My Heart's True Delight (True Gentlemen #10) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,48

gossip, be publicly besotted.”

Della kissed him. “I am besotted.”

“As am I.”

She regarded him, as if considering where to kiss him next. “I was invited to a house party at Lady Wentwhistle’s estate. I haven’t sent regrets yet. That will be a relatively quiet affair.”

“Her property is in Sussex? No, Surrey, and from there I could take you to Dorning Hall. My mother was a crony of hers. She ought to be something of an ally.”

Having been kissed, Ash was now hungry for more kisses. Appeasing that hunger was foolish, because it aroused him further. Before he was once again pleasuring himself while Della looked on—though, would that really be so bad?—he made a decision.

“Accept Lady Wentwhistle’s invitation,” he said. “Tell her you will bring along your new husband. We will make our debut as a couple in congenial surrounds, and by next spring, we will be old news.”

Della curled into his embrace. “My besotted and inventive new husband. I have dreamed of you, Ash Dorning.”

The feel of her nestled against him was sublime torment. “I have dreamed of you too, Della. How much longer will you be indisposed?”

“Until Tuesday, probably. Bad timing, I know.”

“Anticipation will double our joy.” And likely wear out Ash’s right hand too. His frustration was a passing aggravation compared to the delight of holding Della and anticipating more intimate pleasures with her.

A thought stole through Ash’s joy, like an eddy of cold air in a cozy parlor. This can’t last. This joy cannot last. He was resigned to the normal cooling of infatuation that befell every couple as love matured. He was terrified, though, of his personal beast, which could steal not only the present joy, but any hope of future joy as well.

He closed his mind to that fear, kissed his intended, and resumed teasing her about morning gifts, bridal nerves, and how a newlywed groom would comport himself at a house party.

Chapter Nine

“I love weddings the same way I adore children,” Sycamore said, accepting a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and taking a glass for Tresham too. “As long as I am neither groom nor papa, the whole business is delightful.”

He’d stood up with Ash for the ceremony, there being no other Dornings within hailing distance, while Tresham had stood up with Della. Sycamore handed over the second flute and touched his glass to Tresham’s.

“To happily married siblings.” Who were at the moment standing by the hearth, beaming at each other and accepting good wishes with the slightly dazed good cheer of the very recently wed.

Tresham saluted with his glass and sipped. “I was not included in the settlements negotiations.”

The champagne was lovely, light, a bit sweet, and bubbly enough to tingle the nose. “Why should you be?”

“Because I am Della’s brother.” Tresham stated this fact as if it equated to being a royal duke.

“Until a few years ago, you were nothing to her.”

“Then I returned to London, she confronted me, and now we get on splendidly.”

Della had not only confronted Jonathan Tresham, the wealthy heir to a dukedom, she’d inspired him into behaving as a long-lost brother ought to—discreetly, of course.

“She’s your only sibling, and you’re losing her,” Sycamore said. “Makes a man think.”

Tresham scowled at him. “I’m not losing her, you are not losing Ash, and besides, he’s not your only sibling. Far from it.”

Sycamore downed half his drink, for inebriation loomed as a worthy pursuit. “He might as well be my only sibling. You have no idea the injustices the youngest of seven brothers faces. How he must exert himself simply to be noticed in a forest of older, larger, worthier, more competent fellows.”

Tresham pretended to admire a painting of some old Haddonfield patriarch from the days of William and Mary.

“Should I get out my violin, Sycamore? Does your ‘Ode to Self-Pity’ require accompaniment?”

Tresham had been raised as an only child, his education mostly under the direction of a fairly doting, titled uncle. He’d had his tribulations, of course, but Sycamore’s compassion on this joyous day was limited to himself.

With perhaps a bit left over for Ash and Della, who were not embarking on the marital journey from the usual port of call.

“When my brothers were ready to mount up and tear across Dorsetshire on their ponies,” Sycamore said, “Ash would wait for me. I needed to stand on a box to groom my pony. My brothers delighted in hiding the box.”

“Is this an explanation for your singularly contrary nature?” Tresham asked, peering at the signature on the painting.

“In

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