Chapter Thirty
Della was immensely frustrated. In sending Clara and Harry back to Westfield Manor, she’d also dismissed her lady’s maid.
She almost never thought of Clara that way, but she was reminded of the convenience of having such a person available when dressing for a ball.
She was proud of her own forethought in anticipating a less-than-positive reaction from her parents at what she was about to do.
What she hadn’t considered was the meantime, and how nice it would be to have Clara here.
Not only for her help, but as a reasonable counter voice to drown out the sound of Della’s own anxiety.
She laughed at herself as she thought of that. Clara was never reasonable.
Della stood in the corner of the guest room she now occupied on her own in just her stays, stockings, and chemise, her gown resting in front of her on the wooden chair that seemed to appear wherever she was.
There were but a few laces on her stays, but her body just couldn’t tighten them on her own.
No matter how she tugged and pulled and twisted, her knobby hands simply weren’t capable.
It was so damnably irritating to be engaging in this entire night to celebrate her power when she couldn’t even dress herself properly.
Della almost desperately wanted to cry, and some part of her wanted to abandon the idea of going to the ball.
There was a knock at the door.
“Oh, thank goodness.” She breathed a sigh of relief. That must be Alice coming to check on her. “Come in.”
Her back was to the door, but she didn’t need to see him to know exactly who that was. The gasp gave him away, but so did the energy that took over the room as soon as he stepped in.
“I am so sorry,” he said, turning as if to leave. “I didn’t realize you’d—”
“No, no,” Della hurried to say. She took one step toward him, and she couldn’t credit why. “I am sorry. I thought you were your mother. She said she would fix my hair, and I was having trouble, so I thought she’d come to help . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she realized the situation she was in. She was alone and nearly naked with a man. It was by far more daringly inappropriate than she’d ever been, and a particular tangle in which she thought she’d never have the opportunity to engage.
Would he ever look at her like that again? She wondered. Before he’d turned away, that flare of heat in his eyes—she wanted to see it again. She wanted to feel it.
He turned back around, and it was quite possibly the most victorious Della had ever felt.
“Having trouble with what?” he asked. As if making a final decision, Andrew released the one hand he’d kept on the doorknob and let it fall closed. The noise it made rang with irrevocability.
“Oh,” Della breathed. “My stays. My hands are . . . not quite functional at the moment, and I can’t get them laced and tied.”
“Would you . . .” he started to ask, shifting from foot to foot, “like me to assist?” His tone was oddly formal, as if this were an act of common decency.
As if he were taking her hand to help her out of a carriage or picking up the handkerchief that had fallen out of her reticule.
This was not an act of decency, she hoped.
In her wildest dreams, this was an act of want.
Not even a particularly active decision, just a sense of need that compelled him forward toward her.
“If you wouldn’t mind.” And then all Della could do was nod.
Andrew let out a noise that Della couldn’t quite place.
It was somewhere between a groan and a bitter chuckle.
He crossed the room slowly, and she realized some of his rigid posture could be attributed to his manner of dress.
He was stunning. In fawn trousers with a matching waistcoat and a cravat she’d never seen before.
It must be new, if he’d worn it before it would already be stained.
“You are so beautiful,” he said once he reached her. She felt his words like a caress, across her cheek and underneath her jaw, down over her collarbones.
“I believe you’re supposed to save the compliments for when I’m fully dressed,” Della remarked. It was an attempt to bring some levity to the situation. Everything felt so heavy, even the air between them.
“I’ll be sure to repeat the sentiment then.
” In the looking glass in front of them, he smiled.
Those dimples were all the levity she needed.
Della felt herself relaxing, and as her spine curved, she met the ridges of his chest. His hand came to rest at her waist, and his thumb rubbed circles over the fabric of her chemise just below her still-loose stays.
His other hand moved her unbound hair over one shoulder, and she felt a tug on the laces she’d been trying so desperately to tame.
If this was what happened when she asked for help, Della would never dress herself again.
The laces tightened just a bit more as he tied them off.
In the mirror, she watched as his head dipped to press his lips against the nape of her neck.
Della’s sharp intake of breath was audible between them, and she reached for his hand where it still cradled her waist.
“What about your gown?” Andrew asked. She didn’t recognize this voice of his. It was low and husky, almost a grumble that she felt beneath her ribs. “Can you do up the buttons?”
Perhaps on a good day she could. Though she reconsidered, as today was turning out to be a very good day indeed, but she had no desire to even touch those buttons.
“I am not sure,” she murmured.
He seemed to take that as the invitation she’d intended it to be, and he picked up her silk gown off the chair at her side.
He draped the back open and held her hand as she stepped in.
The silk flowed around the bottoms of her legs and those gorgeous beaded sleeves fell over the tops of her arms. Andrew started at the bottom of her waist, lodging each button with slow precision.
It was torture, to feel him so close. His breath blew across the hair at the back of her neck and Della felt the oddest sensation, a tugging in her core. An ache that she’d only read about.
“Andrew,” she moaned, and she felt his entire body stiffen at her back. The hand she still held to her waist flexed against the fabric covering her skin.
She watched in the mirror as he opened his mouth to respond, but then they heard it.
“Della, dear?” His mother’s voice, then a gentle knock at the door. She should’ve known before that it was Andrew rather than his mother. His knock had been much less soft. Perhaps she had known. “Are you ready for me to turn up your hair?”
Della met his eyes. He nodded. He was standing so close his chin brushed her temple. She wasn’t ready, in fact. She would never be ready to let this moment go. She’d never be ready for him to back away, from the aching warmth of those hands to fade into cold.
“Yes,” Della shouted in the direction of the door. Andrew backed away, giving the image of respectability even though they were still alone in her temporary bedchamber. She’d never felt such intense bliss evaporate so fast.
“I’m ready.”