Ash rose with Della in his arms and deposited her on the bed. “You are not to move. I have a sudden compulsion to get my mouth on your quim.”
“Your mouth on my—?”
“And yes, to answer the question I see lurking in your eyes, your mouth on my cock wouldn’t go amiss either. Tell me about Miss Catherine’s eyes.”
Della instead lay back and drew her dressing gown up, up, up, past her knees, past her thighs, and to her waist.
Ash shrugged out of his coat and got his waistcoat and shirt off in two seconds flat. “Mrs. Dorning, you are my heart’s true delight and the answer to my dearest dreams.” To say nothing of the endless esteem in which he held her generous and lusty nature.
Della undid the belt of her dressing gown and untied her chemise. “All very lovely, Ash, but right now, I would also like to be your wife.”
“And I, your husband.”
He spent a good long while worshipping at the altar of Venus and reveling in Della’s attentions to his dandilolly and tallywags. Not until she was a sweet, sleepy weight on his chest, and Ash was drifting toward the bliss of slumber himself, did he recall their earlier discussion.
“Della?”
“Hmm?”
“What will I notice about Miss Catherine’s eyes?”
Della yawned, slid off him, and cuddled up at his side. “They are the same color as yours.”
Della rose and left Ash slumbering amid the pillows. She privately suspected that lack of good sleep contributed to any mental burden, for she certainly fared worse when tired, and Ash could use the rest.
She also wanted to test herself with a short, unescorted foray from their rooms. To literally cling to Ash’s hand was unbecoming, and sooner or later, he’d resent her for it. Her objective was modest—the library—and required nothing more than confirming directions with a footman and traversing a flight of stairs, the main foyer, and a carpeted corridor.
That so small an accomplishment as finding the library should cheer her was pathetic, except she’d also smiled and nodded to a half-dozen house party guests, greeting four of them by name. Tomorrow, after the last guest had arrived, Lady Wentwhistle would take a more formal hand in the introductions.
Della decided that her successful sortie merited a reward in the form of some witty words, so she set another objective: Find Gulliver’s Travels. Dean Swift’s political satire was as imaginative as it was insightful as it was droll.
The butler kindly steered her to the library shelves farthest from the door, where comedy, plays, and satire were stored. She was lost in perusing monographs and bound volumes in both French and English when she heard a footstep behind her.
“Well, if it isn’t my erstwhile partner in amatory adventures.” William Chastain stood six paces away, effectively blocking Della’s exit. The rows of shelves were about four feet apart, and sidling by him would mean passing within grabbing distance.
Assaulting distance.
“Mr. Chastain.” Della curtseyed, hugging Gulliver to her chest. Her gesture was courteous and controlled, but inside, she was buffeted by a riot of self-reproach.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think William would continue his disporting in the gazebo. He’d enjoyed its privacy with two different women while Della had observed from her window, and his cravat was tied off-center.
“Mrs. Dorning.” He bowed, giving the honorific ironic emphasis. “I suspected you were breeding when you agreed to run off with me. Was it Dorning’s brat you would have stuck me with?”
He sauntered two steps closer, and Della’s heart began to pound. “If you will recall, sir, our elopement was never to have resulted in marriage. I did you the favor of attempting to free you from a union you sought to avoid. I am sorry for it now and have apologized to your wife for my behavior.”
Blond brows rose in apparent consternation. Della seized her moment to dash past him.
“You accosted Clarice?” William asked, stalking after her. “You had the gall to impose yourself on my wife?”
“Clarice accosted me,” Della retorted, refusing to give William the pleasure of chasing her about the room. She stopped by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, where anybody on the terrace could see her.
“Clarice would never be so forward,” William retorted. “She’s as retiring as a Puritan spinster. You are lying.”
“Mrs. Chastain and I shared a table at breakfast, and it was she who asked to join me. Ask anybody. Ask my husband, for he took his meal with us.”