“I hate house parties.” Why would Mrs. Tremont feel obliged to entertain Chastain?
“I’m not so keen on this house party, but it’s nearly half over, and I haven’t called anybody out. We must take encouragement where we find it.”
“No duels, Cam. No challenges, no taking offense at drunken maunderings. I refuse to serve as your second.” Ever again. Sycamore had participated in two duels, and on both occasions, Ash had kept the matter from the notice of their family and served as Cam’s second. In each instance, the other party had fired first and poorly, and Sycamore had mercifully deloped.
“If somebody insults me,” he said, “or my friends, or my business enterprise, I will take as much offense as I jolly well please.”
Sycamore sounded as if he relished a dawn meeting, just a little outing to liven up an otherwise dull autumn morning. The weariness his posturing engendered blended with the awful start to Ash’s day to result in an unintended confidence.
“I could not make love with my wife.”
“Della’s angry with you? Impressive bungling, Ash. She’s put you on the cot in the dressing closet already?”
“No, Cam. Della is not angry with me. She was willing, and I was willing, but I couldn’t… I didn’t. Bloody hell.”
“You could not make love with your wife.” Cam sounded puzzled to contemplate such a possibility.
“I just said as much. It’s this house party, Chastain lurking on the stairwell, Clarice accosting us at breakfast.” You underfoot and threatening to stir up mischief for the hell of it. “I offered to sleep elsewhere, and she was dismayed.”
Della had been hurt, and worse, Ash had the sense she had been panicked. She’d not refused the suggestion outright, though, and that tore at his heart. The ashamed part of him knew he deserved to be banished, the rest of him hated any more distance between him and Della.
“Well, don’t expect me to oblige her,” Sycamore said. “I have a few scruples left, though I misplace them on occasion for a good cause. Besides, Della would gut me if I so much as flirted with her.”
“A reassuring thought.” Too reassuring.
Sycamore came to a halt on the path. “Ash, mind you don’t insult your dearest brother. I would cheerfully die to keep Della safe, but she is your wife.”
They resumed tromping along, the grass showing hoarfrost at the foot of the hill below the stable. The morning was beautiful, as only a crisp autumn morning could be, with sharp, bright sunbeams turning the fading leaves to gold and russet. The scent of woodsmoke put a tang in the air, and the frisky yearlings in the nearest pasture were well on the way to wearing winter coats.
Ash nonetheless battled the urge to continue to the carriage house, where he’d order the traveling coach readied. He could collect Della and their portmanteau and be away from this place before breakfast.
Which would start talk, solve nothing, and closet him alone in the vehicle with Della for the next two days. Then they’d be at Dorning Hall, with well-intended family nosing about and expecting them to make calls on half the blasted, smiling, rubbishing shire.
“Tresham reports that all goes well at the Coventry,” Ash said, not that he gave a hearty goddamn for the Coventry at the moment. What must Della think of him, going limp as week-old celery even as she sought her pleasure? Even as he’d invited her to seek her pleasure?
Sycamore’s steps slowed. “He does?”
“I asked him to keep an eye on the place in my absence before you added your request to mine. He generally provides that service when I leave Town, and I don’t see why this year should be any different.”
“Ash, I keep an eye on things. I run things, in fact, and do so well enough without Tresh serving as my nanny.”
Ash would normally agree, just to keep the peace, but his failure to perform a husband’s most pleasurable office had left him vastly out of sorts. He suspected he would not come right until Della was once again sighing with contentment in his arms.
“You manage things,” Ash muttered, “which is why I come back to London in the New Year and find half the bills unpaid, the ledgers weeks out of date, the staff feuding, and the inventories in disarray.”
Sycamore twirled his riding crop through his fingers. “The customers are happy, the bank accounts are happy, and I am happy. Besides, you like putting everything to order and scolding me for my lapses when you return.”
“I would like to pummel the living shite out of you for your laziness and self-absorption, but Lady Tavistock might take exception to your own brother marring the perfection of your features.” The Earl of Casriel might frown on his brothers scrapping in the stable yard, too, to say nothing of what the Countess of Casriel would think of her in-laws for such behavior.
And what would Della think, knowing that Ash turned to pugilism to improve his mood?
Sycamore must have sensed that Ash spoke more in earnest than in jest, because Cam for once kept silent.
“I’ll show you Tresham’s figures when I’m done reviewing them,” Ash said. “Della asked if beating her would help my melancholia. She wasn’t being naughty or daring, Cam. She was simply desperate to help me. I was nearly sick. In my worst imaginings, in my worst nightmares, I could not conceive of such a thing.”
That admission, terrible as it was, served as a partial apology for a vile mood.
“Then your imagination grows as lethargic as the rest of your mind,” Sycamore said, his tone merely curious. “I’m not suggesting you take her up on that offer, for I would have to kill you if you did, but I am suggesting that Della is looking for solutions to your melancholia, while you merely look for a place to hide.”
I hate this day. “What the hell are you talking about?” They’d reached the stable yard, and a groom approached. “I’ll take the gray.”
“The frisky chestnut mare for me,” Sycamore said. “But don’t tighten the girth too snugly. She wants a gentle hand with that part.” The groom trotted off, and Sycamore fixed an uncharacteristically serious eye on Ash. “You should listen to your wife, Ash. She’s willing to fight for your happiness.”
“By making bizarre suggestions?”
“By using her imagination. You and I both know people who enjoy inflicting pain on others. For some, it’s an interesting and strictly consensual sexual diversion. For others, it’s a bully’s small-minded nastiness. Chastain strikes me as the latter sort. At university, you were more willing to wrestle with your blue devils. You rowed, you developed your penchant for boxing there. You tried a few pipes of opium, and you took up with the Greek goddess housekeeper. Since then, it’s as if you’ve turned elderly, never venturing far from the fire for fear your rheumatism will act up.”
“I am not elderly.”
Sycamore patted Ash’s cravat, a gesture that should have earned him a black eye. “You are not happy. I make allowances as a result, but now you are married. Della is an ally, and all you can think to do is sleep in the dressing closet at the first awkward moment. I despair of you, Ash. I truly do.”
He sauntered off, likely never knowing how close he’d come to a sound thrashing.
Ash found the gray gelding’s nervous energy a good fit with his mood. The morning hack became a steeple chase, with Sycamore falling farther and farther behind on his winded chestnut. Riding like a demented Cossack resulted in an improvement in Ash’s perspective, such that by the time he swung off the gray, he was determined to sort a few things out with Della.