager, or second-in-command, but he needs a minder. Don’t tell him I said that.”
“I suspect he already knows.”
Minutes passed in blessed, peaceful quiet, while Della rested against her husband—her husband—and counted backward from one hundred in French. She was only a little anxious, not recite-the-alphabet-backward anxious.
“Sycamore was warning you about my melancholia, wasn’t he?” Ash sounded very unlike a happy bridegroom. “I don’t know whether to pummel him or thank him.”
“He reassured me that if your spirits sink, your family is still available to care for you. I wasn’t sure whether to pummel him or thank him either.”
“My spirits likely will sink,” Ash said, pulling the shades, “but not today. How about a kiss for your doting husband?”
They kissed and cuddled and held hands the rest of the way back to Ash’s apartment—their apartment—and Della was able to relax more as they journeyed closer to their new home. They would not have a wedding night with all the trimmings—she was still indisposed—but she and Ash were married.
What God had joined, no man could put asunder, at least not without expensive lawsuits and an act of parliament. The finality of being married comforted Della as little else could.
She hoped it comforted Ash as well.
For a time in his youth, Ash had been fascinated with his cock. The pleasure it yielded was amazing, a secret delight that—he suspected this was typical of the young male—struck him as a wonder of nature intended solely for his discovery. He’d pleasured himself frequently, and making the intimate acquaintance of the female of the species had only enlarged his circle of wonder.
He might scoff at Sycamore’s declarations about loving a good romp, but he also understood the sentiment, at least when he was well. When he was unwell, an absence of sexual desire was among the most alarming manifestations of his illness.
He not only felt no desire, he felt undesirable.
And thus, his lack of dismay at being unable to enjoy a typical wedding night with Della troubled him somewhat, but then, he knew the vows would soon be consummated, and he most assuredly did desire his bride.
Ash had had the apartment thoroughly cleaned and aired, making the place altogether brighter and fresher. Della’s trunks sat in the middle of the formal parlor, irrefutable evidence that life was changing. They would be loaded into the traveling coach tomorrow, along with Ash’s effects, and a sort of wedding journey/come out would ensue for Ash as a husband.
“You’re quiet,” Della said, passing him her cloak. She kept the shawl about her shoulders as she tossed her bonnet onto the peg usually reserved for Ash’s top hat. She truly did have extraordinarily good aim, at least where millinery was concerned.
“I am relieved,” Ash said, putting his hat on the peg Sycamore typically used. “The wedding, lovely as it was, still had some qualities of an ordeal. Come here.”
She went into his arms as if they’d been married for years instead of hours. “I forgot to eat, or I was too nervous to eat.”
“Nervous? I would never have guessed. Excited, perhaps. Eager to be alone with your handsome husband. Should I have carried you over the threshold?”
She kissed his cheek, then eased away. “We’re not that sort of couple.”