Still, Della did not turn to greet them. She stood still as a garden statue, gaze fixed on nothing in particular Ash could discern. He reached her side and took her hand.
“Sycamore, make your bow to my lady wife.”
“My lady.” Sycamore bowed without attempting to take her hand. “A pleasure.”
“Sycamore.” Della nodded as Ash draped her shawl around her shoulders. “This is a surprise.”
She clutched the shawl as if chilled, though the foyer wasn’t all that cold.
“Ash must have neglected to mention my plans to you,” Sycamore said. “Shall we repair to the guest parlor?”
“You never mentioned your damned plans to me,” Ash said, “and you will take yourself off to the guest parlor like the unattached bachelor you are. My regards to the marchioness.”
Sycamore must have sensed that he’d crossed a line. He for once heeded the dictates of the self-preservation instinct and took himself off.
“You are not glad to see him,” Della said. “I don’t suppose I am either.”
“The degree to which I am ‘not glad’ to see my brother begs to be expressed in language unfit for a lady’s ears. I’m sorry, Della. Sycamore is trying to be helpful, but I’ve told him to keep his distance lest I thrash him.”
Della had apparently found a reserve of calm in the short time Ash had been away from her. Her features were serene, her composure vast. She wore her crocheted cream shawl like a celestial robe, and her posture radiated dignity.
“He meant well,” she said, starting off at a sedate stroll toward the guest parlor.
“That will be Sycamore’s epitaph.” Though if heaven were merciful, Cam wouldn’t need an epitaph anytime soon.
Della sauntered across the marble foyer at Ash’s side, the hum of conversation growing louder as they approached the door to the guest parlor.
“Do you know what I’m looking forward to right now, Ash Dorning?”
Ash bent close enough to steal a whiff of her honeysuckle scent. “Taking me upstairs and having your way with me?”
“That too. I am looking forward to walking into that guest parlor on your arm and seeing the envious looks from all the ladies. Perhaps that’s why we find Sycamore so near at hand. Now that you are no longer among the eligibles, he has a better chance of being noticed.”
“You would have me pity the blighter.” Though Della’s reasoning had a ring of credibility. Sycamore’s exaggerated sense of amour propre meant he might enjoy holding himself out as the last unmarried Dorning.
Della rearranged her shawl and took Ash’s arm. They entered the guest parlor to find a crowd already assembled and Lady Wentwhistle making introductions. She did not acknowledge them specifically as they paused by the door, which suggested she was tossing Della to the tabbies.
A liveried footman came by bearing glasses of champagne. Ash took two.
“Whom do we know?” he asked quietly. “And would you like some canapés?”
Della pulled off her gloves and stashed them in a pocket, then accepted one of the glasses of champagne. “A little something to eat wouldn’t go amiss, and we know half the room.”
And yet, nobody approached them. Conversations went on, glances came their way, but nobody came near, almost as if this were a stage play, and the chorus awaited a specific cue.
“Why, if it isn’t Lady Della,” said a hearty male voice to Ash’s right. “What a pleasure to see you… again. And Mr. Ash Dorning. Lady Della, do please introduce me to your new husband. I’m sure he and I have much in common.”
William Chastain smiled at Ash. Della took Ash’s hand as if she feared he would plant Chastain a facer or call him out.
“Chastain,” Ash said, bowing. “How could you possibly forget? You and I have met on numerous occasions when luck has run against you at the Coventry’s tables. Please do make your bow to my lady wife.”
Chastain managed an adequate bow. “Felicitations on your nuptials, my lady.” He sent an insolent glance at Della’s décolletage and then lower. “And, Dorning, I’ll cheerfully see you over a hand of cards, if you think to test my luck.”
That was an oblique threat to call Ash out. Della’s grip had grown desperately tight, and Sycamore was watching from across the room.
“You will excuse me if I decline that offer,” Ash said. “I am newly wed and have better things to do than play piquet.” He turned without bowing and led Della across to the sideboard where the canapés were on offer.
They hadn’t quite reached their destination, and conversations had barely resumed, when the Marchioness of Tavistock curtseyed before Della.
“Felicitations on your nuptials, my lady, Mr. Dorning. I wish you every happiness.” She was a willowy woman, auburn-haired, with strong features. Her age could not be much more than twenty-five, but her self-possession was that of a dowager. As a widowed marchioness, she was also very likely the ranking guest at the party, and her gesture all but compelled the other guests to follow suit.
Della stood hand in hand with Ash, graciously accepting good wishes for the next fifteen minutes, and her calm good cheer never faltered.
All the while, Ash was aware of two things. First, Chastain watched this little performance from a corner of the parlor, his expression hovering between snide and calculating.
Second, Della’s hand was colder than a January night wind.
“I have to wonder,” William Chastain mused. “Did dear Mama know that Lady Della and her toady would be on the guest list? I believe she must have.”
“Dorning is an earl’s son,” Francis Portly replied. Portly, whose build was actually on the lanky side, was a jovial sort who paid his debts graciously, though they were always the modest sums resulting from cautious play. “As toadies go, he outranks you, Chastain.”
William arranged his cards. In any combination, they weren’t much of a hand. “He’s an earl’s younger son, all but in trade, and he married used goods to keep her from ruin.”
He tossed out a five of clubs, then realized that had been a poor choice.
Portly laid a ten on top of the five and moved his peg two points. “Dorning is an earl’s increasingly wealthy son, and he married an earl’s daughter, not some émigré’s little nun, as you so ungallantly refer to the new Mrs. Chastain. Besides, you are accounted responsible for Lady Della’s ruin. Not well done of you, sir.”
They had chosen to play this friendly game of cribbage in the library rather than the cardroom, the better to make frequent use of the decanter.
William had referred to his bride as a little nun often in Portly’s hearing. Clarice wasn’t quite a nun—she hadn’t insisted on having all the candles out on their wedding night, for example—but she certainly wasn’t a siren. She was modest and agreeable, vexing qualities in a wife.
Lady Della, by contrast, had some fight in her.
William laid another five on Portly’s ten. Portly finished the pointing with a jack and moved his peg another hole.
“Portly, you wound me. I attempted to rescue a spinster from her lonely fate, spare the fair Clarice a husband she didn’t want, and you paint me the villain.”