would never have guessed. Excited, perhaps. Eager to be alone with your handsome husband. Should I have carried you over the threshold?”
She kissed his cheek, then eased away. “We’re not that sort of couple.”
Whatever did she mean? “We should find a tray of sandwiches and some lemonade in the family parlor. I didn’t eat much myself.”
They did justice to the tray companionably, and by the time their plates were empty—Ash had been hungry, too, come to find out—Della was yawning. Ash made it a point to carry her over the threshold of the bedroom—he was that sort of husband—which provoked much laughter from his bride.
She undressed him as efficiently as any valet, and he served as her lady’s maid. When they climbed into bed and cuddled up, spoon-fashion, Ash’s desire was a barely noticeable current, a mere ember buried beneath fatigue and maybe a little sadness.
He brushed Della’s hair away from his mouth and wrapped a companionable arm around her waist. She sighed, wiggled, and went silent, her breathing easing into a slow rhythm, while Ash pondered the day’s developments.
Was he sad? Well, yes, perhaps.
His bachelorhood had died as he’d spoken his vows, not that bachelorhood deserved a wake. His freedom had died as well, for every decision—whether to eat at the club or dine at home, to attend divine services or catch up on sleep, to pleasure himself or make love with his wife—now involved another precious soul, and that was a profound change indeed.
If his loneliness had also expired upon the occasion of marriage, then the bargain was well met. Except, lying in bed with his arms around his wife, Ash’s loneliness had not died—not yet—and neither, he suspected, had Della’s.
He drifted off, reassuring himself that becoming a couple took time, and he would doubtless feel differently after a few weeks of marriage.
“You are among the first to arrive,” Lady Wentwhistle said, wrapping Ash in a polite hug. “Your mama would be pleased, Ash Dorning. Quite pleased indeed.” She let him go and turned a less effusive smile on Della. “You have made quite a catch, my lady. Quite a catch. The circumstances of your nuptials will doubtless cause some talk, but what house party doesn’t benefit from some salacious gossip?”
Della was too tired to do more than smile politely at that blatant insult.
“Mrs. Terry will show you to your room,” Lady Wentwhistle said. “We’re having an informal buffet tonight and tomorrow night. Once all of the guests have arrived, the more formal entertainments will begin. I hope you won’t mind that you’re sharing a room?”
“We’re newly wed,” Ash replied, beaming at Della. “Why waste a second bedroom that won’t see any use?”
“You Dorning men take after your father,” Lady Wentwhistle said, gesturing to the housekeeper. “Which suggests you, too, might have a large family. Until this evening.”
Della managed another curtsey and followed the housekeeper up a set of steps that seemed to have no end. The day had been long and fraught, with a horse going lame, muddy roads, a near accident occasioned by a trunk coming unmoored, and an odd lack of conversation with Ash.
Perhaps facing the gossip Lady Wentwhistle so clearly relished left him nervous too.
“You aren’t in the guest wing,” the housekeeper said. “This is the unused part of the family wing, and I think you’ll find it quieter. The views are lovely, and you’re not far from the footmen’s stairs if the gentleman would like to nip down to the terrace for an evening smoke.”
She pushed open a door carved with leaves and vines and led the way into a little parlor done up in oak wainscoting and burgundy upholstery. The drapes were burgundy velvet, the desk an ancient literary fortress in dark oak, and the marble of the fireplace shaded brown.
A thoroughly masculine space—also nearly gloomy.
“The bedroom is through that door,” Mrs. Terry said. “We’ll send up a footman to light the lamps no later than seven of the clock, but sconces in the corridor are kept lit throughout the day. A maid will be along with a tea tray in the next quarter hour or so. If you need anything else, please use the bell-pull.”
She curtseyed and would have withdrawn, but Della stopped her.
“Would a bath be possible?” she asked. Her wedding night approached, or as good as, and she was both stiff and travel-stained.
“Of course, my lady. We’ll have the tub up here in less than an hour.” She popped another curtsey and withdrew, closing the door behind her.