able to breathe, and Chastain had seen all of that.
By marrying him, Della would gamble that his unwillingness to tell Society of his wife’s mental infirmities outweighed his desire to ruin her. Sleeping with the enemy was a survival strategy as old as the Romans. To protect her own family, Della would have allowed William to affix the marital ball and chain to her ankle.
Third, William was right: Not even Ash would believe Della’s version of events, and now Della’s subterfuges had put Ash, his family, and his businesses at risk of harm.
Her conclusions were rational, but she could hardly study them—much less figure out what to do about them—when thoughts swarmed like ants, and her body felt too weak to rise. She instead focused on her breathing, on the sure knowledge that every spell passed eventually, and on the details in the room around her.
A figure of the Apollo Belvedere in white porcelain on the mantel. The musty smell of old leather-bound books. The faint chatter from the terrace. The feel of Gulliver clutched so tightly in her lap. The dry thirst parching her mouth.
When Sycamore ambled into the library ten minutes later, Della had almost succeeded in calming her body, while her mind remained in riot.
He tossed himself into the wing chair paired with Della’s, all lanky grace and daytime elegance. “They’re choosing up partners for the games tournament,” he said. “As a professional in the gaming business, I thought I’d best recuse myself. What’s your excuse?”
Why do I need an excuse? “To the extent archery figures in the proceedings, I have my mother’s keen eye for accuracy. I would beat all the men and cause talk. I’d rather spend the time with my husband anyway.”
Sycamore appeared to accept that assertion reply at face value, and well he should, for it was the absolute truth.
Ash lay beside his wife, wishing she were asleep, knowing she was not. They’d been married on Monday, today had been the longest Friday of Ash’s life, but already he knew the difference between the waking and sleeping rhythm of Della’s breathing.
He knew that the shawl she treasured had been among the last articles her mother had crocheted, he knew that loud noises unnerved her, and today’s shooting exhibition had strained her composure to the utmost, though she had accurately critiqued the form of every man who’d taken up a pistol and predicted the inaccuracies of his aim to the inch.
Ash knew he loved her and that something troubled her, something more than the usual annoyances common to any prolonged social gathering. He suspected marriage to him numbered among her woes, but would not irritate her seeking confirmation of his fears.
“I’ll rub your back,” Della said, curling over onto her side.
They hadn’t made love last night. Della had accepted Ash’s suggestion to have a cuddle when she’d straddled his lap and begun kissing him. She was apparently waiting for him to make the next intimate overture, and he wanted to, but in his present mood, he did not trust himself to do justice to the occasion.
“You can’t sleep either?” Ash replied, threading an arm under her neck and drawing her against his side.
“It’s the weather. It can’t make up its mind, and thus we get the humidity of summer, a touch of autumn’s chill, and the weak sun of winter. Lady Wentwhistle has a talent for scheduling the exact wrong activity for the weather.”
Today would have been a lovely day to fly kites, but instead, her ladyship had scheduled shooting.
“You chose not to participate in the games tournament,” Ash said. “May I ask why?”
“In the first place, my skill with a gun would honestly shame any of the fellows trying to look so competent and dashing. I can’t help it. I hit what I aim at, unless I purposely miss. In the second, Chastain was participating, and I want nothing to do with anything he touches.”
Ash had hoped that tensions in that regard were easing for Della. Perhaps Chastain had annoyed her, a thought both logical and unacceptable.
“I can still thrash him for you, Della.” A sound mutual pummeling might actually help Ash’s unsettled mood, though he doubted Chastain could give a good account of himself.
Della stroked Ash’s chest, tracing patterns of muscle and bone. “Promise me you won’t provoke him, Ash. He won’t play fair, and you will come out the worse for it.”
If anybody had told Ash that Della was the sort of wife to cling to her husband’s hand on even