“N-nobody,” Della said, touched by the offer of violence. “I want to thrash them, though. Since coming to London, I’m always tired, and there’s been talk, and Susannah suggested we might return to Kent, but I can’t leave now, and—”
Mr. Dorning produced a folding knife and cut a slice of peach, which he held before Della like a talisman.
“Eat,” he said, coming down beside her on the bench. “My brother Sycamore claims life always looks gloomy on an empty stomach.”
Della took a bite of peach, and Mr. Dorning watched her chew as if she’d consumed some magical fruit that might change her hair to the required Haddonfield blond.
“Thank you,” she said. “My brother Ethan grows peaches. I fancy them. This one’s quite good.” For being out of season. Ethan was actually a half brother—a bastard, nominal half brother, whom Della also, abruptly, missed terribly.
Ethan would have thrashed Tresham for Della first, and asked for explanations later, if at all.
“Town has given you the dismals,” Mr. Dorning said, cutting another slice of peach. “Willow would understand. I’d miss you if you hared off to Kent, but I couldn’t blame you. I console myself that if Willow and Lady Susannah ever plight their troth, I might see you from time to time.”
In the shadowy light, Della couldn’t read Mr. Dorning’s expression, but her ears were in excellent working order.
He popped the bite of peach into his mouth, and together, they demolished their stolen fruit.
“You’d like to see me from time to time?” Della asked, when she’d used Mr. Dorning’s handkerchief to wipe her fingertips. Her gloves lay beside her on the bench, Mr. Dorning’s gloves atop them.
“Well, yes. Rather frequently, from time to time.”
“I’d like to see you too, Mr. Dorning.”
He wiped off his knife blade with the handkerchief, then wrapped the peach pit in the cloth.
“I’ll plant this,” he said, “a reminder of a pleasant moment in an otherwise long and tedious Season. You’re not setting your cap for Tresham?”
Della shuddered. “I don’t even like him.” A howling disappointment. Effington, by contrast, was merely pompous, and entertaining his overtures at least gave Della a reason to attend social gatherings.
“Effington’s your choice then, my lady?”
How had life grown so complicated in such a hurry?
“Lord Effington has not offered for me. I’m not faced with a choice yet, am I?” Though if Effington offered, Della would probably accept out of sheer exhaustion. She could not endure another Season with Susannah hovering, Tresham sneering, gossip swirling, and her feet aching.
Mr. Dorning tucked the peach pit away, an odd, sentimental gesture, though a bit messy.
“If you are faced with a choice, I want you to consider something before you give Effington his answer.”
“I am listening, Mr. Dorning.” And Della wasn’t crying. A moment of undemanding quiet, a stolen peach, and she was fortified against the rest of the evening, though the rest of the Season remained a daunting prospect.
“Consider this,” he said, sliding his bare hand across Della’s nape. Ash Dorning’s touch was warm, unhurried, and shocking for its presumption, and yet Della closed her eyes and savored the contact. In the ballroom, all was smiles and gaiety, but nobody touched.
Beautiful clothing, pristine gloves, and relentless propriety meant Della moved through her evenings as she had her tea parties as a little girl. The other attendants had been dolls, stuffed bears, and imaginary princes. Polite Society had less animation than those toys, and for Della, less interest.
“Do that again,” Della whispered.
Mr. Dorning’s fingers slid into her hair. “Consider this as well.” The brush of his lips was deliberate, warm, and peach flavored.
Oh, gracious angels. Della would never merely fancy peaches again. She was abruptly ravenous for the scent and taste of fresh, stolen fruit. She kissed Mr. Dorning back, uncertainly at first, then his grip on her firmed, and she got a fistful of his lapel.
“I shouldn’t—” he managed, but Della had other plans for his mouth. She plundered the taste of him, learned the contour of his lips and teeth and tongue, then invited him to reciprocate. Ash’s approach was more delicate, teasing instead of demanding, delighting where Della had ransacked.
“You’ll drive me daft,” she said, resting her forehead against his. “You look like such a…a normal, handsome fellow, but you kiss like a prince.”
“You’ve kissed princes, then, to make an informed comparison?”
He was short of breath. Della loved that he was short of breath. She loved that Ash Dorning could appear to be just another tall, dark, handsome bachelor, albeit one with interesting eyes, when in truth he was a dashing, peach-pilfering knight of the stolen kiss.
“I haven’t kissed anybody,” Della said, “until now, that is, but when you kiss me, I feel like a princess.”