Chastain was remiss in his duties, by a good eight hours.”
Ash set about laying fresh clothing on the bed. “Do you suspect that William delayed delivery of the note?”
“I do now that I’ve had some time to think about it. He’s sly like that, and mean.”
“He frightens you.” Ash took the place on the bed at Della’s hip. “He can’t hurt you now, not without getting past me first. Whatever he threatened, whatever he implied, you are safe from him.”
Big words from a man who might in a week’s time be unwilling to leave his room, but Ash meant those words nonetheless. Somehow, for Della, he’d make the effort no matter megrims, mulligrubs, or melancholia.
“What is that?” Della asked, shifting to peer at Ash’s thigh.
“That is my mighty pizzle. You and he got fairly well acquainted last night.” As the words left his lips, Ash realized exactly what that Della had referred to.
God damn the morning sun, anyway, though Della was bound to notice sooner or later.
“You are scarred,” she said, brushing her thumb over the scored flesh on Ash’s thigh. “How did this happen?”
He could joke, lie, prevaricate… He had with the occasional casual lover. But this was Della. Chastain had apparently lied to her, and that alone meant Ash would be truthful.
“I cut myself,” he said. “Sycamore and I took to fencing with each other when it became clear that sparring in the boxing ring was ill-advised. He is quite good with a foil, better than I am, and he frequently pinked me.”
Della’s brows drew down. “Pinked you? I thought the blades were to have tips on them so nobody got hurt.”
“For beginners, yes, but untipped foils make the whole business more interesting. Sycamore likes the mental advantage of drawing first blood, and I found those small wounds beneficial.” Soothing, pleasant, luscious. Ash had all manner of shocking affection for small wounds.
Della reached behind him to retrieve her dressing gown, then extricated herself from the covers to sit beside him on the edge of the bed.
“This has to do with the melancholia, doesn’t it?” She regarded the parallel scars on his thighs balefully. The wounds were small, about an inch across, a dozen on the inner side of each thigh.
How to explain the temptation to trade one pain for another? “If I cut myself, my mood improves. I suspect the resulting lift to the spirits rather than blood loss is why some physicians recommend bleeding for melancholia. The cut itself, that burning, stinging pain, can result in a soothing of depressed humors.”
Della passed him his dressing gown. “I am at a loss for words. The scars don’t look fresh.”
Ash shrugged into his robe, and Della straightened his collar, adding a little pat to his chest. That she would touch him so casually was inordinately comforting.
“I stopped the cutting when I realized two things. First, the effects were increasingly temporary. I might feel a bit steadier for only a few hours, and for that I was risking infection.”
Della took his hand and leaned against his arm. “Second?”
“Second, the knife was becoming more problem than solution. I cut myself on my legs so my brothers would not notice scarring on my arms or torso if ever I removed my shirt. King George indulges in regular recreational bloodletting for nonexistent fevers, while I became furtive about a few little nicks. I was making a ritual out of the cutting itself, looking forward to it, fretting over it, and hiding away my knife and bandages. I cannot control the melancholia, but I can stop myself from becoming partial to peculiar behaviors. Besides, the boxing is more effective.”
Della knelt up on the bed and hugged him. “No wonder William Chastain can’t cow you. He’s a mere whiny schoolboy compared to the foes you’ve faced.”
She held Ash close, and a tension he had been carrying for a long time eased. “I would understand if you were appalled, Della. I’m appalled myself.”
“I could never be appalled at your battle scars, Ash Dorning, nor should you be.”
He wrestled her into his lap and hugged her tightly. She was wrong, of course. A grown man playing silly little games with a knife ought to appall anybody, but Della didn’t see it like that.
Thank the merciful powers, Della didn’t see it like that at all.
Breakfast began uneventfully, with Della receiving only a few cool stares or curious glances as she and Ash availed themselves of Lady Wentwhistle’s buffet. The breakfast parlor wasn’t large enough to accommodate two dozen