“Effington took issue with my estimation of you,” Mr. Dorning went on. “That’s why I’m making so bold as to call on you, my lady.”
Della wanted Mr. Dorning to hush, to simply hush and let her enjoy the sense of acceptance he offered.
Or maybe he could kiss her again?
“I honestly do not care one whit for what Lord Effington says, Mr. Dorning. He’s a buffoon who has made the early weeks of my Season tedious in the extreme. I made excuses for him—he’s reserved, he’s busy, he has much on his mind, he’s a convenient escort—but mostly he’s a bully who singled me out for his attentions because he grasped how insecure I was.”
“You’re not insecure,” Mr. Dorning said, nuzzling Della’s temple. “You’re cautious. There’s a difference. I ought to be cautious too, but you smell of honeysuckle and mischief, and I’ve spent too much time with Sycamore to be on my best behavior.”
Bless Sycamore.
“I would have remained in Kent,” Della said, “except I wanted to meet my brother and my uncle. Quimbey is a dear old fellow, though Mr. Tresham lacks charm.”
The arm fell way from Della’s shoulders. “Tresham is a fine card player,” Mr. Dorning said. “He and I ended up at the same table with Mr. Effington, and you will please not kiss me again until I tell you the rest of it.”
“Speak quickly, Mr. Dorning.” At any minute, Susannah would come out of the house, and then nobody would be kissing anybody.
“Mr. Tresham and I decided you should be told that Effington cheats at cards.”
This confidence was significant and shocking, such as might restore a blockheaded brother a bit in Della’s eyes. Men called each other out over such foolishness, and the ladies were never given any details. A “mishap with a gun” befell a man, and in a young lady’s hearing, nothing more was ever said.
“This is bad, isn’t it?” Della asked. “That Effington cheats, and that both you and Mr. Tresham realized it.”
“Sooner or later, Effington will be called out. Fortunately, he’s a bad cheat, and both Tresham and I won significant sums from him, though I doubt Effington will pay. We thought you should be warned, because if he’ll cheat at cards, then his honor is not to be trusted.”
That observation was another sort of kiss, a declaration that Della deserved to be treated with respect and honesty. She kissed Mr. Dorning’s cheek in agreement.
“Thank you, Mr. Dorning. I suppose I’m in Tresham’s debt as well.”
“If you have the letters his father wrote, I can take them to him, and explain the situation, if you like. He won’t avoid me, and he can give me your mother’s letters more easily than he can pass them along to you.”
Sitting beside Mr. Dorning in the sunny garden, Della felt a piece of her heart come right, and yet she ached too, because this offer of assistance had been so freely given.
“I had never thought to enlist another’s aid.” She wanted to tuck the pansy back with the other blossoms before it wilted, but of course, that would not serve. “You make this exchange of letters sound easy. A quiet chat. No drama, no scandal, which is all I wanted and what I was sure I couldn’t have.”
“Sycamore says being near the bottom of the sibling heap is hard, that one must cultivate drama simply to assure any notice at all.”
“I like Sycamore.” Della liked all of the Dornings she’d met so far, including Georgette. “If you would be so kind as to explain matters to Mr. Tresham, I leave it to him whether he and I converse, or whether he gives me Mama’s letters. I’ll bring my father’s letters to Mama along with me when—Susannah, good day.”
Mr. Dorning stood and bowed, his movements elegant and unhurried. “My lady, good day. Is that the infamous parasol of apology?”
“Mr. Dorning, greetings. I brought it for Della, if she insists on sitting in the sun. The day is so pleasant, I might tarry here for a moment myself before seeing to an errand.”
Bless Susannah, she was being conspiratorial, asking if Della wanted company, not insisting on chaperoning at close quarters.
“I will take my leave,” Mr. Dorning said. “Lady Della, I trust we’ll speak further soon.”
“I’ll see you to your horse.”
Susannah pretended to absorb herself in the intricacies of opening the parasol, but Della knew a sisterly smirk when one was barely contained. Della nonetheless walked Mr. Dorning to the garden’s back gate and across the alley, where he signaled a groom to bring his horse around.
“Please do speak to Mr. Tresham,” Della said. “And call again soon, Mr. Dorning.”
“Ash,” he said. “When we’re private, I invite you to call me Ash, though my brothers will refer to me as Ash-heap or Ash-pidistra.”
“Brothers can be inventive.”