“I am trying to make sense of your decision to forgo marriage.” Della pulled her cloak more closely around her, for the day was growing chilly. “You apparently enjoy good physical health, a normal complement of animal spirits, an interesting occupation, and every other indication of success for much of the year. For a few months or weeks at a time, you are out of sorts. That requires that you give up any aspirations toward a wife and family. Do I have this right?”
“When the beast is upon me, I am not merely out of sorts, Della.”
“You are melancholic, then, and the melancholia invariably lifts. You did say that.”
He sighed the weary, bedeviled sigh of men the world over when confronted with inconvenient logic. “And if the melancholia doesn’t lift, Della? When it’s bad, I am of no use to Sycamore at the club. I am of no use to my family. I am of no use to anybody.”
Della recognized that she was upset on Ash’s behalf, but the upset had an angry edge. She was not angry at him, but she was angry nonetheless.
“What use am I, Ash Dorning? Does the world truly need my excellent needlepoint? My unreliable contralto? My impressive aim with a bow and arrow? Will the short men of Mayfair go into a collective decline when I am no longer on hand to waltz with?”
He caught her hand and kissed her gloved knuckles. “I would go into a decline if you were no longer on hand to waltz with. I realize I have burdened you with an uncomfortable confidence, but there’s nothing to be done, Della. I will manage, and you will understand why I must manage alone.”
“The pigheadedness of the average adult male defies every superlative,” Della said, tucking closer. “Does a wounded soldier expect no help from the surgeon? Does a woman in her confinement apologize for being ungainly? Does an auntie of venerable years feel ashamed of her slow gait? I could smack you, Ash Dorning, and you will not prevaricate yet again. Why did you kiss me on the cheek in full view of the Dickson’s guests?”
“Nobody was looking.”
“Somebody is always looking.”
Ash wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Budge up, before you start shivering. I kissed you because…”
Della laid her head on his shoulder and threaded an arm around his waist. Ash was warm, if a bit on the lean side, and the day had grown not merely brisk, but nippy.
“I kissed you because Lady Caldicott needed to see that at least one man doesn’t care two figs about your little escapade with Chastain.”
Never had Della encountered a greater example of masculine stubbornness. “That was a kiss for show, then? A display for the crowd?”
Another sigh, quite huffy. “Della…”
She draped the folds of her cloak across his legs—lest he take a chill, of course.
“I kissed you because friends are affectionate with each other on appropriate occasions.”
So grumpy. So grumpy and alone. “In broad daylight,” she mused. “Gossips lurking behind every bush. Very appropriate.”
“Have mercy.”
“I like it when you kiss me,” Della said. “If having Lady Caldicott skulking about inspires you to such friendliness, I will recruit her to accompany me on all of my outings.”
Ash caught her in a one-armed hug. “You are awful, that’s why I kissed you. You are a virago, a termagant, and a shrew. Such women are regularly at risk of being kissed by the men whom they befriend.”
He made no sense, and he made perfect sense. “I am forewarned.” Della subsided against him, savoring his embrace, and hoping that in some small way, he was also savoring hers.
Ash had underestimated Della Haddonfield. She was undismayed by a serious case of recurring melancholia, and she was devilishly affectionate. She could not know what a balm to Ash’s soul—and what a torment—her hugs, pats to the arm, and simple animal warmth were.
When Ash had handed Della down from the coach upon their return from yesterday’s Venetian breakfast, he’d dared to kiss her on the cheek again. He had been making a point, about taking no offense at Della’s inquisitiveness, or not needing Lady Caldicott on hand to inspire his friendly gestures.
She had kissed him back, a quick smack on the lips, and whatever point she’d been making, Ash had been too dumbstruck to fathom it.
“I’m for Angelo’s,” Sycamore said, gaze on the rain pelting the windows. “If I don’t break a good sweat, I will break somebody’s head at the club tonight. Join me?”