For an instant, Della was tempted to consent to that plan. The difference between separate bedrooms and separate lives was one of degree.
But that was not a decision for William Chastain to make on her behalf, and that Chastain would vilify Ash so casually added a current of ire to Della’s panic.
She opened her mouth to berate Chastain, but all that came out was a harsh little wheeze. The sound of her constricted breathing added to her anger and her determination. Chastain had come upon her once before in the middle of a bad bout. She’d not give him the satisfaction a second time.
“Or,” Chastain went on, “I could simply tell Mr. Ash Dorning that he’s married to a woman who turns into a gibbering lunatic for no apparent reason. She hides in alcoves and loses her powers of speech between one set of dances and the next. She moans like one possessed and rocks like an imbecile under a Beltane moon. Most distressing to come upon such a sight.”
“Go to hell.” Della could barely enunciate her words, and she could not get her breath, but she could twist her wrist, as George had taught her to do years ago. She shot to her feet, though her legs were shaky and her vision had narrowed such that all she could see was the steps leading down to the garden.
She dodged blindly into the maze while Chastain’s laughter stole the last of her wits, and dread choked the air from her lungs.
An ostinato of guilt occupied Ash’s thoughts, try though he might to deflect his misery with make-believe card games and complex probabilities.
He should rise from the chair and offer Della a turn in the garden.
But no. Strolling placidly amid the flowers was a Sunday activity, when more rigorous entertainments were frowned upon.
Ash had missed services yesterday, which meant today was Monday. Today, he’d missed his morning hack, which was bad of him, because it set the stage to miss breakfast, and why not lunch and dinner too?
He’d hated Della’s look of defeat when he’d sent her down to dine without him, but he was truly miserable company, fit only for staring at clouds and calculating how many minutes until the house party ended—9,800, give or take, depending on how early he and Della departed on Monday next.
Or, given a queen, deuce, and an ace showing on the hands of opposing players in a game of vingt-et-un—and a seven on the dealer’s hand—should he stand or hit when holding seventeen dealt from a new deck? How did the odds change when holding sixteen?
He should shave, but he’d shaved yesterday right before dinner. This early in the day, he would not yet resemble a barbarian. Besides, he’d probably not leave his room until it was time to go down to dinner again, if he went down.
He should…
His gaze was no longer on the clouds or an imaginary card table, but rather, on the terrace below. Something wasn’t right, though his sluggish mind took some time to solve the puzzle.
Della’s shawl was draped over the back of an empty chair, and William Chastain occupied the next seat over. Della would never have left her shawl sitting about like that, much less where Chastain could touch it, or worse, rend it or make off with it.
Ash waited for Della to emerge from the house to retrieve her shawl, but as best he recalled, which wasn’t well at all, she’d not gone into the house. She’d been reading, and a book bound in red leather lay facedown on the flagstones at Chastain’s feet.
Della would not disrespect a book like that.
She would not willingly sit beside William Chastain.
She would not approach Chastain even to retrieve her shawl.
The insidious voice of inaction whispered to Ash that Della was likely strolling the gardens with Sycamore. She would send a footman to fetch her shawl at any moment. Perhaps she had delivered Chastain a good set-down and would return for her shawl.
Except, Chastain sat there, legs splayed in a posture of utter unconcern. No pink handprint marred his handsome cheek, and neither did he pick up the book at his feet.
The voice of inaction contrived more arguments in favor of remaining in the chair. Della would not appreciate a husband who sent her down for breakfast alone, then demanded to know her whereabouts two hours later.
Chastain was apparently spoiling for a confrontation, and if Ash marched onto the terrace making accusations and asking questions, Chastain would doubtless become difficult.
And still, Della was nowhere in sight.
“Bloody hell.” Ash rose, his joints protesting even that much movement. He stalked from the room, equally resenting the exertion and his own gumption, knowing himself to be a fool. But he was a married fool, and the situation on the terrace made him uneasy on behalf of his wife.
He snatched up Della’s shawl with barely a nod to Chastain.
“She’s in the maze,” Chastain called as Ash headed for the garden.
Ash stopped at the top of the steps. “I beg your pardon?”
“Lady Della took a fit of some sort and went pelting off into the maze. She was quite out of sorts. I don’t think she likes being married to you, Dorning, nor is she entirely in her right mind.”
“Or perhaps she found the company here on the terrace unsuitable.” Rather than bicker with Chastain, Ash descended the steps and entered the maze. “Della?”
He did not recall seeing anybody in the maze from his window perch, but that hardly signified. He’d been watching cards dealt in a fictitious game, then clouds moving across the sky. By the hour, he’d watched the autumn breeze steal dying leaves from tree branches as sadness stole the will to move from his mind.
Goddamn stupid melancholia. “Della, where are you?” Ash did not call loudly, lest he create a scene, but he moved up and down the rows of privet systematically, working his way from one dead end to another, then taking the path that advanced toward the center of the maze.
Della did not like mazes, and that Chastain was watching for her to emerge from this one meant she might be waiting in the middle.
“Della?”
Ash reached the clearing around which the maze had been configured, finding the space deserted. The statue of Cupid, arrows clutched in a chubby fist, remained on a pedestal in the middle of a rectangle of grass, and two benches were arranged along the hedges to Cupid’s left and right.
No, Della, so where the hell could she—?
A blur of brown velvet hurtled against Ash’s side.
“Della?”
She clung to Ash as if every demon ever to escape the pit pursued her. “Hold…” The word was rasped, and Della sounded as if she’d run the entire distance from London. “Hold… me.”
She made a terrible noise, which Ash realized was an inhalation, but drawn as if her lungs were constricted by some paroxysm.
He took her in his arms, draping her shawl around her shoulders. “I’m here, Della. Can you tell me what’s amiss?”
“Don’t… go.”
He would not have recognized that desperate, hoarse voice as hers had he not heard the words himself. “I won’t leave you. Shall we sit? I can hold you while we sit for a moment.”
“Hate this. Hate it.” She took another of those noisy, anguished breaths. “Chastain said…”
Chastain was a dead man. “We can discuss that later, I promise.” Ash gathered her in his arms and sat with her on the bench, and that was apparently a bright idea, because as Della sat on his lap, the tension she carried eased. Her arms around Ash’s neck became less desperate, though she kept her cheek pressed to his shoulder.