Della appropriated the teapot. “Mrs. William Chastain, may I make known to you my husband, Mr. Ash Dorning. Ash, Mrs. Chastain. Please do join us.”
Clarice waved her bit of croissant. “We are frustrating the gossips, Mr. Dorning. They would like to see us hissing and spitting like a pair of cats, but we refuse to oblige them. Lady Della grew weary of waiting for you to offer for her, so she took matters into her own hands, et voilà tout, you propose the marriage, and all is well. Lady Della is very clever.”
The notion that Della had eloped as a stunt to get Ash’s attention sounded just outlandish enough to appeal to the gossips.
“My wife is an exceedingly resourceful lady,” Ash said, “and I am endlessly grateful that we are wed. Tell me of your family, Mrs. Chastain. Do your parents bide here in England?”
Ash likely knew exactly where her parents bided, how many acres they owned, where their wealth came from, and what they were worth. Running the Coventry meant knowing to whom credit should be extended, for whom a hansom cab should be called before the third bottle of port, and which straying wife was sleeping with which straying husband.
Ash and Clarice prattled on, about mutual acquaintances of mutual acquaintances, while Della ate toast and eggs.
“Perhaps you will fetch us a fresh pot, Mr. Dorning,” Clarice said, turning big brown eyes on Ash. “Making new friends is thirsty business, but a lovely way to start the day.”
Ash had little choice but to once again go in search of a full teapot.
“He loves you,” Clarice pronounced when Ash was out of earshot. “That can be difficult, to start with love. Messy.”
“I suspect starting without it can be difficult too. Lonely.”
Clarice’s air of friendly sophistication faltered. “What you say is true. William will be a challenge, particularly early in our marriage. I wanted to warn you, Mrs. Dorning. William bears grudges. He’s furious with my papa right now, but he’s also unhappy with you. That you and Mr. Dorning are well suited is an insult to William. I would not turn my back on him if I were you or Mr. Dorning.”
“Are you threatening me, Mrs. Chastain?”
“Mon Dieu, la fierté des Anglais… Non, Mrs. Dorning. I do not threaten. The last thing I want is for William to becloud the early days of our marriage with more foolishness. I am asking for your assistance.”
And she accused the English of having pride? And yet, Della understood the burning desire to be just another couple, just another new bride.
“I will do nothing to provoke William, and Mr. Dorning will also make every attempt to avoid further drama.”
“My thanks, and here is Mr. Dorning with our fresh pot. You will excuse me, though, for I must consult with my maid regarding the attire in which a lady flies a kite. I did not foresee such a challenge when I packed for this house party. Mr. Dorning, good day.”
She rose, curtseyed, and departed, leaving on her plate a croissant slathered in butter and jam.
“What?” Ash said, picking up the croissant and biting off an end.
“I do not know if she’s very devious, very sweet, or both. She asked that we not provoke William.”
“Which tells you,” Ash said, pouring cups of strong, hot tea, “William hasn’t been honest with her about the whole elopement. She doesn’t know how badly he behaved toward you.”
Della added sugar and milk to her tea. “She said William is angry with me, and I believe her.”
“If Chastain misbehaves again, we will deal with him discreetly,” Ash said, taking another bite of the croissant and getting crumbs everywhere. “Don’t fret, Della.”
If there were two words Della did not appreciate hearing in that calm, breezy tone, those words were don’t fret. The new Mrs. Chastain had gone out of her way to warn Della not to provoke William, William knew things about Della that could ruin her despite her marriage to Ash, and all Ash had to offer was don’t fret.
Della sipped her tea—and fretted.
“Did the ladies compare wedding nights over their breakfast tea?” Sycamore posed the question casually as Ash walked the path circling the exterior of the maze.
“Go flirt with the chambermaids, Cam. I haven’t the patience to deal with you at present.”
Sycamore fell in step at Ash’s elbow. “As hard as they work, the chambermaids deserve a bit of flirtation, but alas, they are all nervous of house party bachelors. Where’s Della?”
“None of your goddamned business.”
Sycamore stopped to pluck a trio of Michaelmas daisies and arrange them as a boutonniere. The lavender color was only a few shades lighter than his eyes.
“The marchioness asked me to tell you that she is available to partner you or Della at whist should the need arise.”
“My thanks, Sycamore, but please do not discuss my situation with your paramours.” And go the hell away. Except Sycamore was like a wasp. Swat at him, and he hovered all the nearer.
“Her ladyship is not my paramour, but hope springs eternal in the human breast, or somewhere south of the breast. I do think she likes me. Widows grow lonely for want of affection, and I’m the friendly sort.”
Ash came to a halt on the north side of the maze, where the tall privet hedges shielded him and Sycamore from anybody peering out of windows along the back of the house.
“You are the pestilential sort. Be off with you. Della has asked that I remain by her side for the early days of this house party, and you are obliterating what little solitude I have.” That Ash should seek solitude troubled him, but then, no couple could thrive living exclusively in each other’s pockets, and a considerate new husband let his wife get some rest.
“You bungled the damned wedding night,” Sycamore said, “and you are testy and out of sorts as a result. How many times have I told you the ladies like tenderness and laughter? They want cuddling and sweet nothings, gentle kisses and adoring words. Not a lot of blighted swordsmanship followed by sweaty snoring.”
Ash resumed walking when he wanted to pelt off at a dead run. “Why are you tempting me to draw your cork?”
Sycamore stuck to Ash’s elbow like a nanny with her charge. “Don’t be daunted by a few fumbled overtures on the wedding night. You have decades to improve your performance, and Della strikes me as a lady who will let a fellow know where his work needs improvement.”
“Shut your mouth, Sycamore.”
“Della is well?” he asked. “The fair Clarice didn’t slip poison into her tea?”
Della is none of your business. Ash refrained—barely—from saying that and backing the warning up with a swift fist to Sycamore’s gut. He was stopped by many memories, of Sycamore struggling to keep up with brothers who had longer legs, brothers who were twice Sycamore’s age, brothers who thought using words Sycamore didn’t understand was a clever sort of code.
“Della is quite in the pink. She’s having a lie-down. There’s not enough breeze to fly kites anyway.”
The weather was unsettled, like Ash’s mood. Though the sun filtered through a hazy overcast, the air was still and heavy, as if a summer afternoon had been misplaced amid autumn’s falling leaves.
“The point of flying kites is not to fly kites,” Sycamore remarked. “Will you participate in the tournament?”