her true motivation had been, but he entertained the theory that the whole business with Chastain was somehow the fault of one Ash Dorning.
“The terrace will suit,” he said, and they found a small table with two chairs along the outside wall of the gallery. “Let’s take stock, shall we?”
“Of what?”
“The progress of the battle.” He set the plates on the table and held her chair. “You were acknowledged in the receiving line, and nobody has offered you the cut direct.” He lingered near her shoulder when pushing in her chair, because in the terrace shadows, nobody would see him stealing a whiff of her honeysuckle perfume.
And because he was an idiot.
Della unfolded her table napkin. “The gentlemen have offered me leers, groping, coldness, and contempt.”
“They what?”
She glanced around the relatively deserted terrace, pulled off her evening gloves, and draped them across the linen in her lap.
“Fletcher didn’t merely stumble. He groped my bum. The quadrille was an exercise in how close a man’s hands can come to a woman’s breasts without actually touching them. I’m not hungry.”
Neither was Ash. He silently promised the lion roaring behind iron mental bars a few rounds at Jackson’s. A dozen rounds, in fact.
Which would not help Della one bit. He took off his gloves and put a quarter slice of toast topped with oregano and melted cheddar on her plate.
“Eat something. Please. Fletcher will find his debts at The Coventry are not, alas, forgiven.”
Della took a bite of toast. “That was how you inveigled them into dancing with me?”
“Dunwald, Fletcher, Neely-Goodman… They are inept at cards and too proud to admit it. I have tried to explain some basics about probabilities to them, but they disdain my guidance. You have made progress tonight, Della, despite the unforgivable disrespect to your person.”
She dusted her hands when she’d finished her toast. “Mr. Dorning, why have you taken it upon yourself to repair my reputation? I am the realm’s most spectacular fool for running off with Chastain, and I am prepared to pay for my folly.”
Ash was certain Della hadn’t expected to pay nearly this high a price, though. Not in her worst nightmares. So what, exactly, had she been about with Chastain?
“All you need,” he said, “is to continue as you’ve gone on tonight. I’ll take you driving in the park tomorrow if the day is fair and escort you to the Dickson’s Venetian breakfast on Monday. If you keep your chin up, and Chastain remains in Sussex, you can confront the gossips none the worse for your ordeal.”
“Why?” Della asked, reaching for another triangle of toast.
He knew what she was asking: Why come to her aid now, when Ash had all but ignored her for months?
He wasn’t about to open that barrel of rotten fish. “Why squire you about? Because I thought I could arrange for others to play that role, but the three I recruited tonight made a hash of the business. I’ll play the doting swain for a week or two, and then you can break my heart and cast me off.”
A fine plan indeed, offering Della a chance at reparation for the bad turn he’d been serving her for months.
“You never cast me off,” Della said. “We shared a few harmless kisses, nothing more.”
Those kisses had been luscious and unforgettable, also far from harmless. “I don’t see the past as you do,” Ash said, “but one doesn’t argue with a lady. Why not give my plan a try, Della? It can’t hurt to have a friendly escort while the gossip runs its course.”
Friendly. She’d probably thought of him as a friend at one point and hoped he’d become much more than a friend. So had he, but could she afford to scorn what he offered now?
“I will drive out with you tomorrow if the weather’s fair, and I will think about what you propose.”
“Excellent. I won’t fail you, Della.”
She finished his toast without replying, but they both knew what had remained unsaid: I won’t fail you again, Della.
Chapter Three
“I cannot drive out with you, Jonathan,” Della said, “though I appreciate the offer.” She received him in the family parlor because he—at least behind the walls of the Haddonfield home—was her family, and she—not that she would admit it—was pathetically glad to see him.
“What you cannot do,” he said, closing the door, “is hide. Last night’s ball went surprisingly well. You danced exactly enough dances with exactly the right sorts of partners. You did not arrive too late, you did not leave