He wrapped her in a hug. “I want to be more to you than that, Della, but I also want to be your lover. I get like this, though, as the melancholia descends. My appetites, all of them, desert me.”
That he would speak to her when she could not see his face was frustrating. “What else tells you it’s coming on?”
“I never have much interest in spirits, but as food, physical exertion, erotic joys, and the challenges of running the club all begin to pale, I am drawn more strongly to drink. Drink offers oblivion from my oblivion, if that makes sense.”
She stroked his shoulders, loving the feel of him naked in her arms and loving the trust he reposed in her even more. “Does inebriation help?”
He shifted away and settled on his back. “Decidedly not. Drink is a chimera, a path from one problem to another. It exacerbates my irritability, which is also a hallmark of an impending rough patch. I wanted to plant Portly a facer, for example, when I ran into him in the stable. He was making stupid small talk. My impatience was inordinate, considering my errand was no more pressing than retrieving my riding crop.”
Della snuggled up to Ash’s side and resisted the urge to play with his cock. She had been honestly aroused by Ash’s advances, and she was honestly frustrated not to have found satisfaction.
How much more frustrated must he be, then? Might she ask him for the sort of attentions he’d shown her in the conservatory prior to their wedding? She lacked the courage to make the request.
Ash was being affectionate, and she would content herself with that.
“I don’t know what to make of Mr. Portly,” Della said. “He’s agreeable and occasionally witty, but never cutting. He’s partnering Clarice Chastain in the tournament with every appearance of good cheer, but he keeps company with William. Either William has a hold over him, or Mr. Portly lacks discernment in his choice of friends.”
“Portly wasn’t dressed for riding,” Ash murmured. “And no other guests were on hand, save Tavistock and Golding. I had the sense Portly was serving as lookout for a tryst, but Tavistock had no interest in trysting.”
“And,” Della said, “Tavistock is William’s partner at cards. Something is afoot that bodes ill for somebody, and William is behind it. He has also spent time in the gazebo with Mrs. Tremont on more than one occasion. I will keep my distance from Clarice, but I do not envy her the spouse her parents chose for her.”
A spouse Della herself might have been stuck with, but for Ash’s gallantry.
“The next time I suggest we accept a house party invitation, smack me,” he said. “I will hand you my very own riding crop, and you can serve me a few good stripes to bring me back to my senses.”
“Would it help with the melancholia if I took the crop to you?” Della asked. “This topic has come up before, but I’m asking in all seriousness now.” The idea appalled her, though schoolboys were regularly birched for any number of transgressions.
Ash rolled away from her and climbed out of the bed. “I will not ask my wife to beat me. Don’t be ridiculous.” He was beautifully naked, also angry. “That would be the request of a lunatic.”
Della retrieved her robe from the foot of the bed and shrugged into it. “But if the cutting and boxing help, why not a riding crop? Entire brothels exist to gratify the whims of those who enjoy that sort of thing.”
He stalked behind the privacy screen. “Cutting and boxing don’t help. They are temporary reprieves and not very good ones. I’ve explained that to you.”
Della bounced off the bed and stood just beyond the privacy screen. “Would beating me help?”
An instant of silence followed that question, that act of desperation. Ash came around the privacy screen, his expression aghast.
“I would never, under any circumstances, consider such a thing or even… Della? Why would you…?” He wrapped his arms around her. “No. No, you daft creature, whacking at you with a crop could never do anything but horrify me. Don’t be an idiot, and please never make such an offer again.”
A measure of Della’s worry eased. “I like when you hold me like this, so tightly.”
He gave her another three breaths of that lovely, snug embrace before returning to the privacy screen. “I hope we have exhausted the topic of melancholia and riding crops for the duration of this marriage, Mrs. Dorning. Find something to wear, and I’ll do up your hooks.”
Irritability meant low spirits stalked him. Della found a brown morning gown in the wardrobe, along with a chemise, stays, and stockings. Ash donned riding attire and made a brisk business of assisting Della to dress.
“You will avoid Chastain?” he asked, sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed to pull on a tall boot.
“I will make every effort to avoid him, and I will try never to be alone if I must leave this room.”
Ash tugged on his second boot, and he looked so damned luscious, Della nearly howled.
“I will ask Sycamore to keep an eye on Chastain,” he said, “because I agree with you. Chastain is up to something untoward, and I’d rather we not become once more entangled in his schemes.”
Della had become entangled in his schemes. More fool her. “I understand. Have a pleasant ride.”
Ash collected his gloves, spurs, and crop, but paused by the bedroom door. “Della, would you rather we had separate bedrooms? I’m sure Lady Wentwhistle can find me a chamber under the eaves, or I can sleep in Sycamore’s dressing closet for the next week.”
If Ash had raised his hand to her, Della could not have felt the blow more keenly. “Is that what you want?”
He pulled on his gloves, and she loved watching him do even so mundane a thing as that. “I make the offer out of a concern for your peace of mind. Newlyweds who ask to have separate bedrooms halfway through a house party will cause talk, but I will cheerfully weather the talk to spare you unhappiness.”
He hadn’t said he wanted separate beds, he hadn’t said he didn’t. “Let’s not be hasty, then, but I appreciate the offer.” About as much as he’d appreciated the offer to birch him out of his blue devils.
Ash would have left on that bewildering exchange, but Della caught him around the waist in a hug. “Please be patient with me, Ash. I am new to being a wife, and I want very much to do well at it.”
She could feel the desire to leave throbbing through him, feel his distaste for her desperate display. He gave her a swift hug.
“We’ll muddle through,” he said, “but this house party cannot end soon enough.” He kissed her cheek and was out the door in the next instant.
“Not the path by the gazebo,” Sycamore said, taking Ash by the arm. “I saw Mrs. Tremont stealing off in that direction barely ten minutes ago.”
Ash was abnormally annoyed to think of others casually trysting when he’d left Della unsatisfied. “You’d think she’d exercise some discretion.”
“Mrs. Tremont is swiving Chastain,” Cam said as casually as he’d observe that a wood thrush was making all that racket from the direction of the maze. “She said enduring his attentions was an unavoidable necessity, while a round with me would be pleasure. I was not flattered.”