How to explain the temptation to trade one pain for another? “If I cut myself, my mood improves. I suspect the resulting lift to the spirits rather than blood loss is why some physicians recommend bleeding for melancholia. The cut itself, that burning, stinging pain, can result in a soothing of depressed humors.”
Della passed him his dressing gown. “I am at a loss for words. The scars don’t look fresh.”
Ash shrugged into his robe, and Della straightened his collar, adding a little pat to his chest. That she would touch him so casually was inordinately comforting.
“I stopped the cutting when I realized two things. First, the effects were increasingly temporary. I might feel a bit steadier for only a few hours, and for that I was risking infection.”
Della took his hand and leaned against his arm. “Second?”
“Second, the knife was becoming more problem than solution. I cut myself on my legs so my brothers would not notice scarring on my arms or torso if ever I removed my shirt. King George indulges in regular recreational bloodletting for nonexistent fevers, while I became furtive about a few little nicks. I was making a ritual out of the cutting itself, looking forward to it, fretting over it, and hiding away my knife and bandages. I cannot control the melancholia, but I can stop myself from becoming partial to peculiar behaviors. Besides, the boxing is more effective.”
Della knelt up on the bed and hugged him. “No wonder William Chastain can’t cow you. He’s a mere whiny schoolboy compared to the foes you’ve faced.”
She held Ash close, and a tension he had been carrying for a long time eased. “I would understand if you were appalled, Della. I’m appalled myself.”
“I could never be appalled at your battle scars, Ash Dorning, nor should you be.”
He wrestled her into his lap and hugged her tightly. She was wrong, of course. A grown man playing silly little games with a knife ought to appall anybody, but Della didn’t see it like that.
Thank the merciful powers, Della didn’t see it like that at all.
Breakfast began uneventfully, with Della receiving only a few cool stares or curious glances as she and Ash availed themselves of Lady Wentwhistle’s buffet. The breakfast parlor wasn’t large enough to accommodate two dozen guests, so the gallery had been set up as a sort of mess hall.
“Not the corner,” Della said as she and Ash paused just inside the gallery doors. “We don’t want to look like we’re hiding.”
“There.” He gestured with his chin toward a small unoccupied table in the more sparsely populated half of the room.
“That suits,” Della said, preceding him between empty tables.
He seated her and went off to find them a pot of tea, while Della draped her shawl over the back of the chair and watched him go.
What a marvelous person she’d married. Ash was a passionate, inventive, tender, and sweet lover, and a formidable man. To manage the demons that drove him, while appearing calm and self-possessed, impressed her to no end.
She needed that same ability, to tame a dragon while looking as if she were petting a house cat.
“May I sit with you, Madame Dorning?”
The question was slightly accented and the speaker a lady whom Della had dreaded to meet.
“Mrs. Chastain, good morning. We have not been introduced.” Inane thing to say, and Mrs. Chastain’s smile suggested she agreed with that assessment.
She was of average height—meaning taller than Della—and attractive looks. She had dark hair and large dark eyes, a faintly olive complexion, and an ever-so-slightly strong nose. Her air, though, was one of good humor, and she was exquisitely kitted out in a blue velvet morning dress.
Clarice Chastain had that indefinable quality of presence, which eclipsed any defect Society might find with the size of her nose or the nature of her accent.
“We have not been introduced,” she said, setting her plate on the table, “and yet, we have much in common. We must give the gossips something to whisper about, yes? William is lazy, he sleeps half the day away, and I am without company.”
She seated herself, while across the gallery, Ash had been waylaid by Lord Wentwhistle.
“Please do join me,” Della murmured. “My husband has gone in search of a teapot, but I hold out faint hope his mission will be successful.”
Clarice folded her table napkin across her lap. “Your husband is better-looking than mine, but you must not tell William I said so. William suffers vanity upon vanity, worse than an aging rogue watching his handsome looks fade.”
Della put her table napkin on her lap—ye gods, this woman was self-possessed—and fumbled for something to say.
“I’m sorry about the elopement. We weren’t supposed to get farther than St. Albans.”
Clarice split open one of two croissants on her plate. “You did me a favor. William knows he was ungentlemanly, and I will make him pay for that when the time is right. My papa added a bit to the settlements to tempt William back to good behavior, and I will make William pay for that too. He has much to learn, so Papa made sure William’s purse will be well managed by our parents. Don’t you put butter on your toast, Mrs. Dorning?”
Lady Della. She was still Lady Della, but Della suspected Clarice was making a shrewd point by using the form of address that emphasized Della’s recent nuptials.
She took a pat of butter from the butter dish and scraped it across cold toast. “Will you be happy with William?”
“I am happy enough. And you? Does Mr. Dorning make you happy?”
“Very. Our families were connected previously. I have long admired him.” And I admire him even more since becoming his wife. Della thought of the scars on his thighs, the pugilism, the long winters in Dorset. She had married a warrior, though Ash would find that description baffling.
Clarice studied her over the jam pot. “You seem to be most genuinely enamored of your spouse. He is quite handsome. His eyes are wise.”
Ash’s eyes were beautiful too. “I really am sorry for the elopement.”
Clarice set the jam pot by Della’s plate. “I know why William ran off. He did not want to marry a dull stick. He is not ready to put away his toys, but then, few men do so willingly when they have been as indulged as he has. I do not understand why you would take your chances with a man of William’s character. He is not always nice, and you are a diminutive female.”
For a dull stick, Clarice was both perceptive and forthright. Della might admit to liking her were the circumstances different.
“I grew tired of being paraded before the eligibles Season after Season. All of my siblings are happily married, and they could not stop pairing me off with this spotty boy or that presuming heir. A failed elopement was to earn me retirement to the family seat in Kent.”
“An understandable goal,” Clarice opined, making a little moue while holding a piece of croissant before her mouth. “You did better than planned, eh? You are not banished to Kent. You are instead married to the fellow who is bringing us our teapot.”
Ash approached the table, a tray in his hands bearing a teapot, cups, saucers, milk, and sugar.
“Good morning, ladies.” He set down the tray and bowed to Clarice. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”