One did not say such things, not about a brother-by-marriage, but perhaps one did say them about Sycamore Dorning. “He loves you too, Lady Della. You are family to him, and thus he loves you.”
“It’s the other way around,” Lady Della said, resuming her place in the wing chair. “If Sycamore loves you, you become part of his family. I did not realize that as quickly as I ought. I thought he was meddling between Ash and me, but he was looking out for us. What are you about with him, my lady?”
“Is every Dorning this direct?”
“No, some of them are deviously polite, others overwhelm with charm, others listen with the sort of inordinate attentiveness that soon has all your secrets spilling onto the floor. I haven’t the subtlety for those approaches, so here I am, managing as best I can. What you tell me stays between us, my lady. You were kind to me at the Wentwhistle debacle when I very much needed kindness. I will countenance no disrespect toward Sycamore, but I thought you could use a friend.”
A friend. What a novel concept, and one disconcertingly lacking in Jeanette’s life. The marquess had told her upon whom to call and whom to ignore. The young ladies she’d gone to finishing school with were to be politely excised from her life, while wives of powerful MPs or high-ranking lords were acceptable connections.
Jeanette rose to close the door, though the servants would remark it.
Too bad. “I like Sycamore,” she said. “But I suspect everybody likes him. He charms all and sundry, and he knows every small courtesy to make a lady feel cherished. He passed me the reins when he hopped down from the curricle, he held my hand only one instant too long when I alighted. He pats my glove when I put my hand on his arm. He is a gentleman and a rascal. He would turn any woman’s head.”
“Has he turned yours?”
That question was easy to answer. “He has, which is lovely and awful at the same time. I have fashioned a persona—confident, content, rational. Sycamore Dorning upends everything I’ve spent years telling myself I value, and at the worst possible time. I could not forget him after the Wentwhistle house party, and I have forgotten everybody. The brother I used to know and love, my well-intended parents. My governess who warned me that marriage is an adjustment. I’ve forgotten them all, then along struts Sycamore Dorning, and my imagination refuses to eject him.”
And that, oddly, was exactly the status the late marquess had sought: all-consuming focus of Jeanette’s thoughts, the origin of her every conjecture, fear, and hope.
“My husband would have hated Sycamore,” Jeanette added, a realization that gave her pause. “The late marquess would have feared Sycamore, feared his courage, his boldness, his unwillingness to endure pretenses or stupid conventions for the sake of approval.”
“A lot of people fear Sycamore, and he likes it that way. His own siblings aren’t always sure how to deal with him, though Ash has developed the knack. I hope you do not fear him.”
Jeanette did, or she feared the power Sycamore could have over her if she surrendered her heart to him. Fortunately, she’d promised him only two more encounters, and even against his formidable campaign, she could guard her heart that long.
“Mr. Dorning would never intentionally harm those less powerful than he,” Jeanette said. “Have I answered your question to your satisfaction, my lady?”
“No, but I don’t think you have the answers to give. Sycamore does that—he confuses people. He’s not easy company, but he’s fierce, loyal, funny, sweet, and roaringly masculine. I suspect you confuse him too.”
“I confuse him?”
“For Sycamore to allow himself a love of his own, not another addition to his vast collection of friends, neighbors, and family, but a love loyal firstly unto him, likely scares him witless. Be kind to him, my lady, or he will haunt you far more than your dead husband has.”
Good heavens, this woman was blunt—also perceptive. “How can you tell the marquess haunts me?”
“You said you forgot everybody, but you did not mention him on the list, and from what my sisters tell me, the marquess was a pathetic, prancing martinet desperate for a spare.”
A dutiful widow would have defended her husband’s memory. Jeanette’s dutiful widow tiara was apparently slipping, because the image of her late husband prancing around the bedroom in his silk dressing gowns made her smile.
Or smirk perhaps. “You give me much to think about, my lady,” Jeanette said. “Am I correct that you and Mr. Ash Dorning are in anticipation of a precious event?”
“How can you tell?”
“I simply can. I spent years praying nightly for conception and have developed an eye for those who are now praying for a safe delivery. I hope you will call again, my lady. Your direct speech is as bracing as it is refreshing.”
Lady Della rose. “You need not be polite with me, madam. I will report to Sycamore that you are as lovely upon further acquaintance as I had imagined and that he’d best marry you at the first opportunity.”
Jeanette had risen, intent on seeing her guest out. Lady Della’s casual observation nearly had her toppling back to the sofa. “Marry me?”
“Of course, marry you. He is smitten, thoroughly, absolutely, and Sycamore-ly smitten. Yes, he’s a handful, but if you accept the true heart that he offers, you acquire not only a loyal and dare we say manly spouse, but an entire family of Dornings who will never let one of their own suffer alone. Think about that.”
Lady Della took a last look around the parlor, while Jeanette heard an echo of figurative cannon fire.
“Have a word with your cook too,” Lady Della said, marching for the door. “The shortbread is a bit stale.”
“Dorning Hall is a
