“You were saying?”
“Harder,” Della said, gripping him with her legs. “Harder, please.”
He laughed and, without speeding up, obliged her. Della felt as if he’d lit a Catherine wheel inside her, each thrust adding to the fire until every star in the night sky illuminated her from within.
When she would have screamed, Ash covered her mouth with his own. She lashed her arms around his neck and clung as the pleasure washed through her like a scouring storm. When the gale ebbed, she clung even more tightly.
Ash eased up enough that she could breathe and limited his movements to lazy, shallow thrusts. “Say something,” he murmured. “I am in torments of uncertainty. Did you find satis—?”
“I found you.” Della hugged him. “If I were any more satisfied, I’d have expired from an excess of pleasure.” How I love you.
But to say that might make Ash think what she valued was his lovemaking. She did value his lovemaking, but also… him. The considerate, patient, attentive, passionate, luscious man she’d married.
The tenor of his movements shifted, becoming more sinuous. “Pleased to hear it. One wants to make a good first impression.”
“Yes, one does, and I’m failing miserably. You will think me the most selfish of wives.” She knew he hadn’t let himself find completion, and that created an island of worry in a lake of contentment.
“I think you passionate,” Ash replied. “And delectable, and my God… Della. I understand now why my married siblings are forever taking naps.”
She laced her hands with his. “Yours too?”
They laughed, which caused interesting sensations in interesting places, and then Ash was driving her up again. Her fuse was short, and the resulting explosion was all the more spectacular. When Ash withdrew and spent on her belly, Della was too replete to remonstrate with him—and also too grateful.
Chapter Eleven
Della slept on beside Ash, her breath breezing across his shoulder. She had loved him witless not only before they’d fallen asleep, but also in the middle of the night, no sound save her gasps of pleasure and the soft creaking of the bed ropes. Della liked to hold his hands when she made love, lacing her fingers with Ash’s and gripping him tightly.
He loved that. Loved that she sought every connection with him she could make.
He’d managed to withdraw both times, but it had been a near thing indeed. He’d have to work on his self-restraint, and what a fraught, delightful undertaking that would be.
Weak morning sun suggested the hour was upon them to rise, though Ash dreaded leaving the bed. This house party, which should have been an easy first outing as man and wife, was off on a decidedly troubling foot.
“So I did not dream last night happened,” Della said, rolling to her back. “You are a revelation, Ash Dorning. Rather than make sentimental declarations, allow me to state that Freddy Throckmorton knew nothing. Less than nothing.”
Ash would have liked to have heard her sentimental declarations. “I’m sorry. You trusted him, and he wasn’t worthy of that honor. Do I ring for a tray, or shall we run the breakfast gauntlet?”
Della lay naked, one pale breast peeking from beneath the covers. “Must we?”
Ash touched a fingertip to her nipple and watched her flesh ruche from that simple caress. “Today, we must. You and Mrs. Chastain need to greet each other civilly, and I must ignore William.”
Della traced Ash’s nipple with the tip of her third finger. “I still don’t want to let you out of my sight.”
“If you keep that up, we will be late for luncheon, much less breakfast. I would not bet on supper either.” And how he loved that she would make free with his person, no hesitation or missishness about her.
“The next time we get married, we are going on a true wedding journey, Ash. One where we can stay in bed for days, nobody knows us, and we recover from our bedsport with solitary picnics from which we return with leaves in our hair and grass stains on the knees of your breeches.”
Rather than tempt fate, Ash left the bed. “We can make a leisurely journey over to Dorning Hall when we leave here, take our time and all the pleasures prove.” He stirred the ashes on the hearth, then added half a scoop of coal to the embers. The chill in the air helped dissuade his cock from untoward ideas, though a surprising, naughty part of him liked parading about in the altogether for his wife’s delectation.
“You will think me ridiculous,” Della said, sitting up, “but I honestly do not want to be among these people without you at my side, Ash.”
He considered his tousled, lovely wife as she piled pillows against the headboard.
“Staying close to you will be no imposition, Della, but please assure me that Chastain did not in fact force himself on you.”
She gave the pillow a particularly hard smack. “He tried to force himself on me. I told you that. He and I had an agreement. We would essentially feign an elopement so that he could elude parson’s mousetrap, and I could retire to Kent in peace. We sent an anonymous note to his Papa, alerting him to our departure, but Papa Chastain was remiss in his duties, by a good eight hours.”
Ash set about laying fresh clothing on the bed. “Do you suspect that William delayed delivery of the note?”
“I do now that I’ve had some time to think about it. He’s sly like that, and mean.”
“He frightens you.” Ash took the place on the bed at Della’s hip. “He can’t hurt you now, not without getting past me first. Whatever he threatened, whatever he implied, you are safe from him.”
Big words from a man who might in a week’s time be unwilling to leave his room, but Ash meant those words nonetheless. Somehow, for Della, he’d make the effort no matter megrims, mulligrubs, or melancholia.
“What is that?” Della asked, shifting to peer at Ash’s thigh.
“That is my mighty pizzle. You and he got fairly well acquainted last night.” As the words left his lips, Ash realized exactly what that Della had referred to.
God damn the morning sun, anyway, though Della was bound to notice sooner or later.
“You are scarred,” she said, brushing her thumb over the scored flesh on Ash’s thigh. “How did this happen?”
He could joke, lie, prevaricate… He had with the occasional casual lover. But this was Della. Chastain had apparently lied to her, and that alone meant Ash would be truthful.
“I cut myself,” he said. “Sycamore and I took to fencing with each other when it became clear that sparring in the boxing ring was ill-advised. He is quite good with a foil, better than I am, and he frequently pinked me.”
Della’s brows drew down. “Pinked you? I thought the blades were to have tips on them so nobody got hurt.”
“For beginners, yes, but untipped foils make the whole business more interesting. Sycamore likes the mental advantage of drawing first blood, and I found those small wounds beneficial.” Soothing, pleasant, luscious. Ash had all manner of shocking affection for small wounds.
Della reached behind him to retrieve her dressing gown, then extricated herself from the covers to sit beside him on the edge of the bed.
“This has to do with the melancholia, doesn’t it?” She regarded the parallel scars on his thighs balefully. The wounds were small, about an inch across, a dozen on the inner side of each thigh.