her way through the swirling leaves with an unerring sense of forward momentum, and Ash wished for his brother Oak’s ability to sketch.
In the coming months, he’d like to remember Della like this. Striding forward, sure of her course, a small vessel confidently navigating open water.
He followed her, letting her choose their bench. Other couples wandered the path along the river, a few had spread picnic blankets. By this time next week, the scene could be pelted with sleet and the river roiling with angry currents, but for today, the weather held.
“What part of the boxing helps?” Della asked, taking a seat and setting her plate in her lap. “Is it the exertion? The male company? The drinking afterward?”
She knew more of boxing than most ladies would admit. Ash considered prevaricating, then discarded the notion. Della might not quail at a diagnosis of melancholia, but his reasons for fighting should give her pause.
“I like the pain,” he said. “I am a competent boxer. My strategy is to provoke my sparring partner into hitting me as hard as he can, as often as he can. Afterward, I’m aching and bruised, but my spirits improve. I am more at peace.” That his sparring partner usually ended up peacefully unconscious on the floor was lamentable, but those men walked into the ring willingly.
“I always thought there had to be something about fisticuffs I didn’t comprehend,” Della said, making a sandwich of bread and cheese. “Something that would inspire otherwise rational men to get half naked and pound on each other. George says there’s an erotic element to it, but dear George has a rather vivid and focused imagination in some regards.”
Ash set his glass of punch on the ground. “An erotic… An erotic element? To fighting? He said that?”
“You know,”—Della gestured with her food—“stirs up the humors, battle lust being a subspecies of lust generally. Then you and your partner have a jolly pint together, patting each other on the backside and singing dirty songs with your mates. Then you toddle off arm in arm, drunk as lords and in charity with the universe, probably to call upon the nearest bordello.”
Now that Ash thought about it, the peace and contentment that followed a good bout in the ring was in some ways similar to a post-swiving glow, as best Ash recalled that rare pleasure. Not that he would admit the similarity out loud to anybody. Ever.
“George needs to learn some discretion,” he said. “In any case, a good thrashing settles me down for a time, but the effect is temporary. When I’m in the grip of serious melancholia, the effect is barely noticeable. I regard the pugilism as a flawed preventative or an unreliable palliative. Does George box?”
“He does not. Eat something.”
“What did you and Chastain talk about all the way to Alconbury?”
“I will permit you to change the subject, because this gambit will profit you nothing. He rode up top, I rode inside. Thus, I had little warning that he was imbibing the day away until we were in close quarters. I could beat you, you know. Take a crop to you, if that would help. Less dangerous than angering another man.” She wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t mind a chance to admire your manly fundament, if we’re being disgracefully honest.”
“Why thank you, my lady, but I must decline your generous and entirely inappropriate offer.”
She sent him a sidelong grin. “George says one starts gently and that there’s an art to wielding a crop on a bare and willing—”
Ash took her hand and applied her sandwich to her mouth. “I will be having a very stern talk with Mr. George Haddonfield. Will you attend the Whitfield musicale on Wednesday?”
Della munched her food. “I suppose I must. You?”
“I will be honored to escort you.”
“You don’t have to. If George is still in Town, he can take me. Nicholas will, if necessary.”
“I shall escort you, and I will enjoy it.” To Ash’s surprise, he was enjoying himself in that very moment. Della was less conventional than he’d thought her and much harder to shock. “I had not told you of my malady because I did not want you to think less of me. That was selfish. I should have told you the truth sooner lest you think the fault somehow lay with you.”
“Friends are honest with each other, Ash Dorning. Good friends are.”
She wasn’t scolding him, though he deserved a sound scolding. “I will be a better friend in the future, Della, I promise.”