In fact, I think I might allow Lady Della Haddonfield a chance to partner me now that Tavistock has tucked tail.”
“Dorning won’t permit you to bother her,” Portly said, sitting back.
“Who said anything about bothering? She can be my tournament partner, or meet me in the gazebo of her own free will. She and I have unfinished and very pleasurable business. I can’t imagine Dorning has done justice to his marital obligations. Damned man hasn’t left his room since Saturday.”
“He escorted Lady Della to dinner last night.”
“And left when the ladies went to swill their scandal broth. Lady Della is looking neglected, and I know just how to cheer her up.”
“Chastain, if you cannot leave well enough alone on your own account, then limit your mischief for Clarice’s sake.”
William had had as much bad food as he could tolerate and more bad company than any man should have to endure.
“You ask why I’m being a bit exuberant about my usual pleasures at this house party,” he said. “When did I turn mean, you ask. I’ll tell you when. I became mean when a spinster who by rights should have thanked me for running off with her, instead bollixed up an ingenious plan that met both of our needs.”
William gestured with his toast and got crumbs on his cravat. “I became meaner when my parents forced me to wed a prim little Frenchie bitch who now lays claim to half my allowance, but refuses to allow me to pet her diddies. Because of her, I cannot afford new boots, much less a mistress, and I refuse to bear those insults quietly.”
“Then set your wife aside,” Portly said, an uncharacteristic gravity to his tone. “Clarice was forced into the marriage too. Don’t take out your tantrum on her, Mrs. Fairchild, Mrs. Tremont, the marchioness, and Lady Della.”
“You make it sound as if I pick on women. Stop being ridiculous.”
“You do pick on women. You’ve taken to bullying them and committing the next thing to rape. I’d wash my hands of you, Chastain, but somebody will have to serve as your second when the inevitable occurs, and I feel I owe Clarice that much.”
William took out the flask he’d filled in Lady Wentwhistle’s library and tipped half the contents into his tea cup.
“So noble of you, Portly. I vow I’m touched. I’ll name you as guardian of my firstborn.” Already had, in fact, because Papa had insisted on wills and trusts and whatnot to go with the marriage settlements. Before William had put away his flask, Lady Tavistock came into the gallery in company with Lady Fairchild. “I wonder if the marchioness’s muff is the same flaming red as her hair. One way to find out, I suppose.”
“Sycamore Dorning would kill you for even thinking that, and I’m not sure I would mourn your passing, Chastain.” Portly rose, bowed, and stalked off, leaving William to salute his retreating form with a half tea cup of decent brandy.
House parties were such fun, and this one was about to become more enjoyable still.
William had spotted Lady Della reading on the terrace, which seemed to be her favorite pastime. The time had come to liven up her morning and maybe even provoke her into another one of those vastly amusing bouts of hysteria.
Della adopted the strategy of reading on the terrace because it allowed her to keep an eye on her husband. Ash sat before the window of their bedroom, two floors and a universe of low spirits away. Should anybody glance up, they would think that fellow in the window was taking advantage of the light to read.
Della knew Ash had sat in that chair for most of the previous afternoon, slowly flipping through a deck of cards and losing hand after hand of solitaire. He claimed to be calculating probabilities, and she’d left him to it, rather than pester him when he so clearly needed to be left in peace. His words, about watching the children in the garden at Dorning Hall, had come to her, so she’d chosen a place on the terrace where he could watch her and she could watch him.
Sycamore seemed to realize what was afoot, for he’d not interrupted her, not plagued her with teasing and prattling, as he was inclined to do. She almost wished he would—almost.
A shadow fell across her copy of Sir Walter Scott’s Marmion.
“My lady, good day.” William Chastain loomed above her, doubtless enjoying the view of her décolletage.
Even from a distance of several feet,