So Sycamore came by his scapegrace flirtatiousness honestly? Ash had never considered that theory. “What else do you recall about my father?”
She smiled at her hands. “He was a terrible flirt. Men newly grieving can be that way, as can women, I’m told. He was a good listener, he didn’t need to be the center of attention, and he loved his children to distraction.”
That comported with what Ash recalled of his father. Papa had been quiet, studious even, and yet he’d been able to charm Mama from the worst of her tempers and vexations.
“And you say he was prone to the dismals?”
“He was a new widower, Mr. Dorning. Women are all but compelled to make a great, endless display of their grief. Men are expected to carry on. Your father had a title weighing him down, motherless children to care for, and various siblings and cousins all looking to him for support and influence. He had much to be dismal about.”
For a moment, Ash had felt a glimmer of hope that his malaise was not entirely random. Perhaps he’d inherited a propensity for overabundant black bile from his father, but no. Melancholia and grief were separate varieties of despondency.
The one had an obvious cause, the other was simply a failing of the animal spirits.
“I’m glad Papa found good company,” Ash said. “Did you also know my mother?”
Lady Fairchild’s smile became slightly ironic. “I did, nowhere near as well as I knew your father. My husband had come home from his posting by the time your father remarried, and you younger children came along at a great rate. I assume the union was happy.”
“It was, though not without the occasional rough patch.” Mama and Papa had had spectacular rows that had often ended with the couple retiring to their apartment and emerging an hour later much more in charity with each other.
“When my husband took a posting to Canada, I nearly murdered him, but we weathered that challenge. Married life isn’t always easy, but in the end, the joys outweigh the sorrows. I knew Lady Della’s parents, too, and my gracious, her papa cut quite a swath. Society was different back then. We were less afflicted with propriety, and that wasn’t always a good thing.”
The discussion had done what tromping around the garden had not—distracted Ash from a grouchy mood.
“I have much enjoyed chatting with you, Lady Fairchild, but my wife awaits me inside, and a new husband treads lightly. May I escort you to the library or the conservatory?”
“The conservatory is a fine idea. My daughter is likely to be lurking among the ferns with a book. Catherine says all those plants crowded together make for salubrious air. I think they make for a better place to hide with a dubious novel, but you mustn’t tell her I said that.”
“My wife and your daughter would doubtless get on well. We must make it a point to introduce them if they haven’t already met.”
Ash left her ladyship in the humid warmth of the conservatory and found Della awake and stitching at her embroidery when he returned to their rooms.
“Shall I open that window the rest of the way?” he asked, crossing the bedroom to shove at the sticky sash. “Old houses and changeable weather are a bad combination. I thought you were stealing a nap.”
He kissed her cheek, just because he could, and was rewarded with a shy smile.
“Lady Wentwhistle has assigned a laundry maid to look after me. What Trask lacks in other skills, she makes up for in an ability to chatter.”
Della was perched in a wing chair by the window, taking advantage of the natural light. She made a pretty, domestic picture, swaddled in her shawl, plying her needle. The sight of her caused Ash an ache, not entirely sexual, and a hope that decades hence, he would still be admiring her as she stitched away an afternoon.
He took the second wing chair and pulled off his boots. “I had an interesting discussion with Lady Fairchild. I gather she’s here with her daughter Catherine.”
“The bluestocking?”
“You know her?”
Della let her hoop fall to her lap. “Not well, but I like her. She is not a slave to convention, and like me, she has not taken.”
Ash undid his cravat next. “I was fascinated to learn that Lady Fairchild and my father were quite well acquainted when he was, as she put it, between wives.”
“Do you suppose they had a liaison?”
Ash thought back over the conversation and recalled Lady Fairchild’s smiles. “Yes. When she speaks of him, she recalls him with a special fondness. Her air was wistful with remembrance, as if he was dear to her in the way of a lover.”
Della put aside her hoop, rose, and settled into Ash’s lap. “That is very interesting. When you meet Lady Fairchild’s daughter, take special notice of her eyes.”
“I would rather take special notice of my wife, situated so cozily in my lap.”
“You started to undress. Your wife has taken notice of you too, and she has not had her nap.”
Ash rose with Della in his arms and deposited her on the bed. “You are not to move. I have a sudden compulsion to get my mouth on your quim.”
“Your mouth on my—?”
“And yes, to answer the question I see lurking in your eyes, your mouth on my cock wouldn’t go amiss either. Tell me about Miss Catherine’s eyes.”
Della instead lay back and drew her dressing gown up, up, up, past her knees, past her thighs, and to her waist.
Ash shrugged out of his coat and got his waistcoat and shirt off in two seconds flat. “Mrs. Dorning, you are my heart’s true delight and the answer to my dearest dreams.” To say nothing of the endless esteem in which he held her generous and lusty nature.
Della undid the belt of her dressing gown and untied her chemise. “All very lovely, Ash, but right now, I would also like to be your wife.”
“And I, your husband.”
He spent a good long while worshipping at the altar of Venus and reveling in Della’s attentions to his dandilolly and tallywags. Not until she was a sweet, sleepy weight on his chest, and Ash was drifting toward the bliss of slumber himself, did he recall their earlier discussion.
“Della?”
“Hmm?”
“What will I notice about Miss Catherine’s eyes?”
Della yawned, slid off him, and cuddled up at his side. “They are the same color as yours.”
Della rose and left Ash slumbering amid the pillows. She privately suspected that lack of good sleep contributed to any mental burden, for she certainly fared worse when tired, and Ash could use the rest.
She also wanted to test herself with a short, unescorted foray from their rooms. To literally cling to Ash’s hand was unbecoming, and sooner or later, he’d resent her for it. Her objective was modest—the library—and required nothing more than confirming directions with a footman and traversing a flight of stairs, the main foyer, and a carpeted corridor.
That so small an accomplishment as finding the library should cheer her was pathetic, except she’d also smiled and nodded to a half-dozen house party guests, greeting four of them by name. Tomorrow, after the last guest had arrived, Lady Wentwhistle would take a more formal hand in the introductions.
Della decided that her successful sortie merited a reward in the form of some witty words, so she set another objective: Find Gulliver’s Travels. Dean Swift’s political satire was as imaginative as it was insightful as it was droll.