The Viscount s Betrothal Page 12

  Somehow Decima managed to turn round and look at him. This man—the man she had laughed with, worried with, almost lost her virtue to—this man was the one who had fled his sister’s house rather than meet her and exchange a few stilted pleasantries. And who, all unknowing, mocked her to his friends.

  ‘I do not stand on ceremony, Lord Weston,’ she replied coolly. ‘The back door will do very well.’ Where had that girl got to? ‘Mrs Chitty, would you be so very kind as to find what has delayed my dresser?’

  As the housekeeper bustled off, Decima held out her hand. ‘My thanks once more, Lord Weston. I shudder to think what several days cooped up in the Red Cock would have been like, or the effect upon Pru’s health. I was most fortunate indeed to have been rescued by you. Please give Bates my best wishes for a speedy recovery.’

  He ignored her careful formality. ‘You are angry with me; I should not have spoken so lightly of my sister’s schemes and my reaction to them.’

  ‘Not at all, and I must apologise for my intemperate response. You simply chanced upon one of my prejudices, my lord. I feel for the lady in the case; those of us who do not regard the married state as the be-all and end-all of existence must support each other, do you not agree? Ah, Pru, there you are.’ The maid was pink-faced, clutching the cloaks bundled together.

  ‘Goodbye, Decima.’ Adam caught her hand in his, the warmth of his grasp penetrating her winter gloves with ease. ‘I wish we had been able to talk together longer—there are things I would have wished to say.’

  It was difficult to hold his gaze. Decima felt her own eyes waver and then fall before his. ‘Nothing of any import, I trust. Now, I really must go. Goodbye.’

  For a second she thought he was going to bend and kiss her, but Mrs Chitty came in, and Pru was holding out her cloak, and the moment was gone.

  In the yard the snow had turned to muddy slush and to one side all that remained of their snowman was a pile of snow with an incongruous carrot sticking out of it and a battered tricorne perched on the top.

  Decima let the postilion assist them into the carriage, only turning to look at Adam when they were settled with the rugs over their knees. He was standing in the snow, his expression unfathomable as it rested on her. Did he feel as wretched as she that their days of intimacy and informality had ended in this chilly, formal farewell?

  She raised her hand as the carriage began to move and Adam lifted his in acknowledgement. Did he stand looking after her, or did he turn at once on his heel and go back to the safe familiarity of his friends, putting this whole bizarre episode out of his mind?

  Blankly she stared out of the window onto sodden fields and melting drifts as the carriage made its way through the lanes, onto the turnpike road and headed east. Would they reach Swaffham, and home, today? It would be a long journey, and all would depend on how bad the roads were and how good the horses they obtained at the changes. There were excellent inns along the way—that was not a problem—but Decima ached now for this journey to be over and for the safety of her own room, her own bed, her old life. Her old innocence.

  Their luck held, with the roads in a reasonable state and horses that held a good pace. Decima was just thinking that at this rate they could count on taking a late luncheon at Wisbech, when something made her glance across at Pru.

  The maid looked woebegone, huddled in her corner, her nose pink and one large tear running down her plump cheek.

  ‘Oh, Pru! Are you feeling poorly? I should never have dragged you out today,’ she exclaimed remorsefully. ‘I will pull the check string and tell the men to stop at the next respectable inn we come to.’

  Pru gulped and shook her head. ‘It’s not that, Miss Dessy, I feel fine, honestly I do. I’m nice and warm and the carriage is ever so comfortable.’

  ‘Then whatever is it?’ Decima changed seats so she could sit beside Pru and feel her forehead. Quite normal. ‘Tell me, Pru, we will sort it out, whatever it is.’ She took the maid’s hand and patted it.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do, Miss Dessy.’ Pru scrabbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose miserably. ‘It’s just foolishness.’

  ‘Of course there is something to be done, Pru. I refuse to believe there is not, whatever the problem. Now tell me.’

  ‘It’s Jethro,’ Pru quavered.

  ‘Jethro?’ Who on earth was Jethro?

  ‘Bates, Miss Dessy. His name’s Jethro.’

  ‘Has he said something to upset you?’ Decima felt quite at sea. The two of them had spent hours together, apparently in a state of constant bickering, but what was there in that to produce tears now?

  ‘Oh, no, Miss Dessy.’ Pru’s face crumpled. ‘I think I’m in love with him.’

  ‘You are in love with Bates?’ Decima stared at her. ‘But I didn’t think you liked him much. You seemed to argue a lot and be exasperated with him…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘He is rather older than you,’ she suggested cautiously after a pause.

  ‘A bit,’ Pru admitted. ‘Doesn’t matter, though.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Decima agreed hastily. ‘But does he feel the same way?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Pru’s lip trembled in a way that made Decima’s quiver in sympathy. ‘I think so. He’s not what you’d call chatty.’

  ‘That is certainly true. Did you agree to correspond?’

  Pru shook her head. ‘It was all a bit sudden, leaving, and I didn’t think.’ She sniffed again, her cheeks flushed, and an uneasy thought crept into Decima’s mind.

  ‘Pru, you didn’t…you haven’t done anything…unwise? Have you?’ Then she remembered. ‘No, of course not, how silly of me, you couldn’t have, even if you had been so imprudent, not with his broken leg.’ There was a silence, then Pru slid a sideways look at Decima. ‘Pru! Truly? How? No…do not tell me, I do not want to know.’

  What if Pru becomes pregnant? With that thought came the treacherous memory of Adam’s body hard against hers, her own newly sensitised flesh quivering towards surrender. She could so easily have been worrying about exactly the same thing for herself. At least she would never have to face him again, never find herself laid open to either the temptation or the rejection that encounter would bring.

  The tears were rolling fatly down the maid’s cheeks now. Oh, Lord! Now what am I to do? Charlton would say she should instantly dismiss Pru, but then Charlton could be the most unblushing hypocrite. ‘Pru, if you still feel the same way about him in a month or two, then I promise we will go and find some way to be close to Lord Weston so you can see Bates again.’ And what if Pru was with child and Bates was not prepared to do the right thing? That was a bridge to be crossed if they came to it.

  Pru gripped her hands convulsively, too upset to speak her thanks. Decima smiled at her, as comfortingly as she could. But inside she quaked; there was no way she could bring Bates and Pru together again without Adam’s help. And that meant seeing him again.

  Chapter Eleven

  A ugusta was, predictably, delighted to see her back, completely incurious about her journey and hardly interested to learn how Hermione and Charlton were. But she did blink vaguely at Decima as they stood in her new glasshouse and observe, ‘You are looking different, dear. Have you changed your hair?’

  That was typical of Augusta and Decima took no notice. But she was shaken by her dear friend Henry. Sir Henry Freshford rode over from his neighbouring estate the next day, alerted by the infallible country grapevine that she was back.

  ‘Henry!’ Decima stooped to receive his brotherly kiss on her cheek, so much more welcome than any salutation of Charlton’s. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ he replied, looking at her oddly. ‘Dessy, what have you been up to?’

  ‘Me? Why, nothing. Do come and see Augusta’s latest extravagance.’ She tugged his arm until he followed her through to the glasshouse, built out at an angle from the house so that it formed a conservatory extension to one of the sitting rooms. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? She is planning to p
ut ferns and palms and even orchids in here.’

  She expected Henry to be immediately interested, to look at the heating pipes and ask about the water supply. Instead he stood regarding her, his head on one side and a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

  Henry Freshford, baronet, was the best-looking man Decima had ever met. Although his height was below the average, his features were classically perfect, his colouring blonde, his eyes a periwinkle blue and his figure elegant. His looks in themselves were enough to draw many female admirers, but his breeding and wealth attracted the young ladies’ mamas even more.

  The short man who had to fight off lures and the tall woman who no one would consider marrying had formed an unlikely, but deep, friendship. For Decima he was the brother she would have chosen; for him, she seemed to be the perfect feminine confidante.

  ‘Why are you staring?’ she demanded, sinking down onto one of the new sofas that had been bought for the glasshouse. ‘I thought you would be interested in what Augusta has been doing.’

  ‘I’m much more interested in what you’ve been doing, Dessy.’ He sat opposite her and crossed his legs, leaning back to study her face.

  ‘What do you mean? And, please, do not call me Dessy. I’ve just realised how much I hate it.’

  ‘Of course, Decima.’ Normally he would have been distracted enough by this to demand to know all about her sudden decision. Not today. ‘Now, stop changing the subject and tell me who he is.’

  ‘Who?’ It came out as a startled squeak and she knew she had blushed. ‘What can you mean, Henry?’

  Now Henry seemed embarrassed. ‘I’m not sure how to put this delicately. I mean you have a sort of…glow about you. A new sort of awareness of yourself. As you know—’ colour touched his cheekbones too ‘—I regard you with absolutely brotherly feelings, but even I am aware of a certain…frisson about you.’ He coughed and tugged at his cuffs. ‘I assumed there was a man who had, um, stirred up some inner, er, emotions.’ He ground to a halt.

  ‘It shows?’ Decima was horrified. ‘I mean, I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about. Anyone would think I had taken a lover.’

  ‘And you have not?’ Henry seemed to have recovered from his embarrassment.

  ‘No!’ Decima looked at his sceptical, trustworthy face and gave up. ‘No, I haven’t, but I nearly did. If you promise not to tell anyone, it would be so good to confide.’

  When she had poured out the tale of everything that had happened since that last breakfast with Charlton and Hermione—shorn of a considerable amount of completely unmentionable detail—Henry was positively rubbing his hands together with delight.

  ‘You see? I have been telling you that there is absolutely nothing wrong with your appearance as far as anyone but your idiotic relatives and a handful of equally idiotic snobs are concerned. And this man proves it.’

  ‘But nobody else has ever seemed to find me remotely attractive,’ Decima wailed, wanting to be convinced and fearing it was only Henry’s partisanship speaking.

  ‘I expect this time you had too much else to think about to be working yourself up into being an unattractive spinster,’ he retorted brutally. ‘He saw you as you really are, not round-shouldered and self-effacing and with all your charm and character hidden.’

  ‘He is very tall. He doesn’t realise what a gawky beanpole I am.’

  ‘Society is full of men at least as tall as you, and taller. That won’t wash.’

  ‘And he is very odd—he likes my freckles. And he doesn’t seem to think my mouth is too big. In fact, he said I should not pout because he wanted to—’ She stopped, blushing furiously.

  ‘What?’ Henry enquired, interested. ‘Bite it?’

  ‘Yes! Now you cannot tell me that’s normal.’

  ‘It’s perfectly normal. This is an extremely improper conversation, Dess…Decima, but as we’ve gone so far, it is a entirely predictable thing for him to want to do. And liking your freckles does not make him odd. I like your freckles. He sounds a completely typical man with his due measure of healthy masculine desires, to me.’

  ‘Goodness.’ How did that make her feel? Decima tried to sort out her emotions. Adam wasn’t some oddity who found her attractive for weird reasons of his own or because he was stranded with her and anything was better than nothing. He had kissed her because, according to Henry—who was the most reassuringly down-to-earth male of her acquaintance—any normal man would want to. Her friend was speaking again. ‘I beg your pardon. I missed what you said.’

  ‘I asked you what is going to happen next.’

  ‘Why, nothing. Obviously I do not think it would be a good idea to see him again.’ Henry didn’t have to say anything, one raised eyebrow was enough. ‘I told you, he was perfectly horrible about me when he was talking to his friends. He admits he ran away rather than meet me.’

  ‘But he hadn’t met you then, before he ran, so in what way was he being horrible?’ Henry enquired. ‘You were just as horrible—you ran away rather than meet him and I’ll wager that if you had got here without misadventure you would have indignantly told me all about how your family tried to match you up with some ghastly man you would be sure to take an instant dislike to.’

  ‘That is not fair!’ Decima stopped, thought, regarded Henry’s face. ‘Oh dear, it is fair, isn’t it? I would never have thought of it like that.’

  ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Decima stared at him, a frown wrinkling her brow. Something inside her became hollow. ‘How do I tell?’

  ‘Damned if I know either,’ Henry retorted cheerfully. ‘It hasn’t happened to me, more’s the pity. I imagine when it does, you just think “I’m in love”. Or you go off your food, or dream about the other person all day. Anyways, what are you going to do about him?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to do anything,’ Decima admitted. ‘I can hardly go chasing after him, now can I? Even if I wanted to,’ she added doubtfully. ‘But the complicating factor is that Pru seems to have fallen for his groom—in fact, quite literally fallen, and I may find myself having to do something about that before very long.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Henry did not seem to have anything much to contribute to that problem. ‘You need something to take your mind off this, Des…sorry, Decima. Mama’s going to open up the London house for the Season to fire off Caroline into society. I will be going up as well—why don’t you come too and stay with us? Mama would appreciate your company. We are going up at the end of February to get all Caro’s gowns and fallals sorted out early. What do you say?’

  It was very tempting. She had already thought about going up for the Season, if only to horrify Charlton, who would be scandalised at the thought of her under any chaperonage other than that provided by one of their aunts or cousins. Decima gave herself a little shake. If she was going to do things only in reaction to her half-brother, then she was just as much in his thrall as she had ever been. She must do what she wanted, for herself. And she wanted to go to London, and find out if what Henry said was true. Could it be that if she was not shy and did not think about being odd, then other people wouldn’t think it either?

  And then there was a very good chance that Adam would be in town for the Season as well. Not that she wanted to see him for herself, of course, but if Pru needed help with her improbable romance, then she had to do her best to assist her.

  ‘Yes, Henry, thank you very much. I would love to come to London and stay with your mama.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean, you can’t find them?’ Adam Grantham glowered at his agent who stood the other side of the broad desk, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hands. ‘How hard can it be to trace one English gentleman and his family? You have been looking for three weeks, damn it.’

  The man went red, but kept his composure. Adam reined in his temper. He had never found Franklin negligent in his duties and had no reason to suspect he was not applying himself now. ‘Sit down, man, show me what you have done so far.’
>
  The agent took the proffered chair and spread out his papers. ‘You told me the gentleman was called Charlton Ross, my lord, but you did not know whether he has a title. His wife’s name is Hermione and he has a sister Decima. He has a house somewhere near enough to Whissendine for his sister’s carriage to have reached the point where you met in one morning in poor travelling conditions. Miss Ross said it was in Leicestershire.

  ‘So I searched the Peerage, the Landed Gentry and even Crockford’s Clerical Directory just in case he was a clergyman. Nothing. Then I tried the various county directories—including Nottinghamshire to be on the safe side. There is not a sign of a Charlton Ross. There are plenty of entries for Ross, and I checked second names where they were given. Nothing that matches. The carriage appears to have been owned by the family as there is no record of it being hired at any livery stable I can find.

  ‘Then I tried the Norfolk end of things, but I couldn’t find any single ladies or widows by the name of Ross who might match—and, of course, the lady’s cousin might easily be a widow, or a maiden lady of a different surname. The only trace I have is of a party that matched your description taking luncheon at the Rising Sun just outside Wisbech. After that, they vanish. The number of carriages on the post roads that day was considerable, what with people getting themselves back home after being held up by the bad weather. We tried the turnpikes in all directions, but no one recalled them. I am sorry, my lord.’

  ‘Thank you, Franklin. I’m sure you have been extremely thorough.’ The man bowed himself out, leaving Adam brooding at the desk he had borrowed in his host’s study. He poured himself a large brandy and thought.

  Longminster House, the rural seat of the Earl of Minster, Adam’s uncle by marriage, was en fête for the christening of the first of the Minster grandchildren and Adam had resigned himself to a week of baby-worshipping, dancing attendance on numerous relatives and avoiding lectures on his unwed state.

  One of the few avenues of escape he had found was in trying to cheer up a distant relative of his Aunt Minster’s, Olivia Channing. He remembered her from her schoolroom days as tiny and shy. Now she was a little beauty—still tiny, but with all the blonde loveliness of a fairy. Add to that the best of good breeding and exquisite manners and one had the perfect eligible, albeit desperately shy, young lady. But Olivia’s problem was that her family was extremely hard up. Adam suspected that if her dowry amounted to a few hundred, that was all it was.