her marriage to Ash, and all Ash had to offer was don’t fret.
Della sipped her tea—and fretted.
“Did the ladies compare wedding nights over their breakfast tea?” Sycamore posed the question casually as Ash walked the path circling the exterior of the maze.
“Go flirt with the chambermaids, Cam. I haven’t the patience to deal with you at present.”
Sycamore fell in step at Ash’s elbow. “As hard as they work, the chambermaids deserve a bit of flirtation, but alas, they are all nervous of house party bachelors. Where’s Della?”
“None of your goddamned business.”
Sycamore stopped to pluck a trio of Michaelmas daisies and arrange them as a boutonniere. The lavender color was only a few shades lighter than his eyes.
“The marchioness asked me to tell you that she is available to partner you or Della at whist should the need arise.”
“My thanks, Sycamore, but please do not discuss my situation with your paramours.” And go the hell away. Except Sycamore was like a wasp. Swat at him, and he hovered all the nearer.
“Her ladyship is not my paramour, but hope springs eternal in the human breast, or somewhere south of the breast. I do think she likes me. Widows grow lonely for want of affection, and I’m the friendly sort.”
Ash came to a halt on the north side of the maze, where the tall privet hedges shielded him and Sycamore from anybody peering out of windows along the back of the house.
“You are the pestilential sort. Be off with you. Della has asked that I remain by her side for the early days of this house party, and you are obliterating what little solitude I have.” That Ash should seek solitude troubled him, but then, no couple could thrive living exclusively in each other’s pockets, and a considerate new husband let his wife get some rest.
“You bungled the damned wedding night,” Sycamore said, “and you are testy and out of sorts as a result. How many times have I told you the ladies like tenderness and laughter? They want cuddling and sweet nothings, gentle kisses and adoring words. Not a lot of blighted swordsmanship followed by sweaty snoring.”
Ash resumed walking when he wanted to pelt off at a dead run. “Why are you tempting me to draw your cork?”
Sycamore stuck to Ash’s elbow like a nanny with her charge. “Don’t be daunted by a few fumbled overtures on the wedding night. You have decades to improve your performance, and Della strikes me as a lady who will let a fellow know where his work needs improvement.”
“Shut your mouth, Sycamore.”
“Della is well?” he asked. “The fair Clarice didn’t slip poison into her tea?”
Della is none of your business. Ash refrained—barely—from saying that and backing the warning up with a swift fist to Sycamore’s gut. He was stopped by many memories, of Sycamore struggling to keep up with brothers who had longer legs, brothers who were twice Sycamore’s age, brothers who thought using words Sycamore didn’t understand was a clever sort of code.
“Della is quite in the pink. She’s having a lie-down. There’s not enough breeze to fly kites anyway.”
The weather was unsettled, like Ash’s mood. Though the sun filtered through a hazy overcast, the air was still and heavy, as if a summer afternoon had been misplaced amid autumn’s falling leaves.
“The point of flying kites is not to fly kites,” Sycamore remarked. “Will you participate in the tournament?”
They’d reached the back entrance to the maze, and Ash longed to dodge between the tall hedges and lose himself in wandering. Except, he knew this maze, knew exactly how to reach the little Cupid statue at the center, and knew Sycamore would simply follow him through every turn.
“What tournament?”
“When the weather refused to oblige the ladies’ kites, somebody suggested we get up a tournament of games. Every day will offer an afternoon session and an evening session, save for Sunday. Teams of two, double elimination play. The games will rotate among whist, piquet, and cribbage, possibly billiards, I’m not sure what else. Archery perhaps. It’s a clever idea, and if it works, we should try it out at the Coventry.”
Ash kept walking past the opening to the maze. “Did Chastain make this suggestion?”
“I believe Francis Portly came up with it, or perhaps I might have mentioned the notion, and Portly took it up.”
The idea of a multiple-game tournament over a period of days was actually interesting. “Is this why you’ve invited yourself to this gathering, because you wanted to try out a novel idea before testing