at some damned musicale, she stares out of windows for the next week. If she sees you at a ball, she takes out her embroidery the next morning and sews not a single stitch for hours. Has it occurred to you, Mr. Dunderheaded Dorning, that this whole melodrama with Chastain might have been a ploy to gain your attention?”
A left uppercut followed by a merciless straight right. “Her ladyship was doubtless attempting to earn a respite from her siblings’ matchmaking.”
Haddonfield straightened. “Meaning she never intended to marry Chastain. My countess suggested as much. So how did the outing in the park truly go?”
Haddonfield was known as an exceedingly genial man, a doting paterfamilias, and kind to children and animals. He was well liked, well connected, and well heeled.
And he—all seventeen stone of him—was afraid for his youngest sister. “The outing truly did go well. Grudging nods, mostly. Lady Caldicott tried for the cut direct, but we were on foot, and I made it a point to occupy the middle of the path and bow over her hand. She relented. Her Grace of Moreland chatted Della up long enough that other people had to notice.”
Haddonfield made a face. “That was likely Lord Valentine’s influence. He’s close to his parents. What did Her Grace and Della discuss?”
“Nothing of any consequence. The mild weather, the relief from summer’s heat, the Morelands’ harvest, and Her Grace’s newest grandchild. Her Grace’s generosity was in talking to Della at all.”
Haddonfield snorted. “You will not find a randier, more headstrong, and unconventional lot in Mayfair than Moreland’s get. I consider Lord Valentine a friend.”
“I consider Lady Della a friend.” One who was due to make her appearance now, please God.
Haddonfield ambled over to a bust of some beaky old Roman and propped an elbow on the philosopher’s head. The earl was tall enough that this occasioned an unlordly slouch.
“Would it be so bad, being married to Della?” The question held a wheedling note.
“The query from your perspective ought to be: Would it be so bad for Lady Della to marry me, and I can answer that. Marriage to me is not a fate any woman you care for deserves.”
Haddonfield propped his chin on his hand and treated Ash to a slow perusal. “Why? You aren’t ugly, you have an income. You are of suitable family, and she’s smitten with you.”
Because I become insensate with irrational sorrow and indifferent to decency. I become numb to joy and in thrall to despair. I lose days to darkness and weeks to a paralyzing lack of motivation. I become an animal beyond the reach of reason.
“We would not suit, Haddonfield. I esteem Lady Della above all other women and wish only for her happiness, but we would not suit.”
Haddonfield looked like he wanted to protest, or perhaps throw a punch or two, but his expression became all smiles when Della strode through the door.
“Darling sister, you brighten the day with your feminine pulchritude. That is a fetching frock.”
Della stuck her tongue out at him. “You needn’t lay it on so thick, Nicky dear. I dressed so as not to call attention to myself. Mr. Dorning, you are punctual. Shall we be off?”
Della exuded her usual brisk energy, and her smile was warm. Her ensemble was a soft brown velvet dress with red piping that went nicely with her chestnut brown hair. Her eyes, though, gave away a hint of worry.
“The dress complements your coloring,” Ash said. “Your brother was only being gallant.”
Della wrapped her hand around Ash’s elbow. “Which means he’s up to something. Nicholas, I will be fine. Mr. Dorning will see to it.”
“He had better,” Haddonfield said, catching his sister by the arm and kissing her cheek. “Dorning, you will think about what I said?”
“The discussion concluded to my satisfaction,” Ash said as Della sent him a curious look. “I regard the subject as closed.” Forever, because Ash’s ailment was incurable.
Haddonfield smiled, and though he was not related to Della by blood, their smiles bore similar hints of mischief.
“You may regard the subject as closed, Dorning, but you’re wrong. You are absolutely, pigheadedly, stupidly wrong. Have a nice time, and, Della…”
“We’re off,” Ash said before Haddonfield could lecture his sister. “A pleasant day to you, my lord.”
Haddonfield saluted with two fingers. “To you, too, Dorning, and you are still wrong.”
A Venetian breakfast so late in the year was a chancy undertaking, but the afternoon sunshine held fair as Della and Ash arrived. Ash helped her down from his town