Chapter Thirty-Three
As Andrew walked her to the guest room, he wondered if she considered this the worst night of her life. He certainly hoped not. Even under the circumstances, getting to dance with her made this one of the best nights of his. Getting to kiss her made it a miracle.
They stopped in front of the closed door, and Andrew wondered whether or not he should push his luck.
Neither of them had scarcely said a word since their hasty departure from Kittredge House.
She’d stopped to offer a remorseful goodbye to Lady Kittredge, who was mortified by the behavior of her guests.
Della, of course, waved off her regrets.
At least it wasn’t only him that she wouldn’t let apologize to her.
After that, his mother had filled the carriage ride with inane chatter, and Andrew was more than grateful for the silence hovering over them now.
It meant he could divert all of his attention to her.
His eyes always followed her, in a way he hoped was subtle.
He was fairly sure it wasn’t, but he continued to hope anyway.
In this moment, though, he didn’t have to be subtle.
He could openly and earnestly stare like he’d always wanted to.
Andrew desperately wanted to do more than stare.
He wanted to feel her lips against his. He wanted the warmth of all of her skin.
“Tonight was . . . unexpected,” he said.
It seemed the only apt term. It had been horrible and incredible.
Heartbreaking and exhilarating. It had been a bit of everything, and Andrew had no idea what was supposed to happen next.
Half of him wanted to kiss her hand, bid her goodnight, and start over in the morning.
The rest of him wanted to kiss her everywhere and not say goodbye until well past the morning.
“It was,” she said simply, giving him no indication of how she felt or what she wanted.
Her fingers gently swept over his face, cupping his cheek in her palm and sifting through the ends of the curls just above his ear.
His entire body froze. He was learning that his body’s reaction to soul-searing bliss was to turn to ice.
“Della,” he whispered again. That was another reaction. If his body were a block of ice, her name on his breath was a smattering of snowflakes. Each a wholly unique piece of him that he could give only to her.
She didn’t respond, but her fingertips continued those slow circles across his temple. He sucked in a breath that smelled just like her, vanilla and lavender and ink and paper. Like memories and longing and distance.
There was no distance between them now. Not enough to matter. Andrew turned his head, leaning into her touch. He brought his hand up to cover hers. He pressed a kiss to her palm.
“Your gown,” he said, as if that was supposed to explain everything. All of his intelligence was lost on her, and he couldn’t stand it. “I mean, it’s beautiful. You look beautiful in it.” He continued to stumble for words. “Did I say that before? I’m sure I meant to—”
“Yes,” she interrupted him, holding his cheek more firmly. Her lips tilted up in the corners, as if she were fighting a pleased smile. “You mentioned that. Thank you.”
“Do you . . .” he started to ask, before he choked on his own tongue. Her hand still held his face, and he wasn’t sure if that was making this worse or better. “With your gown . . . would you like . . . some help taking it off?”
She fell silent. Her hand dropped from his face and the smile dropped from hers.
For a moment, Andrew thought he’d made a grave mistake.
He wanted to take it all back, at least assure her that he meant nothing untoward.
He’d assisted her into the gown, he’d just thought he might assist her out of it.
It wasn’t about that, though, and he feared they both knew it.
He took a deep, aching breath and prepared to admit defeat.
Then she opened the door. She did so with one hand, not even turning around or stepping away. It was rather impressive, but he was biased. Even her heartbeat was impressive to him.
Della led the way into the room and closed the door once he’d entered.
Andrew swallowed so loudly she must’ve heard.
She never did respond verbally, she simply leaned her walking stick against the wooden chair he’d been following her around with all week and walked to the looking glass in the corner of the room.
Andrew knew no matter what happened tonight, that mirror would haunt his dreams every night for the rest of his life.
“Sit down,” he said. His voice sounded gruff to his own ears, and he willed his reckless attraction to her to calm.
He didn’t want to be anything but gentle with her.
It wasn’t that he thought she was fragile, as everyone else did.
He thought she was precious, and that was something entirely different. “Let me take off your shoes.”
Della stalled for a moment, turning so she walked toward the bed instead.
He knew she had worn her usual riding boots to the ball for comfort, but he could tell she was no longer comfortable at all.
She walked differently when her pain started to worsen.
Her steps were smaller and her posture was slumped, like her bones were no longer able to hold her up.
She slumped onto the bed and he heard a slow hiss of pain escape her lips. He got the sense that she’d been suppressing that very noise all night. He hated she was in pain, but he felt almost honored that she’d shared it with him.
Andrew sank to his knees on the carpet. Della gasped, and he pretended not to hear it. His fingers found the laces of her right shoe. They were so bloody small he had some trouble untangling them.
“I know I’ve no personal experience, but the things you ladies wear seem awfully uncomfortable.” He wiggled the first boot off and threw it over his shoulder. Della laughed. That always made him feel like he’d won the King’s fortune.
“I don’t believe the discomfort is exclusive to ladies,” she told him. “I know you are yourself uncomfortable in your present state.” Della tugged on his cravat, loosening it just enough for him to feel human again. “And you didn’t even spill anything on yourself.” She hummed. “I’m quite proud.”
Andrew smiled as he worked on the other set of laces. “I’m sure if we’d stayed a bit longer I would’ve managed.”
She giggled again, leaning forward toward him.
Her thumb brushed the skin of his throat where she’d untied his cravat, and Andrew lost whatever remained of his good sense.
His fingers swept up her legs, drifting over the silk stockings covering her feet, ankles, and calves.
He traced circles over the backs of her knees as he raised his head to meet hers.
“May I?” he whispered against her lips. Andrew wasn’t sure exactly what he was asking for, but he’d take anything she was willing to give.
“Mmhm,” Della hummed again, tilting her chin until it bumped his.
She kissed him with an enthusiasm that would’ve knocked him down had he not already been on the floor.
His tongue swept against hers as his fingers tugged on her stockings, releasing her garters.
Once all he could feel was warm, bare skin, he ran his hands from her feet to her thighs.
Her toes and ankles were hot to the touch, and her knees felt fevered.
“Are you well?” He pulled back just enough to ask, his hands still drifting up and down her legs.
“I’m quite well,” she smiled. Her eyes were heavy lidded, as if she were seeing him through a haze. “Why do you ask?”
“Your joints are . . . hot,” he said, his thumbs massaging her knees again. “I know you must be in pain.”
“I am always in pain.” Her smile fell just a bit, and her face relaxed into something heavier and more heated. “But I don’t particularly care at the moment.”
Andrew tilted his head up again, capturing her lips.
They were lazy, messy kisses, something to occupy his over-eager, roaming mouth while he reached around to her back to undo the buttons lining her bodice.
He’d never considered himself a particularly coordinated person, but he was rather proud of himself for that effort.
Her heavy beaded sleeves slipped down her shoulders and he peeled the gown down to her waist.
Della continued for him, raising up her hips to allow him to remove the dress entirely. Once it was a puddle of beads and silk on the floor, he watched as she slowly removed each of her gloves. Then she was touching him in earnest, her fevered knuckles gracing his cheek.
“May I?” she asked, those fingers scalding the skin of his neck as she tugged on the ends of his cravat.
“Of course.” His breath came out in such a rush it was almost a scoff. “Always. You can always do whatever you want with me, Della.”
She smiled, and he was close enough that he saw two of her.
His vision blurred into a haze of nothing but Della, and Andrew swore he’d never been happier in his entire life.
She began to unknot his cravat and she sank her hands underneath where his shirt draped open.
He absolutely loathed formalwear, but he was developing a fondness for taking it off.
His hands operated of their own accord, unlacing her stays much more efficiently than he had her boots.
Freed from the confines of the garment, she seemed to breathe deeper.
Her posture sagged a bit, and she fell forward more against him.
Left only in her chemise, he could feel the heat of her more than ever.
From her flushed cheeks to her curling toes, she was a blaze and he desperately wanted to be burned.
“Lean back,” he whispered. There was no point to the hushed tone, it just felt like the slightest thing could pop the bubble of perfection around them, even the sound of his voice.
Della lay back and rested her head on the pillows. She reached for him, and he aligned his body over hers, supporting his weight with his forearms on the bed on either side of her.
“Della,” he moaned, sucking a spot just below where her jaw met her ear.
For a brief moment, he just smiled against her lips. Then she was smiling, too, and she giggled into his mouth. It was an expression of unbridled joy, and Andrew couldn’t believe he was somehow actually making her as happy as she made him.