He looked down, possibly hiding a smile. “Illuminating in what sense, my lady?”
“You were right,” Della said, plucking a pansy and threading it through the buttonhole in his lapel. “I deserve to feel like a queen when somebody kisses me. I am not responsible for my antecedents, and I should stop feeling as if I owe my family a quick exit from Polite Society’s stage. I want more kisses from you, Mr. Dorning, and I want to walk in the park with you, debating the merits of reform or Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s theories, instead of hanging on your arm and hoping everybody sees me there.”
Mr. Dorning removed the pansy from his lapel and tucked it behind Della’s ear. “I’m in favor of reform, actually, in moderate degrees. The alternative is revolution, and we’ve seen the state that left France in.”
For a moment, the sensation of Mr. Dorning’s fingers brushing against Della’s hair robbed her of rational thought. Warmth trickled through her, and remembered joy. Mr. Dorning had kissed her, thoroughly, and here he was, not twenty-four hours later, calling upon her without benefit of his brothers’ company.
“My point,” Della said, taking his arm and leading him down the steps, “is that I can’t sacrifice my happiness for anybody’s convenience, and with that in mind, you should know that I intend to pester Jonathan Tresham until he returns certain letters my mother wrote to his father.”
Mr. Dorning said nothing, so Della plowed ahead, though she knew she might be forever ruining her chances of having more of his kisses. That would be sad—very sad—but not a tragedy.
“Certain very personal letters, Mr. Dorning.”
“That’s what you’re about with Tresham, my lady? You’re bothering him to return some old correspondence?”
“Not even that,” Della said as they descended into the knot garden. This part of the garden was near the alley, but visible from the house too, so propriety would not be offended if they tarried here. Della took a seat on the marble bench, lest she escort Mr. Dorning behind a huge, leafy maple. “I intend to offer Mr. Tresham a trade, if he’ll ever condescend to have a discussion with me. Brothers are the very worst when they’re feeling stubborn.”
Mr. Dorning flipped out the tails of his riding jacket and came down beside Della uninvited. She liked that he didn’t stand on ceremony with her, for a man who stickled over manners was a man who’d avoid the company of a countess’s by-blow.
“I have six brothers,” Mr. Dorning said. “One of them is Sycamore, and he ought to count triple. Tresham is your brother?”
Four little words, and from Mr. Dorning, they were only mildly curious words. A weight eased off Della’s heart and fluttered away on the spring sunshine.
“Tresham is my half brother, considerably my elder, and I gather my existence has been kept from him. He did not respond to my letters, has refused my conversational overtures, and glowers certain death at me when our paths cross.”
Della waited, though waiting was hard. Mr. Dorning could still bow politely and stride out of her life, or change the subject.
“Tresham may not have all the puzzle pieces,” Mr. Dorning said. “Have you told him you’re his sister?”
Or Mr. Dorning might get to the very heart of the matter. Della pulled the pansy from behind her ear.
“One doesn’t put that in writing,” she said, twirling the flower by its fragile stem. “I informed him I had some documents written by a late member of his family, and asked him to make an opportunity to discuss them with me. He’s been dreadfully stubborn, and unforthcoming. Also nimble as a hare at eluding my company.”
And that…hurt, that her own brother, the only brunet sibling she had, the only one who wasn’t a shining blond giant or giantess, should turn his back on her without even a fair hearing.
Della had waited years to make Jonathan Tresham’s acquaintance, only to find he was a condescending blockhead. How like a brother.
“You’ve frightened the poor man,” Mr. Dorning said. “He probably thinks you’re a by-blow of Quimbey’s, or an avaricious blackmailer. He’s not thinking you’d like to give him letters his father wrote, despite what you told him.”
“Tresham’s father was so proud of him,” Della said, which was more unfairness. “I want to know what Mama wrote to our papa, if she even told him I was on the way. There’s much I don’t know.”
Mr. Dorning’s arm came around Della’s shoulders. “Your Haddonfield family has no idea you’ve carried these questions on your own, all these years. Your looks are deceptively slight. I told Tresham that last night.”
Tresham who? Della was too pleased to find herself in Mr. Dorning’s embrace, too soothed and comforted by his affection. She’d fret over her idiot half brother some other time, or maybe give up on him as a hopeless case.