bewildering exchange, but Della caught him around the waist in a hug. “Please be patient with me, Ash. I am new to being a wife, and I want very much to do well at it.”
She could feel the desire to leave throbbing through him, feel his distaste for her desperate display. He gave her a swift hug.
“We’ll muddle through,” he said, “but this house party cannot end soon enough.” He kissed her cheek and was out the door in the next instant.
“Not the path by the gazebo,” Sycamore said, taking Ash by the arm. “I saw Mrs. Tremont stealing off in that direction barely ten minutes ago.”
Ash was abnormally annoyed to think of others casually trysting when he’d left Della unsatisfied. “You’d think she’d exercise some discretion.”
“Mrs. Tremont is swiving Chastain,” Cam said as casually as he’d observe that a wood thrush was making all that racket from the direction of the maze. “She said enduring his attentions was an unavoidable necessity, while a round with me would be pleasure. I was not flattered.”
“I hate house parties.” Why would Mrs. Tremont feel obliged to entertain Chastain?
“I’m not so keen on this house party, but it’s nearly half over, and I haven’t called anybody out. We must take encouragement where we find it.”
“No duels, Cam. No challenges, no taking offense at drunken maunderings. I refuse to serve as your second.” Ever again. Sycamore had participated in two duels, and on both occasions, Ash had kept the matter from the notice of their family and served as Cam’s second. In each instance, the other party had fired first and poorly, and Sycamore had mercifully deloped.
“If somebody insults me,” he said, “or my friends, or my business enterprise, I will take as much offense as I jolly well please.”
Sycamore sounded as if he relished a dawn meeting, just a little outing to liven up an otherwise dull autumn morning. The weariness his posturing engendered blended with the awful start to Ash’s day to result in an unintended confidence.
“I could not make love with my wife.”
“Della’s angry with you? Impressive bungling, Ash. She’s put you on the cot in the dressing closet already?”
“No, Cam. Della is not angry with me. She was willing, and I was willing, but I couldn’t… I didn’t. Bloody hell.”
“You could not make love with your wife.” Cam sounded puzzled to contemplate such a possibility.
“I just said as much. It’s this house party, Chastain lurking on the stairwell, Clarice accosting us at breakfast.” You underfoot and threatening to stir up mischief for the hell of it. “I offered to sleep elsewhere, and she was dismayed.”
Della had been hurt, and worse, Ash had the sense she had been panicked. She’d not refused the suggestion outright, though, and that tore at his heart. The ashamed part of him knew he deserved to be banished, the rest of him hated any more distance between him and Della.
“Well, don’t expect me to oblige her,” Sycamore said. “I have a few scruples left, though I misplace them on occasion for a good cause. Besides, Della would gut me if I so much as flirted with her.”
“A reassuring thought.” Too reassuring.
Sycamore came to a halt on the path. “Ash, mind you don’t insult your dearest brother. I would cheerfully die to keep Della safe, but she is your wife.”
They resumed tromping along, the grass showing hoarfrost at the foot of the hill below the stable. The morning was beautiful, as only a crisp autumn morning could be, with sharp, bright sunbeams turning the fading leaves to gold and russet. The scent of woodsmoke put a tang in the air, and the frisky yearlings in the nearest pasture were well on the way to wearing winter coats.
Ash nonetheless battled the urge to continue to the carriage house, where he’d order the traveling coach readied. He could collect Della and their portmanteau and be away from this place before breakfast.
Which would start talk, solve nothing, and closet him alone in the vehicle with Della for the next two days. Then they’d be at Dorning Hall, with well-intended family nosing about and expecting them to make calls on half the blasted, smiling, rubbishing shire.
“Tresham reports that all goes well at the Coventry,” Ash said, not that he gave a hearty goddamn for the Coventry at the moment. What must Della think of him, going limp as week-old celery even as she sought her pleasure? Even as he’d invited her to seek her pleasure?
Sycamore’s steps slowed. “He does?”
“I asked him