“Are you hiding,” Ash Dorning asked, “or avoiding me?” He moved too quietly, and looked entirely too handsome in his evening finery.
“Neither,” Susannah said, offering him her hand. “We’re resting our feet. Somebody has seen to it that Della gets very little opportunity to sit of an evening.”
“A woman of wit and charm will always be in demand,” Mr. Dorning replied, bowing over Della’s hand. “Perhaps that same woman might like a turn on the terrace before she’s besieged with eligibles again?”
Ash Dorning was no fool. He complimented Della prettily, while subtly implying that he was not among the eligibles.
“I’d go if I were you,” Susannah said. “As the Season progresses, the ballrooms become stifling, while the gardens are increasingly attractive. I’ll find Leah, and—Mr. Dorning, good evening.”
Between one pleasantry and the next, Susannah bloomed. Where a cordial, slightly bored older sister had been, a demoiselle emerged, one with a shy smile, bashfully lowered lashes, and a glow about her. Della was honest with herself: she never glowed that prettily, had never had anybody to glow for.
“Mr. Dorning,” Della said, rising. “Your brother has been kind enough to offer me his escort to the terrace. I leave Susannah to your kind offices.”
And…yes. Will Dorning’s expression blossomed too, from handsome gentleman to besotted swain.
“Come along,” Ash Dorning said, tucking Della’s hand over his sleeve as he led her away. “He’s seen you, and noted my handsome, doting presence. You may thank me later.”
Della glanced about, expecting Effington to be among those watching her process with Mr. Dorning. Effington had once again signed up for the good-night waltz though, which meant he’d likely spend the rest of the evening in the card room.
“He’s seen me? I don’t know who you mean,” Della said.
“Tresham, glowering piratically on the starboard side of the largest palm tree. If you look put upon, he might forgive you for bearing me company. You’re the first woman he’s stood up with this Season, and you’re entitled to gloat over that.”
Della did not want to gloat. She wanted to yank her arm free, wrench off her corsage, and stomp it to bits with her dancing slippers.
“I danced with Mr. Tresham once, and during that dance, Mr. Dorning, he said nothing more than, ‘try not to look so murderous’ and ‘stop attempting to lead.’” And the whole time, Della had been too flummoxed to come up with what she should have said.
“Give me the letters or you’ll regret it,” had only occurred to her as Tresham had bowed over her hand in parting.
And then, as he’d walked away, the useless thought, “Oh, please just give me the letters. Please.” A man of Tresham’s consequence could not be trusted with pleading, and the middle of a ballroom was the last place Della would make a spectacle of herself, even to gain Tresham’s notice. She meant him no harm, but he hadn’t given her a chance to say even that much.
Mr. Dorning led Della to the terrace in silence, a blessedly cool, quiet oasis only one-quarter as crowded as the ballroom.
“Let’s avail ourselves of the conservatory,” Mr. Dorning said. “You can rest your feet, and I can steal a peach.”
An excellent notion, for the conservatory was quieter still, sitting as it did a distance from the Henningtons’ back terrace. A few couples roamed its paths, and torches illuminated most of the interior. The scent within was benevolent—earthy, green, fresh, and floral.
“This place makes me homesick,” Della said. “I miss Kent.” Missed the peaceful, uncomplicated life, but not the boredom.
“Homesick for the country? Willow was wilting on the vine until your sister came along. Town is a tribulation for him, but we couldn’t let Cam loose without at least two of us to watch over him. The peaches are down here.”
“Down here” turned out be a deserted corner of the conservatory, where a full-grown peach tree had anticipated the growing season by several months.
“The poor trees get confused,” Della said as Mr. Dorning plucked a ripe fruit. “I’ve been confused since my papa died.”
Or maybe Della had been at a loss since she’d learned the late Earl of Bellefonte was not her father, though he’d been in every way a loving and doting papa. She missed him terribly, and wished he’d never passed along to her the late countess’s diaries and correspondence.
“Are you—?” Mr. Dorning’s expression in the dim light was thunderous. “You are. Are those tears for Tresham? If he was rude to you, I will offer him a lesson in manners he won’t forget. Perhaps you’re crying for that Effington buffoon? He has fine manners, but is an utter dolt over cards. Have a seat, and tell me who I must thrash.”