When Sycamore ambled into the library ten minutes later, Della had almost succeeded in calming her body, while her mind remained in riot.
He tossed himself into the wing chair paired with Della’s, all lanky grace and daytime elegance. “They’re choosing up partners for the games tournament,” he said. “As a professional in the gaming business, I thought I’d best recuse myself. What’s your excuse?”
Why do I need an excuse? “To the extent archery figures in the proceedings, I have my mother’s keen eye for accuracy. I would beat all the men and cause talk. I’d rather spend the time with my husband anyway.”
Sycamore appeared to accept that assertion reply at face value, and well he should, for it was the absolute truth.
Ash lay beside his wife, wishing she were asleep, knowing she was not. They’d been married on Monday, today had been the longest Friday of Ash’s life, but already he knew the difference between the waking and sleeping rhythm of Della’s breathing.
He knew that the shawl she treasured had been among the last articles her mother had crocheted, he knew that loud noises unnerved her, and today’s shooting exhibition had strained her composure to the utmost, though she had accurately critiqued the form of every man who’d taken up a pistol and predicted the inaccuracies of his aim to the inch.
Ash knew he loved her and that something troubled her, something more than the usual annoyances common to any prolonged social gathering. He suspected marriage to him numbered among her woes, but would not irritate her seeking confirmation of his fears.
“I’ll rub your back,” Della said, curling over onto her side.
They hadn’t made love last night. Della had accepted Ash’s suggestion to have a cuddle when she’d straddled his lap and begun kissing him. She was apparently waiting for him to make the next intimate overture, and he wanted to, but in his present mood, he did not trust himself to do justice to the occasion.
“You can’t sleep either?” Ash replied, threading an arm under her neck and drawing her against his side.
“It’s the weather. It can’t make up its mind, and thus we get the humidity of summer, a touch of autumn’s chill, and the weak sun of winter. Lady Wentwhistle has a talent for scheduling the exact wrong activity for the weather.”
Today would have been a lovely day to fly kites, but instead, her ladyship had scheduled shooting.
“You chose not to participate in the games tournament,” Ash said. “May I ask why?”
“In the first place, my skill with a gun would honestly shame any of the fellows trying to look so competent and dashing. I can’t help it. I hit what I aim at, unless I purposely miss. In the second, Chastain was participating, and I want nothing to do with anything he touches.”
Ash had hoped that tensions in that regard were easing for Della. Perhaps Chastain had annoyed her, a thought both logical and unacceptable.
“I can still thrash him for you, Della.” A sound mutual pummeling might actually help Ash’s unsettled mood, though he doubted Chastain could give a good account of himself.
Della stroked Ash’s chest, tracing patterns of muscle and bone. “Promise me you won’t provoke him, Ash. He won’t play fair, and you will come out the worse for it.”
If anybody had told Ash that Della was the sort of wife to cling to her husband’s hand on even a short garden stroll, that she’d attempt to extract promises from him regarding a matter of honor, that she literally didn’t want her husband out of her sight, Ash would have laughed.
Less than a week into his marriage, he wasn’t laughing. He loved her touch, loved how affectionate she was, but did not love that she was so frequently anxious.
“I have already promised you as much, Della. We can leave if being around him bothers you so greatly.”
She was quiet for a time. Beyond the window, the wind whipped moonlit trees, sending leaves cascading into the garden, and a gust of laughter drifted up from some late-night revelers on the terrace.
“When I am around William Chastain,” Della said, “I feel as if I am in the presence of a rabid animal, and though I want to run as far and as fast as my legs can carry me, the last thing I ought to do is turn my back on him.”
The same stark metaphor applied to melancholia. Ash dared not ignore it, dared not turn his back on the lurking possibility of its return.
“Your thinking has merit,” he said. “If we face down Chastain at this gathering, then we’ve put paid to his mischief. If this house party engenders more drama where he’s concerned, we’ll have to start all over again next spring. Would you like a nightcap?”
Ash did not crave a tot of brandy so much as he wanted to get up and move.
“No, thank you, but go find a drink if you want one. I saw decanters in the library and more in the gallery.”
The evening round of cards took place in the gallery, meaning Chastain would be there. “I’ll forage in the library. Get some sleep.”
He kissed her, and she let him go without another word. Perhaps Della was relieved to have the bed to herself, though, not by word, deed, glance, or silence had she expressed anything but delight to be in Ash’s presence.
He dressed hastily, not bothering with a cravat, and slipped into the chilly corridor. The library was all but deserted, only Sycamore lounged by the fire, keeping company with some book of verse.
“You look adorably tumbled,” Sycamore said, setting the book aside. “What could possibly send you prowling in such a state and at such an hour?”
“Traveling put me at sixes and sevens,” Ash said. “I made the mistake of taking a long nap on Wednesday, and now I’m more discombobulated than ever.”
Sycamore let that remark pass, though they both knew a hallmark of Ash’s melancholia was a tendency to reverse his days and nights.
“Care for a nightcap?” Ash asked, crossing to the decanters.
“Why not? Lady Wentwhistle is still putting out decent libation. By this time next week, we will doubtless be offered lesser vintages.”
Ash poured them each two scant fingers. “I thought you’d be observing the tournament play.” And one red-haired player in particular.
“I looked in earlier, but keeping an eye on a lot of gamblers is how I make my living. To do so here would hardly be a diversion. Besides, play is progressing in the usual fashion. Mrs. Tremont and the marchioness are a formidable pair, Chastain loses because he’s reckless, and much groping under the table is happening on all sides.”
“What’s Portly doing?”
“Partnering Mrs. Chastain, who is also an astute, if conservative, player.”
“Who has the thankless task of partnering Chastain?”
“Lady Tavistock’s step-son, and Lord Tavistock, unfortunately, is young enough and green enough to follow Chastain’s lead. They are careless of their losses, but I can see the marchioness’s temper silently flaring.”
Ash took the wing chair nearest the fire. “Do you ever tire of the nonsense that inevitably accompanies wagering?”
Sycamore considered his drink. “Yes, but then I consider that Grey needs us to make a go of our venture, Tresham is counting on us to do right by a thriving business we essentially lucked into, and if I ever aspire to something more than managing a gaming hell, I’d best look after the biddies in my coop now.”