“Of course they have,” he snapped. Why wouldn’t she see what was right in front of her? “I did everything Lady Ashton accuses me of. I gambled away our home, I left her destitute, and I haven’t been able to provide for her properly since that day. Ididcommit adultery, even if we’d already separated by then. I can hardly use that as my excuse when my own conduct is the reason she couldn’t stand to live with me.”
“You know my feelings on that already. I wouldn’t fault you for it while you and your wife were living separately. And as for the house, that was nine years ago.” Della’s voice had taken on a pleading note. “You make it sound as if you’re an awful person, when you’re not. Iknowyou’re not. You made a terrible mistake, but you’ve tried your best to set things right since then. That counts for something.”
“Not enough,” he said softly. “I’m still the man who did those things.”
Della shook her head, her chestnut curls bouncing out an echo of the movement after it was done. “No. You’re a man who’s decided to remain trapped in the past instead of letting himself move forward.”
Anger flared hot in his chest, threatening to spill out from his lips. How would she know what it felt like to live with that responsibility? It wasn’t just something you could walk away from. But Lyman bit his tongue, not wanting to lash out at her.
Della might have sensed some of his turmoil, for she reached out a hand to touch his forearm. “I should go,” she said softly. “I promised you I wouldn’t stay long.”
She looked at him with a question in her eyes, as if she hoped he might say something more. Ask her to stay, perhaps. For the night, or forever.
Both options were impossible.
Instead, Lyman nodded curtly. “You can still write if you need any help for the book, though I’ll understand if you decide not to.”
Della slid her hand up his shoulder to find purchase upon the back of Lyman’s neck and pull him down for a long kiss. He didn’t hold back, tasting her too deeply for his own good. If this was to be the last time, he would make it count.
But another moment revealed his mistake, for Della had no intention of holding back either. She molded herself against his body, pulling him close. A little whimper escaped her mouth.Always so eager.
Lyman devoured it.
Someone has to stop, he reminded himself. Someone had to break this moment of pleasure so that it could turn into longing, regret, and then one day, into nothing but a memory.
It would be him, of course. Lyman pulled back, tilting his face upward and beyond reach. He listened to the sound of Della’s breath as it slowed back to a normal pace.
“Please take care of yourself,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, I’m glad that I met you.”
Then she tiptoed away, leaving nothing but a faint trace of her bright scent behind to fill the empty room.
***
Della didn’t see Lord Ashton again for two months. Apart from a package that came for her a week after their last meeting with some comments on the draft chapter she’d sent him on charities, there was no word from him again. Nor did she take advantage of his offer to provide further advice. Though she’d started more than one letter, she couldn’t seem to get past her salutation. It was too painful.
She attended the club three nights a week to carry out her duties as hostess, a role that was now divided between herself and Cecily, who took on the remaining evenings. Much as she hated to think that it might be this easy to replace her, Della was forced to acknowledge that Cecily did a more-than-adequate job of keeping everyone happy, well fed, and supplied with champagne. Besides which, she seemed utterly thrilled with her new role and loved to recount every detail of gossip from her evenings, so that Della never really felt that she was missing anything.
Even if she hadn’t quite decided what the future would hold, itwasnice to have room to breathe again. She spent her newly discovered free time focused on her writing and visiting friends that she’d neglected over the past three years. It felt a bit like emerging from a long dream. Without the club taking up nearly every evening, Della was able to make swift progress on her manuscript. Every time she thought of Lord Ashton and felt the melancholy creeping up on her, she threw herself into her work. Before she knew it, she’d finished.
It was a bittersweet moment. She would have liked to share it withsomeone, but the only person who could truly appreciate what she’d accomplished was gone.
“Do you think I should send Lord Ashton a copy?” she asked Annabelle one morning. She was loath to turn to her sister for advice, but there was really no one else who understood the complexities of her situation.
“Of course you should! He’s to be your co-author, isn’t he? Doesn’t that mean he needs to agree to the text before you can print it?”
“He’s already seen most of the chapters back when he was still calling on us to help me,” Della explained. That might be an exaggeration, but never mind. He’d seen enough to have a general idea what the rest would look like. “And I hate to write him now if it might be a bother.”
She’d been reduced to scouring the papers every day for news of his divorce (another good distraction from tragic feelings), but the months that had followed the Consistory Court’s decision had been largely silent. Until last week, that is. There had been a prominent headline and a much smaller text beneath proclaiming the arrival of Lady Ashton’s divorce bill before the House of Lords, who were to hear the evidence next Tuesday.
Della suffered a nervous flutter in her stomach just thinking about it.
“You’re being silly,” Annabelle scolded. “Are you afraid that he won’t want to hear from you just because you got angry at him for scaring Peter off of marriage and ruining Miss Greenwood’s life forever?”
“Something like that.” Della sighed. “How is she faring, anyway?”
“She’s to be shipped off to an aunt in Paris, last I heard.” Though Annabelle had the decency to look regretful as she imparted this news, they both knew it could have been far worse. Although Peter had stubbornly maintained his refusal to go through with themarriage, Miss Greenwood must not have confessed the truth to her family, for no one had come to lay any accusations at Annabelle’s feet.
“That’s not so bad, is it?” Della could think of worse places to spend one’s life, at any rate. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Paris.” There would be art galleries, all the latest fashions, and high society in abundance. What more could anyone want?
