Seventeen
Lyman didn’t see Della again until the evening of her family’s ball. Peter Danby’s invitation seemed so long ago that he’d nearly forgotten about it. But even his usual worries over the threat of discovery and his imminent hearing before the Consistory Court couldn’t provide an excuse to keep him away. From their first meeting, he’d been curious to see what sort of people had produced a woman as singular as Cordelia Danby. Now he would finally know.
Mr. and Mrs. Danby proved to be surprisingly ordinary. He was a polished gentleman somewhere in his mid-fifties, with muttonchop sideburns and a trimmed mustache framing his smooth-shaven chin. She looked to be about a decade younger than her husband, with rich chestnut hair going toward gray and a plump, smiling face that reminded Lyman of her daughter. They greeted Lyman warmly and asked him a few polite questions—what part of the country he’d grown up in, whether he were already acquainted with the other guests in attendance, and lastly, how he’d met Peter. If Lyman betrayed any surprise over this assumption, the Danbys didn’t notice. He’d barely had time to explain that their son was an admirer of his guidebooks before they turned their attention to the next arrival and repeated a similar welcome. The questions seemed automatic, though the Danbys were charming enough and gave each guest their full attention for the brief minutes they spent with them.
Lyman found Della and her brother beneath a large oil painting of a coastline in a brewing storm. “I thought you said that your parents knew you’d been meeting with me to work on your manuscript,” he said, once he’d greeted them.
“They do.” A small worry line appeared in the middle of Della’s brow. “Why, what’s the matter?”
“They didn’t seem to realize we knew one another when I met them just now.”
“Oh, they probably just forgot.” Della gave a light laugh, her brow growing smooth once more. “That’s just their way. I wouldn’t think anything of it.”
“I’m so glad you could join us,” Peter cut in before Lyman could respond. He had a fair-haired woman on his arm. “May I present Miss Greenwood?”
“How do you do?” Lyman was obliged to give the young lady a few moments of his attention, and the opportunity to say anything further on the subject of Della’s parents slipped away.
Though no one else thought anything of it, the encounter troubled him. Was writing a lady’s guidebook really such a mundane occurrence that it hadn’t warranted the notice of anyone in her family? Except for Annabelle, they never seemed to wonder how she spent her time.
Lyman found the echo of his concerns later that evening, when they sat down to supper. They were an intimate number around the table, perhaps thirty people all told, as most of the guests would be arriving after the meal. For now there was only the Danbys, the Greenwoods, and four or five other families with children old enough to be out. Among them, Lyman recognized the St. Claires, a couple that he had a passing acquaintance with from before his disgrace. He hadn’t seen them in over a decade, but the husband had obviously recognized him. They’d spent enough evenings gambling together at White’s.
Would they recount his past to the others as the night wore on? Perhaps this will finally be the thing to provoke some concern from the Danbys for their daughter’s welfare , Lyman thought grimly.
There was nothing he could do about it. He tried to steer clear of their side of the table.
Peter Danby was seated across from him and kept peppering Lyman with questions about the upcoming season at the Lyceum, so that he scarcely had a chance to speak to Della until the main courses arrived. She’d been lost in conversation with a gentleman to her right, but in a brief lull she turned toward Lyman and spoke in a low voice.
“What do you think of the idea of including a chapter on all the hospitals in town?”
He blinked at the abrupt shift in topic. Peter, who’d overheard them while his attention was fixed on Lyman, used this hesitation to put forward his own opinion. “I thought it was a guide for sightseeing. Who on earth would want to tour a hospital for fun?”
“Women, of course.” Della gave an exasperated sigh. “For charity , Peter. You remember, it’s the thing you’re always saying I should do more of.”
“So you’re really going to write up a chapter on Bethlem?”
“Yes.” Della sat very stiffly in her chair. Though she kept her voice light, it was apparent he was embarrassing her. “And the Royal Hospital Chelsea and Christ’s Hospital, and whichever others I’m forgetting now.”
Peter caught Lyman’s gaze, then rolled his eyes as if to say Can you believe it?
Lyman paused halfway through the act of cutting his lamb. Had he done something to give this man the impression that he was eager to look down on Della? He was behaving as if they were old friends, snickering at an outsider. It wasn’t just this evening either. He’d been much the same when they’d signed the contract.
Lyman understood his error now. He’d been reluctant to speak up in front of Mr. Armstrong, unsure how it might be received, but his silence had only encouraged whatever this was. He should never have let it go on.
“I think it’s an excellent idea, Miss Danby,” Lyman said pointedly. “I wish I’d thought to include hospitals in my guide. I’ll be glad to see you correct the omission.”
Lyman put on his best viscount face—the one his father had used on underlings he wanted to frighten—turned to Peter, and said nothing for a full five seconds without breaking eye contact.
“Well, I suppose… Of course, if you think it best—” Peter coughed and reached for his drink.
“Don’t forget Greenwich Hospital,” Miss Annabelle added from across the table, breaking the tension. “They have a chapel and dining hall with all sorts of paintings you can visit, though there’s an admission fee for those.”
Suddenly Lyman recalled something Clarkson had told him once. “I believe that Guy’s Hospital will even allow interested members of the public to request tickets to view some of their surgical operations being performed. That might be worthy of a mention as well.”
“My!” Della’s cheeks had turned pink. She smiled as she turned from Annabelle to Lyman. “Thank you for all these suggestions. Though I don’t know if the prospect of viewing an operation might be too gruesome for a ladies’ guide?”
Lyman raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t been expecting that. Della must have read his mind, for she laughed and colored more deeply. “You’re quite right. If it’s likely to be of interest to at least a portion of my readers, I must include it. Who am I to say there are no aspiring lady surgeons who might thank me?”
It surprised him how quickly they’d learned to read each other. Della was easy enough, for she wore her thoughts openly on her face, but people didn’t normally find him quite so easy to pin down unless he spoke his mind. Yet she’d known what he was thinking instinctively.
Peter held his tongue and asked Lyman nothing more about theaters or hospitals or anything else for the rest of the meal.
***
Della had rarely seen her brother so uncomfortable, and she was quite delighted by the sight. It did him a world of good to be put down by a gentleman he respected from time to time.
“Thank you,” she whispered to Ashton, once Peter was distracted by a conversation with Miss Greenwood.
He didn’t need to ask what for. His jaw was tight as he murmured, “They shouldn’t talk to you that way.”
“It’s only Peter. He’s always been a bit smug, but he means well.”
“It isn’t only Peter,” Ashton insisted. “And I wish you wouldn’t pretend it doesn’t matter how other people treat you.”
Della found herself momentarily unable to reply to this. Her throat was suddenly tight, though she hardly knew what they were talking about. “I don’t—”
She couldn’t finish, so Ashton went on. “You’ve worked hard and you’ve accomplished a great deal in your life. Your family should be proud of you. Just because your achievements aren’t conventional doesn’t make them any less important.”
Oh goodness. She was getting far too emotional over the praise he offered; any more might be dangerous. They were at her parents’ supper party, for pity’s sake. What was she to do if she started tearing up?
She took a long swallow of her wine.
Why should Ashton be so good to her when they were destined to part ways? His court hearing was only a few days away. This might be the last time they saw each other, if he stuck to his foolish resolution to put distance between them once his name was in the papers.
I don’t want to say goodbye. She was about to take another drink, but thought better of it and set the glass down. She was going to make herself weepy.
She would far rather make the evening memorable.
“I have a painting I’d like to show you in the study,” she said abruptly. “If you can spare a little time when the men go out to smoke. It won’t take a minute.”
“You—” Ashton bit his tongue as he understood.
“It’s just down the hall to your right, second door you see.”
“Here,” he murmured the word so softly Della could scarcely hear him. “You can’t mean it.”
“I’m only showing you a painting.”
But Della did not show him a painting.
Instead, when the men retired to smoke and they’d slipped away to find one another in the study, she pressed herself into Ashton and kissed him with all the urgency of someone who only has a few minutes of freedom. She tugged her hand free of its glove to run her fingers over the stubble on his cheek, savoring the rough scrape of it against her skin.
“I can’t believe this.” He broke off their embrace to hiss at her furiously. “What if we’re caught?”
“You shouldn’t have come if you’re so worried,” Della retorted. “Now be quiet and let me do something nice for you.”
She showed him exactly what she meant by reaching for the falls of his trousers. His swift intake of breath marked the fate of the first button.
“Della…” Ashton’s voice had grown thick. He did nothing to stop her as she pulled his member free and began to caress him. A soft moan escaped his lips. She kissed him once more, then lowered herself to her knees. “Wait,” he said. “I can’t touch you like this.”
“I told you, I want to do something nice for you,” she repeated. “Why don’t you let yourself enjoy it?” It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been generous with her the other night. Now she would return the favor.
Ashton gripped her shoulder as she took him into her mouth, his fingers pressing into her as if to steady himself. His cock was harder than it had been only a moment before, as his breath came in a faster rhythm. He relaxed his grip and slid his hands over her gently. At least, the parts of her he could reach. He caressed her hair, then the back of her neck.
Della raised her head to scold him. “You’re holding back.”
“I am not.”
“We don’t have much time,” she reasoned. “I want you to let go completely.” While their circumstances provided a handy excuse, Della was honest enough to admit (at least to herself) that this was exactly what she’d wanted from the start. A reason for Ashton to surrender.
He held her gaze for a second. There was a hint of uncertainty there, but finally he nodded. She bent her head once more, pleasuring him at a more urgent pace. She spared nothing, and Ashton was soon gasping for breath. His reserve didn’t break away in an instant with his promise. Rather, it crumpled in little starts and shudders, until he’d given himself over entirely to Della’s seduction. She slipped a hand up to pull him closer, urging him on.
The fact that they were risking discovery at any moment only added to the thrill of having Ashton exactly where she wanted him. Della wouldn’t have traded this moment for anything, not even the pleasure she’d found in his bed. She could tell when she’d brought him close, and savored the play of tension in his body. She would have liked to hold him there on the edge for a little longer, but that game would have to wait for another day. Besides, Ashton wasn’t holding back any longer. He jerked his hips and groaned as he found release, his grip biting into her shoulders. When he’d finished, he swayed on his feet.
Della arose victorious. She couldn’t keep a smug little grin from her face, which called an answering warmth to Ashton’s eyes when he saw it.
Yet the satisfaction was fleeting. It wasn’t enough to know that she’d brought Ashton to the edge. She wanted to keep doing it. She wanted him to look at her that way again and again, instead of only once.
She hadn’t quite figured out how she could achieve that part.
***
Lyman scarcely knew how he found his way back to the smoking room. He couldn’t think straight after what Della had done. But even though his pulse was still crashing in his ears, no one spared him a second glance as he slipped in the door. The men were all occupied with their own conversations, exchanging ideas in between whisps of smoke that filled the room with notes of spice and oak.
A footman offered him a brandy, which Lyman declined with a word of thanks.
He didn’t miss drinking, except for the social aspect of it. It didn’t call to him the way the cards did. But the two things had always gone hand in hand when he was still living recklessly, and if he permitted himself a glass or two, it would only be a matter of time before he ventured to play.
He couldn’t diminish his good judgment that way.
He did, however, accept one of Mr. Danby’s Havana cigars. “An excellent batch,” the man said as he offered Lyman the matchbox. “Worthy of a celebration.” He winked toward his son, but had moved on to tend to the next guest before Lyman could ask what he’d meant.
There must have been a question in his eyes, for Peter answered it. “We’re meant to announce my engagement to Miss Greenwood later, once all the guests arrive.”
“Oh.” Lyman tried not to let his surprise show. He hadn’t realized that there was any attachment between them. Though he’d noticed Miss Greenwood often seemed to be at Peter’s side, she’d never looked particularly enthusiastic about her position. He’d assumed there was only some family obligation linking them, the way the children of intimate friends were often pressed into the same circles. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Peter took a little puff of his cigar through thin lips. Without the women around, he’d lost some of his bluster, appearing more sheepish than arrogant. Or perhaps that was simply the aftereffect of Lyman having undermined him earlier. In any event, he kept his gaze downcast as he added, “I wouldn’t mind a spot of advice, actually. If you have a moment.”
“Of course.”
Peter cast a nervous glance around the room before he made his confession in a low whisper. “I’m not sure I’m ready to marry yet. Everything happened so fast that I hardly had time to think it over.”
Lyman immediately regretted having offered his ear. He was the last person who should give Peter advice on something like this. But even if the young man could be a bit much at times, he was still Della’s brother.
“I’m probably not the best one to advise you,” he warned. Della must not have told her brother how Lyman had ruined his own marriage, or Peter wouldn’t have come to him with this. “Perhaps your parents might be a better choice?”
“Hmm.” Peter gave a humorless smile. “They just said they were sure it would all turn out well.”
“What made you decide to propose to Miss Greenwood?” Lyman tried. Maybe if he reminded Peter what he loved about the young lady, it would help to restore his confidence. Remind him of what they had in common, or why he wanted to—
“My family pressured me into it.”
A sinking feeling congealed in Lyman’s gut, and he didn’t think his supper was to blame. Peter only looked to be twenty-one or twenty-two, at a guess. About the same age Lyman had been when he’d married Ellen. But the Danbys didn’t have a title to pass on. Why were his parents in such a hurry to shackle the boy into an arrangement if there was no affection between the couple? Maybe passing on the family name and fortune was enough incentive, even without a title.
“I was an only son as well,” Lyman confided. “My father took ill when I was about your age and wanted me to marry quickly so he could see his line carried on before he passed.”
“Were you happy with the woman your family chose for you?”
Here we come to it. Peter looked at him so earnestly, it reminded Lyman of Della. Their eyes were the same: a warm brown framed by thick lashes. They both trusted him without a second thought, though he’d never done anything to deserve it.
He couldn’t lie, even where manners demanded it.
“No,” Lyman admitted. “We were ill-matched, and we hurt each other often, though neither of us meant to.” Since he was being honest tonight, he felt compelled to add, “The fault was mine.”
“I expect it will be my fault too, if things go poorly.” Peter took a large swallow of his brandy, staring darkly into the glass. “But what am I supposed to do, break my word? I can’t say I’ve changed my mind now .”
What was he supposed to tell the boy? It was true—he was already trapped.
“Why don’t you plan a long engagement? Give yourselves some time to get to know one another. If you’re ill-suited, perhaps she’ll release you.”
Peter took another drink, draining his glass. “Impossible. They want us married by special license.”
Another similarity between them, though Lyman had no reason to think Peter’s parents were trying to outrace death. Like as not, they only wanted to be fashionable. But whatever their reasons, it didn’t lessen the pressure they were putting on their son.
Everyone wanted to see their children settled, their legacy secure, but they never stopped to think about the harm they might do. Peter and Miss Greenwood were the ones who would have to live with the consequences if they were wrong. He couldn’t let the error pass while he might do something to stop it.
“Tell your families you need more time,” he suggested. “You’re the one who’ll be bound to Miss Greenwood for the rest of your life. They have no business pushing you into something you might regret.”
It might not be his place, but if he could save Della’s brother from a life of misery, it was the right thing to do.
***
“What on earth did you say to my brother?” Della hissed, the minute she could contrive to get Lord Ashton alone in a darkened corner of the room. The men had rejoined the ladies a half hour ago. Peter had wasted no time informing his sisters that their deal was off before he went to impart this news to Miss Greenwood’s father, who looked as though he was only holding on to his composure due to the presence of so many other people.
“Pardon?” Ashton had the nerve to blink at her in confusion, as if he had no idea what she meant.
“His engagement . The one that my parents were planning to announce tonight,” Della explained. “He’s just told Mr. Greenwood that he needs more time to think things over, and now half the people in this room are trying not to let the other half see that we’re at each other’s throats.”
“Oh.” Now Ashton understood her. The expression on his face was a blend of guilt and defiance, which didn’t bode well for the rest of the evening.
Peter had been infuriatingly vague about his reasons, but whatever had possessed him to do such a thing, it had come about while he’d been away with the men. “He was fine at supper,” Della continued. “Something must have happened while you were in the smoking room. And my father told me that he was speaking to you practically the whole time.”
Ashton cast a glance around the room, but with the additional guests filtering in for dancing after their meal, most of the household was occupied with greeting the new arrivals. They had as much privacy as they could hope for.
“I only told him that he should delay things until he was sure.” His green eyes flashed with resolve as he spoke. “I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”
Why should it be any of his business what Peter does? Ashton was hardly the sort to meddle in someone else’s romantic dilemmas.
“If he jilts her now, both their reputations will be ruined. Go and tell him to stop this foolishness before it’s too late. He has to marry Miss Greenwood.”
“Why? Because your parents say so? He deserves some control over his own life.”
“Our parents have nothing to do with it,” Della retorted in an urgent whisper. “Annabelle and I are the ones who arranged the match.”
Ashton drew back at this, surprised. “But why would you do that to your own brother? He doesn’t love this girl. They’ll be miserable together.”
Miserable? Miss Greenwood was pretty and wealthy—nearly the only two traits that everyone looked for in a spouse. Were it not for her indiscretion, she would have had her pick of suitors.
“Why would you assume they’ll be unhappy together? She has plenty of good qualities. Peter isn’t charming enough to find himself a better bride, but he’s harmless and won’t mistreat her. Happy marriages have been built on far less.”
“I can’t believe this.” Ashton was staring at Della as if she were a stranger.
Her heart began hammering. She hated when people were cross with her. If only she could make him understand that this was in everyone’s best interest! But how could she explain herself without giving away Annabelle’s secret?
“I know it might look like it from where you stand, but my sister and I had good reasons for proposing this match. It wasn’t done on a whim.” Everything would be ruined if the engagement fell apart now. Even if Della was starting to doubt her choices in the face of Ashton’s criticism, it was still the lesser of two evils.
Besides which, it was too late for Peter to back out. He’d already let Mr. Greenwood believe that he was the one who’d snuck from his daughter’s bedroom. The time for second thoughts has passed.
“What about Peter’s wishes? Doesn’t anyone care how he spends the rest of his life?”
“Of course we do,” Della protested. “But you’re presuming Peter will hate being married to Miss Greenwood, when we know nothing of the sort. Or that he would make a better choice for himself if left to his own devices, when the truth is that he spends most of his days in total idleness. A little responsibility might do him good!”
Ashton’s face was hard and unrelenting. He was plainly unwilling to even consider the possibility that Della might know more about the situation than he did.
“I know this must bring up unpleasant memories,” Della continued, “but Peter isn’t you. Your past isn’t his future.”
This had been the wrong thing to say. Ashton’s face closed off completely, the hard planes of his jaw tightening into stone.
“You’ll forgive me,” he said coolly. “I have somewhere else to be this evening.”
“Ashton!” Della must have spoken his name a touch too loudly in her shock, for he shot her a warning look. She lowered her voice again as she continued. “Trust me when I say that if you rush off now and Peter jilts his bride, the consequences for everyone involved will be dire.”
What if Mr. Greenwood challenged Peter to a duel? He would be well within his rights to do so, unless they could prove that Peter hadn’t really compromised his daughter. But there was no way to do that without throwing Annabelle to the wolves.
I can’t let that happen to her. As annoying as her little sister could be, Della would never want her to suffer.
But Ashton was unmoved. “I have no intention of persuading your brother to trap himself in a match he doesn’t want against the dictates of my conscience. Good evening, Miss Danby.” With a look of disdain that cut more deeply than his words, he turned and strode from the room.