Della put her hand in his. “To the park, Mr. Dorning. I have a skirmish to endure, and you are right. To care for somebody without being allowed to show that caring is a very difficult challenge indeed.”
She rose and walked past him, pleased with herself for firing the first cannonade of the day—straight at Ash Dorning’s heart.
Ash handed Della up into his curricle—Sycamore’s curricle, truth be told—and mentally kicked himself for stumbling into her gun sights. To care for somebody without being allowed to show that caring is a very difficult challenge indeed.
He had hurt her with his show of indifference. He had protected her, but he had hurt her too. The presence of the tiger riding at the back of the vehicle spared Ash from further salvos, but not from the guilt Della’s observation engendered.
“Would you like to drive?” he asked.
“I would,” she said, taking the reins. “What is your horse’s name?”
“This is Sycamore’s gelding. His name is Denmark, and he’s as sensible as he is handsome.”
“Like you,” Della said, clucking to the horse.
“You flatter me, my lady.”
She smiled, her expression probably for show. They bantered their way to Park Lane and then into Hyde Park itself, where autumn was advancing despite the mild weather. Leaves drifted down from the towering maples and twirled onto the surface of the Serpentine, and a solitary common blue butterfly hovered over the water.
“I love this season,” Della said when they’d exchanged nods—terse, chilly nods, but nods—with three other vehicles. “Everything is relaxing into winter’s quiet. All of nature breathes a sigh of relief.”
Ash certainly wasn’t breathing any sighs of relief. “But everything is dying as well. The days grow short, the nights chilly. Animals with any sense take to their burrows, and the growing season ends. It’s a sad time of year.”
Della steered the horse around a bend in the path. “But a sweet melancholy, wouldn’t you agree?”
“There is no such thing. Shall we walk a bit?”
Della signaled Denmark to stand. “No time like the present, I suppose. If I’m given the cut direct, at least only a few people are on hand to see it.”
The tiger stood at Denmark’s head, not that such a well-trained equine needed that much supervision, and Ash helped Della down from the curricle.
He loved—loved—her physical form. She was small but well curved, feminine perfection on a compact scale. Her energy was palpable, and he loved that too. Della Haddonfield would never spend days in a dark room, silently begging heaven for the motivation to wash.
And she would have a hearty disgust for a man who did.
“This way,” she said, twining her arm through Ash’s. “The water has a particular scent when the banks are muddy. I prefer the quieter paths.”
“You prefer privacy if you’re to be given the cut direct, but, Della, I won’t allow that to happen.”
She tipped her chin up and marched forth. He loved that about her too. What she lacked in stature, she made up for in dignity, so why the hell had she fallen in with Chastain’s most undignified scheme?
“Will you tell me why you pretended to elope with Chastain?” Ash asked.
“Will you tell me why you never answer my letters?”
“Fair enough.” He walked along while sorting through credible prevarications. “As a younger son, my means until recently have been limited. I did not deserve to engage your affections when such sentiments could lead nowhere.”
It took Della all of six paces to return fire. “I have ample settlements, and your prospects have improved dramatically. Your dear brother Valerian has less means than you do, and he married an heiress. Oak has married a well-situated widow. Men without means marry all the time, Mr. Dorning. Besides, a short note informing me that you are still alive and the weather in Dorset has been nasty isn’t likely to provoke me to a wild passion. You are an impressive specimen, but not even your allure is that strong.”
Ash closed his mind firmly on the notion of Della in a wild passion. “I have answered your question. I did not regard myself as worthy of your affections and behaved accordingly.” And that was the truth. “I apologize for any hurt I’ve caused you.”
They rounded a corner in the path and might as well have walked into a remote corner of the New Forest. The bustle and crowds of London were a distant memory, and the loudest sound was birdsong.