The Viscount s Betrothal Read online

  ‘Ma’am? I realise it is quite outrageous of me to approach you without an introduction, but might I have the honour of a dance?’ It was a tall—a very tall—redheaded man with a pleasantly ugly face who was positively towering over her. ‘George Mays. Lady Freshford.’ He bowed. ‘I think my mama is possibly a connection on your father’s side?’

  ‘Of course. You must be Georgiana Stapleford’s son.’ Lady Freshford beamed. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, you are correct, and she is very well, I thank you. She and my father are in Scotland at the moment.’ He produced a charming smile, transforming his face. ‘Might I hope you will introduce me to this lady?’

  Lady Freshford smiled indulgently. ‘Mr Mays, Miss Ross. Dear Decima is a friend of ours from Norfolk and is kindly supporting me through Caroline’s first Season.’

  ‘Miss Ross.’ They exchanged bows. ‘Is there any chance that you might fit me into your dance card?’

  ‘Thank you, but I am not dancing this evening, Mr Mays.’

  ‘Oh.’ He seemed cast down. ‘Might I…’ He gestured to the chair beside her.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Miss Ross, may I confide in you?’ When Decima murmured something inarticulate, he bent his head over his clasped hands and blurted out, ‘I never usually dance either. But when I saw you, I thought perhaps you would understand.’

  ‘Understand? I am sorry, Mr Mays…’

  ‘It was foolish of me, for I could see how many invitations you were turning down—obviously you would not understand. But you see, I am so very tall, most ladies do not wish to dance with me—they feel awkward about it. I saw you were…forgive me, I am making a mull of this.’

  He looked wretched. Impetuously Decima said, ‘You thought I might not feel the same way?’ He nodded. ‘Because I am tall, too?’ Another nod. How on earth could she refuse him? ‘Of course I will dance with you, Mr Mays. I would be delighted.’

  ‘The next dance?’ he asked eagerly.

  Decima knew she should make some show of consulting her card, or at least make sure it was something she could recall the steps to. ‘The next dance,’ she agreed with a smile she did not have to force.

  The dance proved to be a waltz and Mr Mays to be a most accomplished dancer. Decima took his hand, managed to fight the urge to gaze at her feet, and allowed herself to be swept into the dance with a partner who was a highly energetic waltzer.

  After the first sweep around the floor she managed to unfix her gaze from his lapels and glance upwards. He looked down, his eyes lighting with a sudden appreciative warmth and she recalled her low-cut gown—goodness, he must be able to see right down it! Hastily she pushed back her shoulders and smiled brightly. At least the freckles appeared not to repulse him. This was actually very good fun.

  ‘We are well matched, Miss Ross,’ he confided. ‘I cannot tell you how refreshing it is to be able to talk to the young lady I am dancing with instead of looking at the top of her head.’

  ‘And for me too—oh!’ He assayed a daring swoop around a corner and her skirts flew out, brushing against Olivia’s modest white muslin as she circled in Adam’s embrace. Their eyes met for a second and she found herself smiling at him, a wide beam of pure enjoyment. At least there was no kitchen table or butter churn to avoid here and, with slippers on her feet and skirts of taffeta, she felt as light as a bird.

  Mr Mays whirled her to a halt at the opposite end of the room from where they had started. ‘How inept of me,’ he apologised as they walked off the floor. ‘Allow me to take you back to Lady Freshford.’ Their way was blocked by a number of military men and one moved as Mr Mays tapped him on the shoulder to make his way through. ‘Hello again, Fredericks, Peterson.’

  They turned, their scarlet coats taut across well-muscled backs, and Decima caught her breath at finding herself surrounded by quite so much tall masculinity. Her partner grinned at them. ‘Allow me to introduce Miss Ross. Miss Ross, Colonel Lord Peterson, Major Fredericks.’

  Decima bobbed a curtsy, expecting them to smile politely and resume their conversation. Instead they both, to her astonishment, asked her to dance. ‘Anyone who can make Mays look elegant on the dance floor is the partner for me,’ the Colonel declared, managing to get in before his more junior colleague.

  Half an hour later Decima was delivered back to Lady Freshford and Henry, breathless and more than a little inclined to giggle. It felt as though she had been drinking champagne, which was ridiculous as not a drop had passed her lips.

  And then the desire to laugh quite left her. Adam was approaching, Olivia clinging to his arm. ‘Miss Channing! Lord Weston, how do you do?’ Decima hastily performed the introductions.

  ‘We were just going in to supper,’ Olivia murmured shyly. ‘Would you join us?’

  Decima was expecting a resumption of the morning’s tension between the two men. Instead, Adam was looking as though a pleasant idea had just struck him, and Henry was staring at Olivia as though he had seen a ghost. He saw Decima watching him and the look vanished, to be replaced by one of polite interest.

  ‘Yes, do run along, dears.’ Lady Freshford was gathering up her fan and reticule. ‘I can see Augusta Wimpole over there. We can have supper together and a good gossip. Caro is there already with some young friends.’

  Adam led the way to a table in the refreshment room and settled Olivia beside Decima, before departing with Henry to raid the buffet on their behalf.

  ‘What a lovely dress,’ Olivia said shyly. ‘Mama would never let me wear such a pretty colour.’

  ‘I am sure it would not suit you as well as the gown you are wearing. It looks quite exquisite with your colouring. Besides,’ Decima confided, lowering her voice, ‘I am regretting this neckline—I have never felt so exposed in my life.’

  ‘It is a little bit daring, but you do have such nice shoulders,’ Olivia said.

  She is sweet, Decima thought, smiling at the compliment. Would she make Adam a good wife? She would be sure to try and do her duty. How chilly that sounded.

  ‘Is Sir Henry—?’ Olivia broke off, blushing. ‘Do you and he have an understanding?’

  ‘Goodness, no!’ Decima laughed, then saw Adam turn to look at her as the sound cut through the babble of conversation. ‘No, indeed not,’ she added, lowering her voice. ‘We are just very good friends. He is one of the nicest people I know.’

  ‘Oh.’ Olivia dropped her gaze to her hands and fell silent, only rousing herself when the men returned with plates full of delicacies.

  ‘Lemonade, Miss Channing?’ Henry asked, bending over Olivia solicitously. No one had asked Decima what she would like, but when the men returned Adam placed a champagne flute in front of her. Startled, she looked from one man to the other, but Henry was chatting easily to Olivia and all Adam did was to raise one dark brow.

  ‘Do you prefer lemonade?’

  ‘Not really, if I am to be honest.’ Decima picked it up and took a sip, loving the way the bubbles fizzed up her nose. And the way her blood fizzed in her veins. Adam was so close she could feel the heat of him where his arm rested on the table next to hers.

  ‘Oh, let us be honest at all costs,’ he agreed softly, his eyes resting on their companions. ‘Tell me Decima, is Freshford…entangled with anyone?’

  ‘No. Not that I know of.’ She was startled into answering without thinking. ‘And it would be no business of mine if he were—I am certainly not going to answer personal questions about my friends!’

  ‘Just curious.’ The champagne swirled in his glass. Decima found herself watching it, watching the long, strong fingers holding the fragile stem and remembering them on her body.

  Adam seemed to snap out of his abstraction and shifted in his seat, reaching for a fork. ‘These patties look good.’

  Decima agreed, nibbling at a corner. Where had her appetite gone? She took another sip of champagne.

  ‘Am I forgiven yet?’ Adam had speared an asparagus roll, but his gaze was resting on the swell o
f her breasts in the low-cut gown.

  Decima fought the instinct to hunch her shoulders and managed not to enquire coldly what exactly he meant. ‘Of course. We discussed that this morning. I have quite put it from my mind.’

  ‘I wish I had. I suspect I was somewhat…prickly this morning.’ One dark brow slanted upwards. Decima could not decide whether he was being satirical.

  ‘You were, certainly. Why?’

  It really was hopeless trying to disconcert him with direct questions. He did at least have the grace to lower his voice as he answered, ‘Because I assumed that you and Freshford were attached.’

  Decima glanced at Henry and Olivia, but they were happily engrossed in an animated conversation. Olivia was pleasingly flushed and was waving her hands around in a way that seemed quite out of character while she described something. ‘Well, we are not,’ she snapped. ‘We are very good friends. And anyway, whatever concern is it of yours?’

  ‘I can see you are not, now I see him on foot,’ Adam commented, low voiced. ‘After all, he only comes up to your…’ He waved a hand graphically at her upper-chest level.

  ‘If I loved him, height would not be an issue,’ Decima retorted stiffly. ‘And I repeat, what business is it of yours?’

  ‘Why, I am jealous, of course.’ He said it in exactly the tone he might have used to comment on the weather.

  Decima gazed at him blankly, realised her mouth was open and shut it. Henry was quite correct—Adam had added her to his collection and was feeling proprietorial about her, despite his being engaged to another woman.

  ‘Do I have to remind you that you are an engaged man?’ she whispered fiercely.

  ‘I know. What a pity that harems have not caught on in England.’

  ‘You are outrageous,’ Decima scolded, feeling quite ridiculous, lecturing a man in a whisper over lobster patties. The wretch was no doubt only teasing her, but she could not let him get away with this. ‘Poor Olivia—’

  ‘Is flirting,’ Adam whispered back, inclining his head towards his fiancée.

  ‘Of course she…is.’ Goodness, who would have thought it? Meek little Olivia was gazing into Henry’s eyes and positively batting her lashes at him. What would Adam do? Expecting him to intervene at any moment, Decima watched aghast.

  ‘The poor child never managed to get away from her mama long enough to indulge in a little harmless flirtation,’ Adam murmured into Decima’s ear, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise and tingle deliciously. ‘I am certainly not going to start lecturing her in the same spirit.’

  So, he was so confident about Olivia that he was relaxed about her flirting with a man of Henry’s quite exceptional good looks. Why, then, had he been so prickly when he thought she and Henry were in some way involved?

  ‘Why are you frowning?’ Adam snapped his fingers at a passing footman and secured two more glasses of champagne.

  ‘Because I don’t understand you,’ Decima admitted frankly. ‘You seem positively inconsistent.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Adam bowed slightly. ‘But ladies are inconsistent. I strive to be enigmatic.’

  ‘Piffle,’ Decima retorted. ‘You know perfectly well that you don’t put on airs to be interesting, so stop trying to tell me you do.’ She had forgotten to keep her voice low and both Olivia and Henry turned to regard her in surprise. ‘Lord Weston is bamming me,’ she explained, taking a restorative draught from her wine glass.

  ‘Would either of you ladies like an ice?’ Henry said, hastily flashing Decima a warning glance. She wrinkled her nose at him. Goodness, the champagne was making her positively light-headed. It was a delightful feeling, so unlike the way she had always felt at balls in the past, huddled in the wallflowers’ corner with the spotty, the fat and the poorly dowered.

  She took another sip and shook her head. ‘No, thank you, Sir Henry.’

  ‘Then perhaps you will dance with me?’ Adam asked her, catching her dance card as it hung on her wrist and flipping it open. ‘The next dance is a waltz, if I am not mistaken.’

  ‘I am not dancing, my lord.’ The words slipped out before she realised she no longer had that defence.

  ‘Obviously not. Just at the moment you are partaking of supper. But as you say, you have finished—’

  ‘You choose to misunderstand me.’ Decima felt the blush mounting and fought it. ‘I am not intending to dance.’

  ‘But you have been—all evening. Are you rejecting me as a partner, Miss Ross? I am wounded.’

  ‘I…no…I mean…’ Decima gazed hopelessly at his bland countenance as he waited patiently for her to dither herself to a stop. She had been dancing. Rather a lot. With a number of different men. And there was absolutely no reason—short of becoming suddenly indisposed—why she should refuse Adam. She gave in. ‘Thank you, Lord Weston.’

  Beside her she realised that Henry was asking Olivia to partner him and the four of them reached the floor just as the first notes sounded. Decima stood uncertainly, the confidence that had filled her ever since Mr Mays had led her out quite deserting her.

  ‘Decima?’ Adam was waiting patiently, and with a sensation of breathlessness she stepped into his arms and took his hand. When she could breathe again the familiar scent of him was such a shock that she almost stumbled—citrus and man and, quite simply, Adam. His arm held her firmly, as he might have collected a horse that had stumbled, and they were dancing.

  ‘That is a particularly fetching gown,’ Adam remarked. She could hear the smile in his voice and it brought her eyes up sharply to his face, but mercifully he was not regarding the embarrassing swell of exposed bosom. He grinned at her. ‘Those freckles get everywhere, don’t they?’

  ‘No, they do not,’ she retorted. ‘I believe you have now seen every freckle I possess and I would be obliged if you would not refer to them again—it is most unseemly.’

  ‘You make me feel unseemly,’ he remarked plaintively, whirling her around a slower pair of dancers. For a second their bodies pressed together. A flash of heat, of hot liquid yearning, ran through her loins and Decima drew back with a gasp.

  She said the first thing she could think of to bring them both back to earth and to a sense of their obligations. ‘When is the wedding to be?’

  ‘June the eighteenth.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now what to say? ‘And where will it be?’

  ‘I have no idea. My future mother-in-law has not yet vouchsafed her decision on the matter.’

  ‘Does Olivia not have a say?’ Surely a bride would have very decided ideas about every aspect of the ceremony.

  ‘Olivia does exactly what her mother tells her,’ Adam said, with a suggestion of gritted teeth.

  That did make sense, and could account for some of Adam’s apparent coolness on the subject of his marriage. From what Decima knew of Mrs Channing, she imagined she would not make an easy mama-in-law.

  ‘I would lay odds on you winning any future encounters with the lady,’ she remarked outrageously.

  ‘I have every intention of doing so. But until Olivia is removed from her orbit, nothing is gained by coming to cuffs with her, other than to make Olivia miserable.’

  ‘You are concerned how Olivia feels?’ It was the first time she had heard him say anything that showed any feeling for his fiancée.

  ‘You think me cold? I am very fond of Olivia and I want her to be happy.’ Adam looked down at her, his grey eyes dark as he regarded her with an expression at odds with the cheerful music. ‘She is shy of me—overt shows of affection would disconcert her.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Decima bit her lip and forced herself to finish her apology. ‘That was inexcusable of me, I have no right to pry.’

  He smiled at her then, making her ill-disciplined heart flip against her ribs. ‘As my friend, I expect you to lecture me on a regular basis. I am sure you scold Freshford.’

  ‘Henry rarely needs scolding,’ Decima rejoined, catching sight of the other couple as they turned. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Indeed
,’ Adam said drily. ‘What a very handsome pair they do make, to be sure.’

  It was as though an artist had decided to paint the perfect couple. Olivia, tiny as she was, fitted perfectly against Henry’s modest height so they could have been made to measure for each other. Their hair shimmered under the lights: hers palest gilt, his a masculine gold. And both of them had the sort of perfectly moulded looks that seemed to come straight from a classical frieze.

  ‘Olivia has a beauty that would look good, whoever she was partnered with,’ Decima said quickly. If he wasn’t careful, Henry was going to find himself called out by an enraged fiancé. Adam might turn a blind eye to Olivia enjoying a little light flirtation while she was sitting at his side, but to have her circling the dance floor in another man’s arms while the two of them gazed deep into each other’s eyes was asking rather too much.

  ‘That is very true,’ Adam agreed equably. She shot him a suspicious glance, but he seemed to be quite calm about the situation, only pulling her a little closer into his hold as they danced.

  It was a dangerous thing to be doing, dancing with Adam like this. Decima knew it, yet felt no more able to stop herself revelling in the sensation of being in his arms than if she were a small child who had found a bag of sugarplums and was gorging herself to the point of sickness.

  She had forgotten quite how well matched their bodies seemed to be as they danced, how his height was quite perfect for her, how the hair on his temples grew and the way the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how her breath caught in her throat when he looked at her.

  Decima dropped her eyes at the sudden panicky thought that he had seen her feelings in them. She had told herself that it was perfectly possible to love Adam and yet to live with that. She had been prepared to see him around in London and had expected to feel a pang, but that was all. In fact, she had been prepared to find that distance had lent enchantment and that meeting Adam again would be in some way a let-down. She had had no idea that love could be so all consuming, that it would feed on his nearness, would be rekindled by his kiss, that the fact that he was betrothed to another woman would not alter the way she felt one iota.